Senator's Image as Reformer Born in Crisis

For the senator once regarded as a reliable party man, the moment marked the beginning of his subtle shift away from the orthodoxy of his party's establishment, his first steps toward staking out a reformist agenda that would at once begin to distance him from Keating while inexorably creating a rift between him and powerful Republicans who resented the casting of the issue as a moral litmus test. Sens. Mitch McConnell and Trent Lott maneuvered to derail a series of McCain attempts to change campaign financing rules, and for the first time, some Republicans and conservative pundits openly talked of the irritant that McCain was becoming.

But an ever more defiant McCain, having hitched his star to his reformer image, had made campaign finance a cause by then. After several failures to overcome Republican opposition, McCain and Democratic Sen. Russell Feingold of Wisconsin managed to win congressional approval of their campaign finance reform legislation in 2002. Best known as McCain-Feingold, the bill's most important provision banned unlimited and unregulated "soft money" contributions from individuals, corporations and labor unions to federal candidates and national political parties.

Its passage served to remind admirers and foes alike of McCain's outsider status. Some Republicans approved of it only grudgingly. President Bush expressed discomfort with parts of McCain-Feingold, but he signed it into law, which the Supreme Court upheld a year later.

Long before then, the specter of Keating and the scandal that threatened his career had been flipped to McCain's advantage, setting in motion a political climb that cast him as reformer, a maverick, a national figure and, eventually, a presidential contender in 2000. His campaign bus, the Straight Talk Express, would become the rolling symbol of his new identity.

"There was no doubt that campaign finance and being a maverick was a direct result of all that had happened to him," Cohen observes. "John wanted to see some changes, and people were suddenly listening to him, though not every Republican was always pleased with what they heard. John was not always a party guy, but I liked it. Many people liked it."

Costly Clashes

The Keating episode, and his crusade for campaign finance reform, set in motion a decade-long odyssey for McCain -- it saw him beset by seemingly crushing setbacks even as he steadily built for himself a winning image as a fierce and recalcitrant rebel. It propelled him as a national force even as it stiffened the opposition to him among conservatives.

That he had no definable political ideology made it easier to acquire the image of a reformer and iconoclast; he was answerable to nothing and no one in the largest sense. Unbound by a philosophy and so largely immune to charges of inconsistency, McCain's political outlook could afford to be thoroughly malleable, guided only by his instincts.

His acolytes touted him as a renegade who placed country above party and special interests -- just the right leader to reclaim the White House for Republicans, they argued. But, during the 1990s, his maverick image increasingly complicated his presidential ambitions. For every party leader who admired his independence, there was another prominent Republican voicing disdain for his go-it-alone style. Congressional Republicans who had done battle with him on campaign-finance and other issues made no secret of their opposition to him as a possible presidential candidate, and back home in Arizona, several key Republicans chafed against what they regarded as his attempts to dictate their political moves.

Even people who had stood by him since his earliest political days began abandoning him, sometimes not because of his reformist impulses but simply because his demanding nature so hurt or alienated them. He would expect fealty and they would say no. The crusader still sometimes exhibited his old prodigious temper, losing his cool behind closed doors with Republicans reluctant to do what he wanted, especially in Arizona. Their ranks included several of his longtime allies and key friends, whose estrangement he couldn't politically afford. In time, the widespread disaffection would spark the second crisis of his career, though he couldn't see the trouble brewing in the late 1990s, so busily was he preparing for his 2000 presidential run.

He had already suffered a falling out with his former top congressional aide in Arizona, Grant Woods, long viewed as his alter ego, a man who had begun to stake out his own promising future in Republican politics. Seen by many Arizonan observers as a reformer in the McCain image, Woods had risen to become Arizona's attorney general, a position from which, in the 1990s, he began investigating the state's Republican governor, Fife Symington, who would eventually be driven from office because of allegations of a financial scandal. As Woods recounts, a livid McCain asked him, "What the hell are you doing?"

"I've gotta do what I've gotta do," Woods remembers responding.

McCain made it clear that he didn't want him investigating a fellow Republican, Woods recalls. When Woods persisted, and defied McCain on a series of other issues, their relationship ended, with Woods shut out of McCain's inner circle. "It was kind of a military thing to him, a chain-of-command thing," Woods says. "I didn't follow the commands. He's a military guy, and you're supposed to salute the guy ahead of you on the command chart, and I wasn't saluting."

Perhaps the most costly clash for McCain came with Republican Jane Hull, who succeeded Symington as governor. As Woods and Smith remember, McCain never had forgiven Hull for supporting one of his Republican primary rivals during his first congressional race in 1982. "Dumb as a tree," he privately said of Hull, who, according to associates close to her, heard about McCain's insults from others and argued vociferously with him on occasions when she felt that his demands infringed on her prerogatives as governor.

McCain's grudge against Hull had long baffled Woods, who years earlier had urged his old boss to bury his contempt. "I would say to him, 'Why do you even care, John?' " Woods remembers. " 'You're talking about something that happened back in '82.' But John cared. I thought it was pretty petty and ludicrous. . . . He didn't show her the proper respect at times. I told him, 'If you don't stop doing this, you're going to have the same amount of supporters 20 years from now as you do today -- you won't add anybody.' " Woods warned McCain of the danger of alienating any prominent Arizona Republican. "It made absolutely no sense for him to keep doing it to somebody like Jane Hull. She was a strong personality herself, and she was a fellow governor of George W. Bush. And we saw what happened with that."

What happened was that, one afternoon in 1999, without warning McCain, Hull stunned the Republican political establishment by announcing her support of Bush for the 2000 presidential nomination. The moment marked the start of a new crisis. A series of other notable Arizona party operatives whom McCain had offended over the years followed Hull's lead.

Then, former congressman John Rhodes, a onetime House Republican leader whose seat McCain had captured in his first political race after Rhodes retired, issued his own endorsement of Bush, trying to soften the rejection for McCain by declaring he would support his fellow Arizonan for any office except the presidency.

Word of Arizona's disaffection toward its not-so-favorite son had spread. After he upset Bush in the New Hampshire primary, the nomination battle for McCain hinged on winning the South Carolina primary. Both the Bush and McCain forces waged fierce campaigns, with McCain irate over an anonymous smear effort alleging, among other things, that he had fathered a mixed-race child.

McCain questioned Bush's integrity and intellect. But nothing he did could stop his sliding fortunes, a trend that grew worse amid a push against him by leading Christian conservatives enamored of Bush and skeptical of McCain's commitment to their social causes. After losing South Carolina, McCain bitterly lashed out at them, referring to ministers Pat Robertson and Jerry Falwell, a co-founder of the Moral Majority, as "agents of intolerance." It was an act of political self-immolation. His campaign was finished.

The Downside of Ferocity

The Keating nightmare had infused McCain with tenacity and moral indignation. But it had taught him little, if anything, about patience and reconciliation. His old anger still competed with his new reformist politics for the attention of the public, the media and his colleagues.

The quandary had been a lifelong problem. More than 40 years earlier, his father, Jack McCain, had sought to lecture him, over lunch near the Naval Academy, on the importance of staying calm and not self-destructing when dealing with foes, especially those in superior military positions. The young rebel was fuming that afternoon again about a company commander whom he had come to regard as a mean-spirited, vindictive disgrace. His father, once a young renegade himself at the academy, but now a politically astute officer on his way to becoming a four-star admiral, warned him against taking on authority, preaching the merits of patience. McCain kept arguing the point with his father, refusing to back down. His war with Capt. R.G. Hunt, and half a century of more Hunts, would continue.

McCain's steel and ferocity had served him well at different points in his life -- in hostile schoolyards, in tough bars and in the Senate, when he was caught in the Keating fires and later in pushing campaign-finance reform. But all along, the ferocity had its downside, too, and five decades after his father's warnings, aware that he had no other choice if he ever wanted to capture the White House, the rebel at last embraced accommodation.

Although tensions between his office and the Bush White House remained, the newly accommodating McCain frequently lent the president his high-profile support and painstakingly emphasized, before conservative audiences, that he voted with him on the vast majority of issues. He gave full-throated support to the controversial Bush tax cuts, after first calling them unfair. He hugged the president at White House photo ops when Bush's poll numbers were falling and the administration was in need of all the political cover it could get.

By 2006, McCain had publicly set aside another longstanding grudge, delivering a commencement address at Liberty University and receiving a hug from another old antagonist, the university's co-founder Jerry Falwell, who died last year. His disinterest in ideology, his trust in his instincts and his comfort with the improvisational style of his own politics was proving successful in helping him make friends of former foes.

On his way to the 2008 nomination, McCain adroitly built a new coalition of Republican conservatives and moderates. As the general campaign has worn on, his nimbleness has not come without occasional costs, as some Republicans have joined Democrats in arguing that he has embraced new positions with an alarming alacrity, such as during the Wall Street bailout crisis, when his stances evolved almost daily, incorporating elements of both well-worn conservative and liberal dogmas.

But he might never have been here in the first place, so close to his dream, without having realized the benefits of all his accommodations, large and small, over the past eight years. "My father kind of gave McCain an unofficial endorsement when they finally got together," remembers Falwell's elder son, Jerry Falwell Jr. "He thought McCain would be the nominee in 2008. I think both of them discovered that they had some real personal chemistry, some real things in common. They were both mavericks, after all."

The moment represented just one more in a long line of conciliatory gestures from McCain, who was anxiously reaching out, sometimes with the help of surrogates, to soothe old enemies. Jane Hull was aboard the campaign now. And Grant Woods. And most of John Rhodes's longtime allies, too. In reaching for command, his father's way had become his own.