Mother helping me put on the cufflinks from Dad.
Dad is not the kind of guy who would say something like that in person. The handwritten note was his style, and his words meant a lot. That morning I felt a powerful connection to the family tradition of service that I was now continuing in my own way.
As governor, I didn’t need time to plan my agenda. I had spent the last year telling everyone exactly what I wanted to accomplish. I have always believed that a campaign platform is not just something you use to get elected. It is a blueprint for what you do in office.
I had another reason to move fast. In Texas, the legislature meets only 140 days of every two years. My goal was to get all four of my policy initiatives through both houses in the first session.
To make that happen, I needed good relations with the legislature. That started with the lieutenant governor, who serves as president of the state senate, seats committees, and decides on the flow of bills. The lieutenant governor is elected separately from the governor, meaning it is possible for the two top officials to be from opposite parties—as Lieutenant Governor Bob Bullock and I were.
Bullock was a legend in Texas politics. He had served in the powerful post of state comptroller for sixteen years before his election as lieutenant governor in 1990. He ran the senate with a very strong hand. And he had former employees and friends embedded in agencies throughout the government, which allowed him to stay well informed. Bullock had the potential to make my life miserable. On the other hand, if I could persuade him to work with me, he would be an invaluable ally.
With Bob Bullock, my unlikely Democratic partner in Austin.
A few weeks before the election, Joe Allbaugh had suggested that I meet secretly with Bullock. I slipped away on a quiet afternoon and flew to Austin. Bullock’s wife, Jan, opened the door. She is a pretty woman with a warm smile. Then Bullock emerged. He was a wiry man with a weathered look. He had been married five times to four women. Jan was his last wife and the love of his life. He had married her only once. At one time, Bullock had been a heavy drinker. In a famous story, he got drunk and fired his gun into a public urinal. He smoked incessantly, despite the fact that he had lost part of one lung. This was a man who had lived life the hard way. He stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Bullock. Come on in.”
He took me into his study. The place looked like a research library. He had stacks of documents, reports, and data. Bullock dropped a huge file on the desk in front of me and said, “Here is a report on juvenile justice.” He knew my campaign was based partially on juvenile justice reform and suggested I think about some of his ideas. Then he banged down similar reports for education and welfare reform. We talked for three or four hours. Bullock supported Ann Richards, but he made it clear he would work with me if I won.
The other key legislative player was the speaker of the house, Pete Laney. Like me, Pete came from West Texas. He was a cotton farmer from Hale Center, a rural town between Lubbock and Amarillo that I had visited in my 1978 campaign. Pete was a low-key guy. While Bullock tended to show his cards—and occasionally throw the whole deck at you—Laney kept his hand close to his vest. He was a Democrat with allies on both sides of the aisle.
Shortly after I took office, Pete, Bob, and I agreed to have a weekly breakfast. At first, the meals were a chance to swap stories and help me learn about the legislature. As bills started to wind their way through the system, the breakfasts became important strategy meetings. A couple of months into the session, Bullock had moved a number of important bills through the senate. Most of them were still waiting in the house.
Bullock wanted action, and he let Laney know it. As I ate my breakfast of pancakes, bacon, and coffee, Pete calmly told the lieutenant governor the bills would get done. Bullock was simmering. Before long, he boiled over. He looked straight at me and yelled, “Governor, I am going to f—— you. I am going to make you look like a fool.”
I thought for a moment, stood up, walked toward Bullock, and said, “If you are going to f—— me, you better give me a kiss first.” I playfully hugged him, but he wriggled away and charged out of the room. Laney and I just laughed. We both understood Bullock’s tirade was not aimed at me. It was his way of telling Laney it was time to get his bills out of the house.
Whether Bullock’s message had an impact on Laney, I’ll never know. But with all three of us pushing hard, legislation on education, juvenile justice, and welfare reform started moving quickly. The most complicated item on the agenda was tort reform. Reining in junk lawsuits was crucial to stopping jobs from leaving the state. But there was strong opposition from the trial lawyers’ bar, which was influential and well funded. I had an ally in David Sibley, a Republican state senator from Waco and the committee chairman who oversaw the issue.
One night early in the session, I invited David over for dinner. We had just started to eat when he got a phone call from Bullock. I listened as a one-way conversation unfolded. David alternated between nodding and staring in stone-faced silence as the lieutenant governor unloaded. Then he said, “He is sitting right here. Would you like to speak to him?” Bullock wanted to have a word. I took the phone.
“Why are you blocking tort reform? I thought you were going to be okay. But no, you’re a s—— governor.” Bullock fired off a couple of f-bombs and hung up. David knew what had happened. He had seen it before and wasn’t sure how I would respond. I laughed and laughed hard. Bullock was tough and earthy, but I had a feeling this would be a passing storm.
Once David realized that I would tolerate the blast, we turned to the tort reform bill. The main difference of opinion was on the size of the cap on punitive damages. I wanted a $500,000 cap; Bullock wanted $1,000,000. David told me that if he could get agreement on this legislation, the other five tort bills that were part of the reform package would move quickly. He suggested a compromise: How about a bill with a $750,000 threshold? No question that would improve the system. I agreed.
David called and told Bullock about the deal. This call was shorter, but once again ended with Sibley passing the phone to me. “Governor Bush,” Bullock started in his formal way, “you’re going to be one helluva governor. Good night.”
In 1996, Laura surprised me with a fiftieth birthday party at the Governor’s Mansion. She invited family and friends from Midland, Houston, and Dallas; classmates from Andover, Yale, and Harvard; and political folks from Austin, including Bullock and Laney. Laura wasn’t the only one with a surprise in store. As the sun set, the toasts began. Bullock headed to the microphone. “Happy birthday,” he said with a smile. “You are one helluva governor.” He went on, “And Governor Bush, you will be the next president of the United States.”
Bullock’s prediction shocked me. I had been governor for only eighteen months. President Clinton was still in his first term. I had barely thought about my reelection in 1998. And here was Bullock bringing up 2000. I didn’t take him too seriously; Bullock was always trying to provoke. But his comment inspired an interesting thought. Ten years earlier, I had been celebrating my fortieth birthday drunk at The Broadmoor. Now I was being toasted on the lawn of the Texas Governor’s Mansion as the next president. This had been quite a decade.
Meanwhile, there was an actual presidential campaign going on. The Republican Party had nominated Senator Bob Dole, a World War II hero who had built a distinguished legislative record. I admired Senator Dole. I thought he would make a good president, and I campaigned hard for him in Texas. But I worried that our party had not recognized the generational politics lesson of 1992: Once voters had elected a president from the Baby Boomer generation, they were not likely to reach back. Sure enough, Senator Dole carried Texas, but President Clinton won reelection.
I went into 1998 feeling confident about my record. I had delivered on each of the four priorities I had laid out in my first gubernatorial campaign. We had also passed the largest tax cut in the history of Texas and made it easier for children in foster care to be adopted by loving families. Many of these laws were sponsored and supported by Democrats. I was honored when Bob Bullock, who had supported Democratic candidates for almost a half century, publicly endorsed my reelection. I was also a little surprised. Bullock was the godfather of one of my opponent’s children.
I was determined not to take anything for granted, and I campaigned hard. On election night, I received more than 68 percent of the vote, including 49 percent of Hispanics, 27 percent of African Americans, and 70 percent of independents. I was the first Texas governor elected to consecutive four-year terms.
I also had my eye on another race that night. Jeb became governor of Florida by a convincing margin. I went
