Sensing their reluctance, Fincher, a religious man known to sprinkle his political rhetoric with Scripture, led the group in a rousing prayer. He then offered a fire-and-brimstone screed condemning Boehner’s “sins” against conservatism. “There must be atonement!” he cried.
The Republicans exchanged smirks. Even the Speaker’s fiercest critics wondered if their daring adventure had turned into a sad sitcom.
NOT EVERYONE AT FINCHER’S APARTMENT SIGNED HIS NAME. BUT THE core conspirators—Labrador, Massie, Huelskamp, among others—awoke the next morning believing they would overthrow Boehner.
By their count, 21 members had either signed the document or sworn their allegiance to the effort, and several more were thought to be considering it. When they huddled inside the Capitol, just before the vote, only one of them announced his defection: South Carolina’s Jeff Duncan. Everyone else reiterated their commitment. Whomever they voted for didn’t matter; as long as seventeen Republicans rejected Boehner, they would force a second ballot and thrust the House into chaos.
The roll call commenced in alphabetical order. Justin Amash, the first dissident called upon, voted for Labrador. But when the clerk called on Michele Bachmann, a rumored sympathizer, she chose to remain silent. This was the first sign of trouble; members are allowed to skip their turn, but by doing so, they broadcast uncertainty about the outcome. Bachmann wanted to see how the numbers stacked up against Boehner. So, too, did the next rebel called upon, Marsha Blackburn, who suddenly announced, “I have a nosebleed!” and rushed off the House floor.
And so it went: As the clerk worked through the alphabet, only a handful of the sworn anti-Boehner revolutionaries voted against him. One voted “present,” hurting the Speaker’s vote total without rejecting him explicitly, while many passed on their turn, buying time to decide whether striking at the king was worth incurring his wrath.
When it became clear that the scheme was failing, that too many members had gotten cold feet, Labrador circulated around the chamber advising some of the undecideds that their votes would no longer make a difference. Around this time, Blackburn, a Tennessean who had slyly floated her own name as a possible dark horse candidate for Speaker, reemerged onto the House floor and declared, “I proudly cast my vote for John Boehner.” A profile in courage.
When the roll call concluded, 12 House Republicans had refused to back Boehner. Labrador cast no vote at all, nor did Mulvaney, their way of admonishing Boehner without insulting him unduly. Massie voted for Amash. Three of the rebels voted for Cantor, eliciting a rehearsed look of disgust from the majority leader. (“Well,” Massie told Cantor afterward, “we threw our support to a Jew, a Puerto Rican, and an Arab, but the white man still won.” Cantor did not laugh.)
As for Fincher, the seeker of “atonement!”—he voted for Boehner, explaining to colleagues that he had prayed that morning and felt moved to show mercy. He wasn’t alone: Florida congressman Steve Southerland, another pledged mutineer, would later tell friends that he had been reading the Old Testament story of David sparing King Saul’s life despite having the chance to kill him. After praying on the House floor, he decided to do the same for the Speaker.
Boehner had survived—bruised, humbled, and fretful. The wounds opened in the previous Congress were bleeding into the new one, and if they weren’t bandaged quickly, another uprising was imminent. With the House GOP’s annual retreat just weeks away, in Williamsburg, Virginia, the Speaker privately reached out to five of his most respected conservatives: Ryan, Jordan, Hensarling, Price, and Scalise. (The first four had convened a weekly breakfast for years, and invited Scalise to join after his RSC victory.)
Boehner felt a special contempt for Price, the Georgia congressman and medical doctor who carried himself with mannered arrogance. Word had gotten back to the Speaker’s office that Price was offering his services to the rebellion, proposing that he become their alternative to Boehner; when they rejected his offer, he voted for the Speaker and slapped his back with a hearty congratulation. “That two-faced prick,” Boehner snorts.
Still, this was no time for recriminations. If Republicans were to unite, Boehner needed help from this group (which I dubbed the “Conservative Jedi Council” in National Journal magazine, a nickname that somehow stuck). The sequester cuts would soon take effect, and another debt-ceiling deadline was just around the corner. In a series of covert meetings with the Jedi Council, Boehner pledged to champion their priorities for the coming year: rejecting new tax revenues, endorsing a ten-year balanced budget, and upholding the automatic cuts, save for reprioritization to protect the military. In return, Boehner wanted one thing: enough votes to raise the debt ceiling until fall, giving the party some breathing room to notch wins, gain some momentum, and return to the debt fight with a renewed sense of unity.
The Jedi Council agreed, and Boehner presented the agreement in Williamsburg. Most of the members were receptive. Covered by endorsements from the likes of Jordan and Ryan, they felt good about getting everyone back on the same page after two years of dysfunction. But not everyone was sold. Huelskamp and a handful of other malcontents voiced objections, if not to the agreement itself then to the notion of trusting Boehner to follow through. So wary were they of the Speaker’s intentions that Huelskamp drafted a document itemizing the precise covenants. (“The Williamsburg Accord” was scrawled across the top in Old English font, a testament to its seriousness and to the social awkwardness of the people we send to Congress.)
Four months later, to the shock of many in the conference, both Boehner and the Jedi Council had delivered. Consistent with the Williamsburg Accord, the sequester cuts went into effect; the short-term “continuing resolution” funding the government was passed with lower spending levels; and the House passed a budget that would balance in ten years. Meanwhile, House conservatives stomached a debt ceiling increase by attaching a provision called “No Budget, No Pay,” which forced Senate Democrats to produce their first budget in four years.
There were bumps in the road. Boehner had selectively violated the so-called Hastert Rule, named for the former Speaker, which says a bill can be brought to the floor only if it has majority support from the majority party. The leadership had allowed votes on relief for Superstorm Sandy and a reauthorization of the Violence Against Women Act, both of which passed on the strength of Democratic votes, angering conservatives. But on the whole, Boehner had kept his word to the conference, fostering a newfound sense of cohesion.
“God bless the Speaker,” Jordan said that May. “He’s done exactly what he promised.”
It was a fragile truce. And that spring, as House Republicans watched what was unfolding on the other side of the Capitol, Boehner knew how easily it could shatter.
MARCO RUBIO WALKED INTO THE LION’S DEN WEARING A TENDERLOIN necktie.
It was January 29, 2013. One day earlier, the Florida senator had joined seven of his colleagues (three Republicans and four Democrats) in unveiling the framework of a comprehensive immigration reform bill. The wind was at their backs. Conservative pundits were running out of ink to spill on the GOP’s need for a softer image. The national party was writing its “autopsy” as cover for elected officials to take meaningful steps toward reaching new voters. Louisiana governor Bobby Jindal, a rising Republican star, captured the zeitgeist poignantly during a speech to the RNC in January: “We’ve got to stop being the stupid party!”4