by Ted Cruz
This book is dedicated to William Hubbs Rehnquist, the sixteenth Chief Justice of the United States and my friend.
INTRODUCTION
Huddled in a modern, all-glass conference room in Greenville, South Carolina, with afternoon sunshine streaming through every window, a dozen of us were preparing for the presidential debate that evening. Our campaign had just shocked the world by winning Iowa. We placed third in New Hampshire, and South Carolina was the next primary coming up. My debate-prep team consisted of hardened political operatives, policy experts, and seasoned Supreme Court advocates.
Into the room walked Bruce Redden, my body man. Bruce had played football at Oklahoma State; he was the field-goal kicker, the team’s second leading scorer whose college nickname was “Sunshine” because of his (then) long, bleached-blonde hair. He’s charming, utterly trustworthy, and I love him like a brother.
Gesticulating with his right hand, Bruce interrupted our strategy session to ask, “You know about the thing?”
“What thing?”
“The Scalia thing.”
“What Scalia thing??” I replied, puzzled.
“He died,” Bruce answered.
“What?!?”
That morning, February 13, 2016, the great Antonin Scalia was found dead in his sleep at the Cibolo Creek Ranch hunting lodge near Marfa, Texas. After nearly thirty years on the Court, after ushering in a profound restoration in judicial fidelity to the Constitution and becoming one of the greatest justices in the history of our Nation, Justice Scalia had moved on to meet the Good Lord. The news was not yet public. Nobody knew.
But the local Texas sheriff, whose office had discovered the body, called me and my fellow Texas senator, John Cornyn, to let us both know what had happened. The sheriff got Bruce on his cellphone, and Bruce had just informed me.
Immediately, that became the sole topic of our debate-prep session. President Obama, of course, would try to rush through a replacement in the waning months of his presidency. Replacing Scalia with a liberal would flip the Court and create a five-justice left-wing majority that would produce lasting, fundamental damage to our constitutional liberties. And there was a real risk that Republicans in the Senate—far too often faint of heart, worried about press criticism—would roll over and let him.
Together, we drafted a statement calling on the Senate to hold the seat vacant. To let the voters decide. It was an election year—we were already well into the presidential primaries—and for the past eighty years, no Senate had confirmed a Supreme Court vacancy that had occurred in a presidential election year. We should not be the first.
As soon as the news broke publicly, we released my statement. I sent out a tweet, “Justice Scalia was an American hero. We owe it to him, & the Nation, for the Senate to ensure that the next President names his replacement.” And, remarkably, in the hours that followed, my statement was echoed by many other Senate leaders, including Judiciary Chairman Chuck Grassley and Majority Leader Mitch McConnell. Later, McConnell’s former chief of staff told a New York Times reporter that Mitch had rushed his statement out that afternoon because he knew that I would call for keeping the seat vacant in the debate that evening, and he didn’t want to be seen as being pressured to follow my lead.
Regardless of how or why, to the astonishment of everybody, Senate Republicans held firm. Every one of us. Instead of letting Obama dictate the outcome, we together argued that the 2016 election should be a referendum on what type of nominee should replace Justice Scalia. We the People should decide.
That vacancy became a central—perhaps the deciding—issue in the 2016 presidential campaign. For many Americans, myself included, it was the single most important reason we voted for Donald Trump over Hillary Clinton.
* * *
This book is about the Supreme Court. It’s about the critical cases before the Court and the imperative for us to defend our constitutional liberties. But to understand how central the Court was to my own decision-making in 2016, this introduction will take a brief detour through the tumultuous months immediately following my presidential campaign.
I ended my presidential campaign on May 3, 2016. At that point, our campaign had defied all expectations. When we entered the race—in a crowded, diverse, and talented field of seventeen different Republicans—the media immediately dismissed me as having no chance whatsoever. Instead, we went on to earn nearly 8 million votes and win 12 states; our campaign amassed over 326,000 volunteers, and we raised over $92 million, the most raised in the history of Republican presidential primaries—more than Bush, McCain, or Romney—from over 1.8 million contributions. Other than Trump and myself, no other Republican won more than a single state. (Kasich won Ohio, and Rubio won Minnesota; Trump and I won every other state.)
There was a time when it looked like we were going to win. In March and April of 2016, we had a three-week period where I won five consecutive primaries, all by double-digit margins. We won Utah, Colorado, North Dakota, Wyoming, and Wisconsin, each one right after the other. But then the phenomenon that is Donald Trump took over. The mainstream media, which claim to hate the man, would only run stories about Trump, around the clock. Each of our primary victories was largely ignored—the media basically pretended they didn’t happen—and altogether the media gave Trump $3 billion in free media coverage. That was, and is, utterly unprecedented in the history of presidential politics.
And it became too much to overcome. Throughout 2016, whenever primary voters actually heard our message, we won, over and over again. But then the tsunami of free media coverage drowned everything else out, and we could no longer be heard. The only events that consistently broke through the media fire wall were debates, and the GOP stopped holding debates on March 10 (while the field was still crowded). Therefore, during the two months when it was basically a two-man race, Trump and I never had even a single one-on-one debate. Even though the media made millions on every debate, they didn’t care about making money on more debates; they had decided they wanted Trump to be the nominee because many of them cynically believed he’d be the easiest for Hillary to beat. (It is rich irony that many of these same media figures now incessantly bemoan the Trump presidency, given that their deliberate actions played a decisive role in his election.)
Trump won New York (his home state), and the media immediately treated the race as if it were over, repeating that message 24/7. And it worked. The nonstop media coverage (“It’s over. It’s over. It’s over.”) moved the numbers, and in states where we had been leading or tied (like Maryland, Pennsylvania, Indiana, and California), our numbers plummeted, dropping 10–20 points in thirty-six hours.
On the night of May 3, after Indiana, the numbers showed there was no longer a viable path to victory, and so I ended my campaign. Doing so wasn’t easy. We had thousands of activists who had traveled from state to state to state, knocking on doors for us and making phone calls. They had poured their lives, their energy, their passion into the campaign. When I said we were suspending the campaign, one woman in the crowd let out a wail of pain that pierced me deeply; I could barely finish speaking.
Afterwards, I desperately wanted to stay and hug and thank every single volunteer. But I just couldn’t do it. Tears were streaming down my face, and I lacked the strength to stop them. With a battery of TV cameras watching, I damn sure wasn’t going to let the media try to turn “Lyin’ Ted” (Trump’s false but brutally effective nickname) into “Cryin’ Ted.” And so I went backstage to grieve with my family and closest advisors. Remarkably, Heidi stayed out with the crowd, spending over an hour thanking every sing
le person there. I was immensely grateful that she did.
For the next couple months, I withdrew from politics. I spent a week down in Mexico, lounging in the pool with close friends, zip lining with my girls, playing hoops, and enjoying more than a few margaritas. And then I just let the political process play out.
Remember, in May of 2016, it wasn’t at all clear what type of general election campaign Trump was going to run, much less what kind of president he would be. On policy issues, he’d been all over the map: At various times, Trump had advocated for gun control, higher taxes, and the Gang of 8 amnesty bill. He’d been a Democrat, he’d supported and contributed to both Chuck Schumer and Nancy Pelosi, and he had described himself as “very pro-choice” and an enthusiastic supporter of partial-birth abortion.
All of those positions changed dramatically in the 2016 campaign, but campaign conversions have a way of not sticking very long. Especially since most Republican political consultants believe you should run to the middle in a general election and run away from any conservative positions you might have taken in the primary.
So I just watched and waited. At the time, I was deeply conflicted. I was certain I didn’t want Hillary to win; her policies, I had no doubt, would be a disaster for the nation. But there were also massive uncertainties as to what Trump would actually do as president. Too many Republicans had failed to deliver in the past; after eight years of Obama, we desperately needed a real conservative in the Oval Office, and we needed conservative policies to turn our country around. I wanted to do everything I could to maximize the chances of that.
Contrary to the media perception, my hesitancy wasn’t personal. For most of the campaign, on a personal level, Trump and I had gotten along quite well. At my invitation, we participated in a rally together on the steps of the Capitol. We both went out of our way to be nice to each other, to praise each other, and we were appealing to the same core voters: working-class Americans fed up with the Washington swamp.
Then, when the campaign clearly came down to just the two of us, we beat the living daylights out of each other. “Politics ain’t beanbag,” as the famous saying goes.
The next month, Trump asked to see me in D.C. I of course agreed, and we sat down at the National Republican Senatorial building. It was a friendly meeting, a little stiff, but Trump was relieved (and surprised) that I had suspended the campaign when I did. By not fighting to the bitter end—by suspending once it became clear there was no longer a realistic path to victory—we allowed his campaign to pivot to the general three months earlier than they would have otherwise.
At that meeting, Trump asked me if I’d be willing to give one of the prime-time speeches at the RNC national convention. I said, “Sure, I’d be happy to.” He didn’t ask for my endorsement, and I didn’t offer it.
I thought long and hard about that speech. At the time, I wasn’t yet ready to endorse. The reason was not that Trump had attacked my family, as the media later supposed. Both my wife and my dad, who were the targets of Trump’s ire, are strong, fiercely independent, and love our country. They had both laughed off his attacks at the time. The reason I wanted to hold back was that I had real doubts about what Trump actually believed, how he would campaign, and, if elected, how he would govern. Trump’s history had been all over the map—on virtually every policy issue under the sun—and we were in a moment in time when the stakes of getting it wrong were massive. I believed I was in a position where I could have a meaningful, positive influence on how he would campaign and what policies he would actually support.
I wanted to use the speech to encourage Trump to be more conservative. To lay out a path for him to reassure conservatives that he really meant to keep the promises he had made. As a model, I looked to two prior convention speeches: Ronald Reagan’s speech in 1976 when Gerald Ford was nominated and Ted Kennedy’s speech in 1980 when Jimmy Carter was nominated. Both had fought tough primaries and lost. And, critically, neither had endorsed the nominee in the speech. Instead they laid out a vision they hoped the nominee would follow.
I endeavored to do the same thing. Indeed, much of the language about the nominee I copied almost word-for-word from Reagan’s and Kennedy’s speeches. Here’s what I said, in the critical part: “To those listening, please, don’t stay home in November. Stand and speak and vote your conscience, vote for candidates up and down the ticket who you trust to defend our freedom and to be faithful to the Constitution.”
That was the vision of how I wanted Trump to campaign and to govern, defending our freedom and being faithful to the Constitution. I wanted him to be a conservative.
But there was a difference in how the speech was received. When Reagan said largely the same thing, Ford treated it as an endorsement. When Kennedy said it, Carter treated it as an endorsement. I assumed Trump would do the same.
The Trump campaign had a written copy of my speech hours before it was given. They loaded it onto the teleprompter. They knew exactly what I was going to say.
Before I walked out on the stage, Paul Manafort—the Washington lobbyist briefly turned Trump campaign chairman and today an imprisoned felon—pulled me aside and threatened me. He said I needed to explicitly endorse Trump, or else. The “or else” wasn’t clear, but it sure sounded menacing. I told him I was giving the speech as written.
Right before I walked out, my campaign strategist Jason Johnson said to me, “now we’ll find out if they’re rational.” What he meant is that it is overwhelmingly in the interest of any nominee to unify the party to win in November. But, given Manafort’s threats, it wasn’t clear that was what they wanted.
When I went out on stage, I didn’t know how the crowd would react. It had been a hard-fought primary, and there were a ton of Trump delegates in the front rows. I didn’t know if they’d boo me the moment I stepped on stage.
Instead, they stood and gave me a rousing two-minute standing ovation.
For most of my speech, the reaction was enthusiastic, as I traced the history of our party as the Party of Lincoln—as the defender of equal rights for all and the champion of working-class Americans—and as I extolled protecting our freedom and defending the Constitution.
What I didn’t know is that Manafort had instructed his whips—the campaign staff wearing brightly colored baseball caps interspersed among the delegates—to quietly wait for me to say the words “vote for candidates up and down the ticket who you trust to defend our freedom and to be faithful to the Constitution.” And then to whip the delegates to boo ferociously.
And they did. It wasn’t organic; it was staged by the campaign chairman. I guess that was the beginning of the “or else.”
The whips were effective, and thousands of delegates followed the instructions and booed energetically. I’ve got to say, it’s a unique experience facing the angry roar of a stadium of 20,000 people. Not all were booing, but a lot were.
I hadn’t anticipated that reaction because it was so against the political interests of the campaign. Eight million voters had supported my campaign, and Trump needed everyone unified to have a chance at winning in November. But I had underestimated the thuggish instincts of Manafort and his crew. It’s simply who they were. And that mattered more to them than beating Hillary.
What got a lot of attention afterwards was the phrase “vote your conscience.” That had been a last-minute addition, and it evoked a strong reaction in the convention hall because it had also been the slogan of those contesting Trump’s delegates in the preceding week at the convention. I hadn’t been there for that battle and wasn’t involved in the delegate fight, and so I didn’t appreciate the raw emotion that phrase had taken on with many delegates.
Regardless, my purpose was to lay out a path for Trump to win and then to govern as an actual conservative. I viewed the speech as putting forth what I wanted to see in order to vote for him—and for conservatives to be able to trust that he’d defend freedom and the Constitution.
Hillary Clinton obviously was not going to do
so, but I wanted to do everything I could to ensure that the Trump campaign (and later, the Trump administration) would follow through and be genuinely conservative.
And, much to the happy surprise of many (myself included), after the election the administration’s policies ended up being remarkably conservative. Far beyond anything we could have reasonably expected.
As the summer of 2016 proceeded, my top priority became getting a solid commitment from Trump on judicial nominations, and on Supreme Court nominations in particular. I was very worried that, if elected, Trump might make really bad nominations, and I wanted to do everything possible to prevent that.
At the time, remember, Trump had put out a pretty good list of eleven potential nominees for the Scalia seat, but the list wasn’t exclusive. He had said these were “the kind of nominees” he would choose—those eleven, or presumably anybody else on earth. Contemporaneously, he also said in February 2016 that he thought his sister would make a “phenomenal” Supreme Court justice. His sister was a sitting federal appellate judge appointed by Bill Clinton who had already voted to strike down New Jersey’s partial-birth abortion law. So there was reason to be concerned. (Trump later said he was joking about naming his sister.)
In the two months after the convention, Trump continued to campaign as a conservative. Unlike prior nominees, he didn’t run away from his early campaign promises. He didn’t embrace the liberal policy positions he had advocated a few years earlier. And Hillary’s campaign kept going further and further left.
In September, I made the decision, and my team began negotiating with the Trump team for me to officially endorse him. The price of my endorsement was explicit: I wanted a clear, unequivocal commitment that he would nominate Scalia’s replacement from a specified list, and only from that list. And I wanted Senator Mike Lee added to that list. The campaign agreed to both conditions. On September 23, 2016, the Trump campaign put out a revised list, adding ten more names, taking it from eleven to twenty-one; among those new names was Mike Lee.