An American Son: A Memoir

by Marco Rubio

  As the end of the fund-raising quarter approached, we scheduled a few finance events in the hope we could raise enough to make a small impression. We held one in Orlando that was only a modest success, and another at Miami’s Biltmore Hotel that did a little better. Neither event reached its stated goal, and the hosts were embarrassed. Every dollar counts, I told them. It took courage to put your name on a fund-raising invitation for me in June 2009, when it would be noticed by the Crist people, and filed away in their long memories.

  Meanwhile, the Crist finance machine kicked into high gear. Charlie is a legendary fund-raiser, renowned for his relentless pursuit of every available and not so available dollar. I wondered if I had it in me to be such a prodigious fund-raiser. Everyone told me I would have to be. But I hated putting the hard sell on people for money. If that’s what it took to win, I would lose.

  Everyone expected Crist would have a record-breaking finance quarter. No one expected me to match him. But I had to show I was on pace to raise enough money to be a viable, if disadvantaged, challenger.

  I was proud of our campaign at the end of June. We had survived Crist’s early knockout strategy, the onslaught of endorsements and calls for me to get out of his way, and we were still on the field. We had even managed to score an important endorsement. And we were outworking Crist on the campaign trail. I spoke to any group who would have me, and was gaining supporters at all of them. We saw a glimmer of hope in a Mason-Dixon poll at the end of June. Among Florida Republicans who recognized both Charlie’s and my name, we were essentially tied. When we released our fund-raising numbers, though, I knew we had a rocky road ahead of us. We fell well short of our goal—so short there was no way we could spin it into a positive.

  We had a good message and a great political environment to run in. The idea that the race would be a battle for the heart and soul of the Republican Party intrigued people who followed campaigns closely, and ensured our campaign would have their attention. For now anyway. Candidates can’t live on Facebook and Twitter alone. They need money to run ads and, more important, to defend themselves from the attacks that begin the moment they start to rise in the polls. We didn’t have the money, and I wasn’t very confident we would do much better in the next quarter.

  After we reported our numbers, everyone waited anxiously for Crist’s report. We knew he would report a big number. We didn’t expect the bombshell that awaited us.

  CHAPTER 26

  Message Received

  MY STAFF ASSUMED I MEANT TO GIVE THEM A PEP TALK, but the e mail I sent them the morning of July 7, the day we reported we had raised only $340,000 for the quarter, was intended to boost my morale as much as theirs.

  Folks, today is not going to be the best day of this campaign. We are going to get pounded today for our fundraising number. And over the next 7 days CC is going to roll out endorsements, big $$ and work behind the scenes to make our campaign look not so credible. The ultimate goal is to get us to move races. We should even be prepared for some prominent GOP people who are supposedly “neutral” to come out and say that I need to run for AG for the good of the party.

  Here is the bottom line. This race is predicated on the idea that the national environment and the GOP environment is ripe for what we are and what we are about. If we are properly organized, eventually the energy we derive from this environment would help monetize our campaign. This is not the only way I can win, it is the only way anyone can beat someone like Crist.

  From the beginning the theory that the environment was conducive to this was either true or it is not. A big test of that is going to happen over the next month. If our low fundraising numbers cause movement folks to look elsewhere then the environment was never strong enough to sustain this race anyway. If we survive this test then we are in better shape than we came in because:

  a. We will raise more money next quarter and each quarter after that;

  b. We will be inoculated from this issue.

  I think we should weather this storm of the numbers and endorsements and then counterpunch with endorsements of our own to show we are still standing and moving forward despite failing the “traditional” political test.

  Assuming we can weather this storm, the only permanent harm that can come our way is if we take our eye off the ball of what this campaign is about.

  Here is the simple formula

  1. MESSAGE=SUPPORT

  2. SUPPORT=MONEY

  3. MONEY=VOTES

  I will keep working hard. I am both anxious and curious to see just how strong this environment really is. If it allows us to keep moving despite what we are about to face then we are sitting on a GOP “storm of the century.”

  I flew to Orlando two days later for a meeting. When I flew home that afternoon, I had an unwelcome surprise waiting for me when I landed.

  The Crist campaign had been setting expectations about his fund-raising haul for weeks. They had bragged to reporters they were on track to raise $3 million. They let our low number sink in for a day before they announced theirs. In the seven weeks since he had announced his candidacy, Charlie Crist had raised $4.3 million, or an average of $86,000 a day. “I am humbled by the support that I am receiving from the people of Florida and around the country,” Crist wrote in the statement announcing his total.

  It was an extraordinary, record-breaking amount of money. The previous quarterly record for a Senate campaign was the $1.7 million Mel Martinez had raised in the first quarter of 2004. Even the mighty Jeb Bush’s best quarter was only $2.7 million. There was no way we could spin this. It was just bad news—very bad news.

  I kept campaigning over the next few days, but as the magnitude of Crist’s haul sank in, I grew increasingly discouraged. That Sunday, in its regular weekly feature, the St. Petersburg Times declared the political winner and loser of the week. It was no contest.

  Raising a whopping $4.3 million for his Republican Senate campaign, Crist surely quelled what had been the growing buzz about the threat from Republican Marco Rubio. As much as we relish covering a fight for the soul of the GOP, no candidate can use Twitter to overcome a 30 point deficit in the polls and eight to one financial disadvantage.

  In one paragraph, the newspaper had perfectly captured the common perception of the race after Crist’s announcement, and my own mind-set as well. That weekend I began to contemplate seriously switching races or dropping out altogether.

  I met Al Cardenas for breakfast that Saturday. He strongly advised me to quit the Senate race and run for attorney general before I did lasting damage to my career. He reminded me that if Republicans lost the governor’s race in this election, the attorney general would become the de facto head of the Florida Republican Party, and the obvious front-runner for the gubernatorial nomination in 2014. I had an opportunity to escape an impossible predicament in better shape politically than I had been in when I entered the race. I would have the entire GOP leadership behind me, including Governor Crist.

  On Sunday night, I convened a meeting at our house with some of my closest friends and advisers. I invited State Representative Steve Bovo and his wife, my former aide Viviana; Julio Rebull, a trusted adviser; my former house colleague Ralph Arza; my campaign manager, Brian Seitchik; and my pollster, Dario Moreno. Another friend, Esther Nuhfer; David Rivera; and David’s aide, Alina Garcia, joined us on the phone as well. I asked them to come under the pretense that I wanted to discuss my options with them: whether to remain in the Senate race, to switch to the attorney general race or not to run for any office. But after my conversation with Cardenas, I was already leaning strongly toward ending my Senate campaign and running for attorney general. I just wanted my friends to endorse the decision.

  I laid out the rationale for ending the campaign. I would never raise enough money in a bad economy and while running against a sitting governor known for keeping score and punishing transgressors. Even if I got a little traction in the polls, it wouldn’t be sustainable when Crist unleashed a barrage of negative ads
against me that would quite possibly make me unelectable for any office forever. When they were done with me, I said, no one would want to hire me to be their lawyer.

  Jeanette led the charge against my decision, and most of the others joined her. The money would come after the legislature adjourned, they argued. If I spent more time making finance calls, I would raise more in the next quarter. From time to time, someone would blurt out the name of a donor I hadn’t reached out to yet who might be willing to raise money for me. I pushed back, arguing again and again that no matter what we did or how long we waited I would never raise enough to make the race competitive, and being stubborn could cost me any future political career, and quite possibly my livelihood. But every time I thought they were all on board, one of them would come up with another reason to stay in the race.

  I blew up. I needed their affirmation, I told them, and they were torturing me with what-ifs. “Is this what you really want?” I shouted. “For me to stay on the road and away from my family for another year and a half only to be humiliated and destroyed?” There was another office available for the taking, a highly coveted one, state attorney general, the best stepping-stone to running for governor someday. But they wouldn’t budge. Eventually, I left the discussion and went upstairs. They left minutes after I walked out, and I faced Jeanette alone.

  The family argument didn’t work on her. She reminded me how much she disdained politics. But she was at peace with this campaign, and willing to carry the burden at home, because I had convinced her I was fighting for the things we believed in. I became angry again. Why couldn’t she see how impossible the situation was? I couldn’t win, and staying in the race could cost us everything. I went to sleep angry and confused. I wanted out, but people I trusted wanted me to fight to the bitter end. Their opinions mattered to me, and no one’s opinion mattered more than Jeanette’s.

  The next morning, when I got up to take the kids to school, I found a note Jeanette had left for me, giving me permission to do whatever I thought was right.

  I support you in anything you decide.

  I’m with you in this together with God.

  I love you and believe in you.

  Me.

  I had a speech in Port Charlotte that night, and Jeanette decided to go with me in anticipation that it would be my last speech as a candidate for the U.S. Senate. We discussed my decision again as we drove to the event. Whenever she seemed to accept it, however, she would catch herself and ask if we couldn’t take more time to think about it. I lost my patience again. “No!” I shouted. “No more waiting.” Jeanette countered, “Nothing important in life is easy, and the problem with you, Marco, is that you want it to be easy.” I was furious with her.

  I called Al Cardenas from the car and told him his analysis of my situation had intrigued me, but I would need leading Republicans in the state to support me publicly if I decided to switch races. I authorized Al to call a few of them and see if he could get them on board.

  The audience in Port Charlotte became unexpected allies in Jeanette’s appeal to my conscience. I’m not sure why, but somehow I managed to find my voice again in my speech that night. I talked from the heart about the challenges facing our country and the reason why I wanted to serve in the Senate. The response overwhelmed me. One person after another thanked me for running and told me they had waited for years to hear a candidate speak about the things that mattered most to them. I felt guilty as I listened to them, knowing that in a few days’ time I might disappoint every one of them.

  Jeanette didn’t say a word on the drive home. She just listened as I mused aloud about what might have been if only I had enough money, if only the odds weren’t so long, if only the risks weren’t so great.

  The incumbent attorney general and presumptive Republican nominee for governor, Bill McCollum, called me the next day. He didn’t push me to switch races, but he did extol the virtues of the AG job and expressed his excitement at the prospect that I would join a united Republican cabinet slate. In truth, I wasn’t looking for a deal that would guarantee me the nomination. I knew I would have a primary even if Crist agreed to endorse me for attorney general. Crist’s lieutenant governor, my former house colleague Jeff Kottkamp, wanted to run for the office, and I didn’t think anyone’s endorsement would deter him.

  If I ran for attorney general it would be because my fears had gotten the better of me. I was afraid to lose. I was afraid to be embarrassed. I was afraid to fail. I wanted to take the easiest path available to elected office, and I made up all sorts of rationalizations to disguise my cowardice. Hadn’t I wanted to run for AG a few years earlier? Wouldn’t I have run for it if the opportunity had presented itself when I was leaving the legislature? Wasn’t it the right thing to do for my family? With the support of the party establishment, I wouldn’t have to begin campaigning in earnest until next year. I could spend more time with my kids. I could make a little money before I had to leave my practice. I wasn’t afraid, I tried to convince myself. I was just being practical, and putting my family before myself just like my parents had done.

  I had just about made up my mind. I had even written a speech announcing my decision and apologizing for disappointing my supporters. “Our ideas are strong,” I intended to say, “but our fund-raising hasn’t been.” Nevertheless I decided to keep my Senate campaign schedule until I announced my decision, figuring that the events I had scheduled were events I would have to do anyway as an AG candidate. I flew to Tallahassee and met two former aides, Bill Helmich and Evan Power, who drove with me to Pensacola, where I was scheduled to meet with the editorial board of the Pensacola News Journal before an eleven o’clock speech to the Gulf Coast Economics Club. Brendan Farrington, the AP political reporter, came along for the ride.

  We talked about various issues on the three-hour drive, but Brendan was most curious about how I thought I could win the Senate race considering Crist’s enormous financial advantage. Since I was already strongly leaning toward switching races, I had a hard time making a convincing argument for how I would defeat an opponent I didn’t believe I would defeat. Then Brendan got a phone call.

  I could tell it was about me. After he hung up, he apologized for what he was about to ask me. He had just gotten off the phone with a very reliable source in Tallahassee who had told him in no uncertain terms that I was going to switch races.

  If I admitted I was thinking about it, my Senate race would be over right then. If I ruled it out, my campaign for attorney general might be over before it began. Lying wasn’t just morally wrong, it would be politically devastating. Once you lie to a reporter, they will never trust anything you tell them again. The press might like you personally, but if they think you’re a crook or a liar, you’re finished. They’ll suspect everything you do and say, and they’ll make their suspicions clear in every story they write about you.

  I was trapped, and I was angry. I knew what had happened. Crist’s people had gotten wind of the calls Al Cardenas was making on my behalf. Rather than wait for me to make an announcement when I was ready to do it, and risk that I would change my mind, they decided they would force my hand that day. They wouldn’t give me time to let the people who had risked the most to support me know my decision before it became public. I wouldn’t even be able to give Senator DeMint the courtesy of a phone call to explain my reasons.

  In my past run-ins with Crist, I had managed to swallow my pride, keep my temper in check and react intelligently, not emotionally, to the provocations. Not this time. I’d had enough of their disrespect. I told Brendan I wasn’t going to drop out of the Senate race. I was going to shock the world in August 2010 when I won the Republican Party nomination for the U.S. Senate.

  I sent an e mail to Cardenas telling him Crist’s people had jumped the gun after they learned he was making calls. The Crist people were trying to deny me the ability to tell my closest supporters I was quitting the race, after the risks they had taken to back me and the money they had struggled to raise fo
r me. I hadn’t even told my wife my final decision. Al acknowledged their bad faith, and sympathized. But it didn’t change anything, he told me. I still couldn’t win the Senate nomination, and I could still be attorney general. Furthermore, he had put his own credibility on the line by making calls on my behalf. I ended the exchange by telling him that I had not agreed to be treated this way. Crist had overreached. They had put me in a terrible situation. And now they would have to wait for my decision.

  I returned to Miami the next day in time for a morning speech to a local Rotary Club. When I finally got home, Jeanette had a surprise waiting for me. She had assembled the same group of friends from the previous night, and this time they had come better prepared to convince me to stay in the Senate race. David Rivera brought a poster-size sticky pad. As each of them suggested something that needed to be done to give me a decent chance to win the Senate nomination, David would post one of the big notes on our family room wall.

  I just sulked. After my declaration to Brendan, the idea of switching races was all but dead. I would have to stay in the Senate race or stay in private life. I grew increasingly irritated with every suggestion David posted on the wall.

  I wasn’t just feeling trapped by Crist’s maneuvering. Something else was gnawing at me. I was ashamed. I felt I had been tested by adversity and failed. I had lost my nerve. I was nothing like my grandfather, a disabled man who had lost his job and his status and yet took any work he could find to feed his family. Walking for miles every day, falling down, getting up, walking some more; rejected, humiliated, ignored. He had never quit. He had never given in to self-pity.