Republicans eating their own? Here's a look at the GOPwinger grooming club:
HOW REPUBLICANS LEARN DIRTY TRICKS.
Swimming with Sharks
by Franklin Foer 1 | 2 | 3
Post date 09.26.05 | Issue date 10.03.05
Everyone who watched this summer's race for College Republican National Committee (crnc) chair with any detachment has a favorite moment of chutzpah they admire in spite of themselves. Leading the count are the following: speaking sotto voce of your opponent's "homosexuality"; rigging the delegate count so that states that support your candidate have twice as many votes as those that don't; and using a sitting congressman to threaten the careers of undecided voters. I can understand the perverse appeal of each of these incidents. But I cast my vote for the forged letter.
The letter arrived via fax to the Crystal Gateway Marriott in Arlington, Virginia, on the eve of the crnc convention in June. The three-day convention is attended by student delegates from across the country who, after enduring a four-month campaign filled with importuning, backstabbing, and horsetrading, vote for a chair. Most campaigns culminate with the handpicked establishment candidate inheriting the two-year, $75,000-a-year position without much of a fight. But, this year, the establishment candidate, Paul Gourley--the handpicked successor of the last chairman, who was the handpicked successor of the chairman before him--faced a vigorous challenge from an insurgent, Michael Davidson, a smooth-talking 25-year-old Berkeley grad.
Since the fax appeared unexpectedly in the final days of the race, it created an unmitigated frenzy among the conventioneers. The letter announced that the chairman of the Missouri delegation had completely replaced his state's official slate of delegates (who all happened to support Davidson). I followed one Missouri delegate, Justin Smith, a slight, fair-skinned student in a gray suit, to a Davidson luncheon with an open-bar, swag-filled gift baskets, and a Tex-Mex spread. He seemed panicked. "I don't know what's going on."
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What was going on was that a new Missouri delegation, quietly flown to the convention, had arrived in Arlington and pledged its allegiance to Gourley. Stunned by this turn of events, the Davidson camp scrambled to reach the apparently turncoat chairman, Will Dreiling. But Dreiling had unaccountably vanished--a disappearance that Davidson supporters jokingly attributed to Gourley's powerful backers in Missouri, including a state assemblyman and a gubernatorial aide, both of whom everyone knew had been pressuring the young Missouri chair to switch candidates. On the final decisive day of the convention, hours before the vote, Davidson's people finally tracked down Dreiling. It turned out that he had been under so much pressure to support Gourley that he had resigned his post and taken a family vacation in Nebraska. What's more, Dreiling protested he hadn't written the letter. "It was forged," Davidson's campaign manager, Robb McFadden, told me. In an attempt to reinstall his supporters, Davidson took a cell phone, with Dreiling on the line, from delegate to delegate, exposing the letter as fake. "Eventually, the Gourley people didn't have a defense," said McFadden. "They backed off the letter."
Such controversy is the stuff of the organization's rich folklore. Typically, these confabs pull in a cast of characters that extends beyond a bunch of hormonally charged undergrads. Behind the scenes, in the campaign war rooms, small armies of veteran Republican operatives and congressional staffers toil. That's because there's much more at stake in the elections than a swish post-college gig. After campaign finance reform, the College Republicans reinvented themselves as a big-time 527--a group legally allowed to spend an infinite amount of its own money on campaigns--with a budget of over $17 million. They have a massive network of operatives to send into the field to bolster candidates, and they have patronage to spread among friends and through direct-mail firms. In other words, it's well worth tearing a Shermanesque path to the sea to control College Republicans, no matter the carnage--and no matter the expense. Michael Davidson said he spent an estimated $200,000--raised off high-rollers who normally sign checks to senators and presidential wannabes--trying to claim the grand prize.
But the significance of the crnc goes beyond that. The Committee is the place where Republican strategists learn their craft and acquire their knack for making their Democratic opponents look like disorganized children. Many of the biggest-brand Republican operatives--from Karl Rove and Lee Atwater, to Charlie Black and Roger Stone, to Jack Abramoff, Ralph Reed, and Grover Norquist--got their starts this way. Walking through the halls of the convention, it is easy to see the genesis of tactics deployed in the Florida recount and by the Swift Boat Veterans for Truth. Republicans learn how to fight hard against Democrats by practicing on one another first. "There are no rules in a knife fight," Norquist instructed the young conventioneers in a speech. And, while Norquist described a knife fight, the Gourley-Davidson rumble transpired around him.
qThey call this race 'hick versus slick,'" Paul Gourley intoned, making the case for himself in a candidate debate at the end of the convention's long first day. Gourley, whose tuxedo fit snugly over his 23-year-old corn-fed frame, had just arrived from the College Republicans' Lee Atwater Gala dinner. He grasped the podium, smiled broadly, and bellowed in his flat South Dakota voice, "I'm proud to be the hick."
Modern-day Republicans of all ages have perfected the art of wrapping themselves in populist just-folks garb, even if they actually have a black tie around their neck. And, despite Gourley's yokel protestations, he represented the old money in the race. After serving a stint as treasurer of College Republicans and traveling the country to recruit field organizers, Gourley received the blessing of the outgoing chairman, Eric Hoplin. But, in reality, he had won the blessing of a force more powerful than a single politician. He had won the blessing of an entity that College Republicans speak of in hushed tones and that they compare to the Empire in Star Wars--the Establishment.
When College Republicans invoke the Establishment, they mean a clique of former College Republicans--now grown-ups playing politics at the highest level--who will trample anyone to maintain their clique's control of the organization. Like all good cabals, it is hard to know exactly who belongs to the Establishment and how Machiavellian their meddling is. Before his tumble from grace, the lobbyist Jack Abramoff would lend College Republicans his skybox at the MCI center, donate money, and lead training sessions. (In 2002, the crnc paid Jack Abramoff for "accounting & legal services.") Rove reportedly keeps tabs, and Norquist invites the group's chair to attend his celebrated Wednesday gathering of conservative big shots. But the convention offered some more suggestive examples of the Establishment's methodology. Just past 2 a.m. on Saturday, wavering delegates from Louisiana received calls from Morton Blackwell, the legendary veteran of the Goldwater and Reagan campaigns, urging them to vote for Gourley. It was a perfectly calibrated tactic. "A 19-year-old Republican will generally do whatever a demigod of the conservative movement like Morton tells them," one Davidson supporter griped.
And they are even more likely to respond to entreaties from a congressman. Patrick McHenry, a dough-faced 29-year-old freshman representative from North Carolina and former crnc treasurer, went to war on Gourley's behalf. "I got a call. They said, 'The congressman is on the line,'" University of North Carolina junior Jordan Selleck told me. "He basically said that we'd be screwed if we didn't switch to Gourley. Our careers in politics would be over." As Jennifer Holder, who served as a state chair in the '90s, lamented, "There are a lot of sharks infesting the kiddie pool."
With sharks like McHenry menacing the delegates, Gourley largely kept to the shadows, leaving the gladhanding and button-holing to others. But all the Establishment's lobbying and cajoling didn't make the race any less tight. While Gourley risked losing a plum job and a network any budding politician would envy, the Establishment had far more at stake. In part, these veterans are like pathetic frat brothers returning to their old house for a few more keg stands, a biannual chance to hang with 19-year-olds and relive their youth. But involvement in College Republicans offers tangible perks for them, too. It provides a vehicle for recruiting protégés. Rove, for instance, has stocked his White House office with CRs. And, by helping the youngsters win crnc elections, the adults earn a chit they can cash in during election season. As McHenry's story illustrates, it's not an exaggeration to say that the College Republicans can tip races. The group flooded McHenry's district with manpower last year, as he competed in a tight primary race. In the end, he prevailed by 85 votes.
Next: "While Gourley worked the back rooms, Davidson could hardly be avoided."
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