The Republicans who learned to stop worrying and love the bomb-thrower (and those who didn't).
Tim MurphyJul. 20, 2016 6:00 AM
It really happened. On Tuesday night in Cleveland, Donald Trump officially became the Republican presidential nominee, ending a 12-month odyssey that exceeded the worst nightmares of virtually all his party's leading lights. Trump is unique in modern American politics, not just because almost no one expected him to win when he entered the race, but because of the bridge-burning way other Republican candidates, elected officials, pundits, and operatives discussed his candidacy.
But since he won the Indiana primary in May and became the presumptive nominee, many of Trump's most unflinching adversaries have, in fact, flinched, abandoning the Never Trump movement in the name of party unity or Hillary Clinton antipathy. Here's a quick guide to where the nominee's loudest critics stand now:
THE FULL 180
Marco Rubio: The senator from Florida called his Republican rival a "con artist" after a debate in February. Days before the Florida primary, he compared Trump to a Latin American strongman and warned that the movement Trump had sparked could be "dangerous and disastrous." After dropping out, he said he would be "honored" to speak on Trump's behalf at the convention.
Rick Perry: The former Texas governor denounced Trump as a "barking carnival act" and a "cancer" on conservatism during his brief presidential run, leading to rumors he might be recruited to run as an independent. In May, he told CNN he was available to serve as Trump's vice president.
Alex Castellanos: A GOP ad maker and CNN contributor, he tried to start an anti-Trump super-PAC last fall to convince conservatives Trump posed a "danger" to the country. In June, he signed on to work for a pro-Trump super-PAC.
Nikki Haley: South Carolina's governor invoked Charleston's 2015 mass shooting to warn that Trump was fomenting hate in a way that could lead to violence, telling a retirement community, "We can't have Donald Trump as president." She endorsed Trump two months later.
Lindsey Graham: The senator from South Carolina denounced his Republican rival as a "race-baiting, xenophobic, religious bigot." (He also called Trump a "jackass" and a "nut job" who should "go to hell.") Graham hasn't publicly backed Trump but reportedly urged donors to get on board.
John McCain: The 2008 GOP nominee bashed Trump as "uninformed and dangerous" on national security and asked Republican voters to choose someone else. When they didn't, he endorsed the candidate who referred to him and his fellow prisoners of war as fake war heroes.
Paul Ryan: The speaker of the House gave a special address to condemn Trump's Muslim ban, and another to denounce the tone of electoral politics. After Trump clinched the nomination, Ryan said he wasn't ready to endorse. Just weeks later, he did. When Trump attacked the Latino judge overseeing the Trump University case, Ryan called his argument "racist"—but held fast in his support.
Bobby Jindal: The failed 2016 primary candidate and former Louisiana governor called Trump an "egomaniac" and a "madman who must be stopped." He later published an op-ed endorsing the candidate, "warts and all."
Paul LePage: Six days after telling a meeting of Republican governors that they must denounce Trump, the Maine governor endorsed Trump. He has said he would like to join a Trump administration.
Hugh Hewitt: He's out, he's in, he's out, he's in. The thinking man's conservative talk radio host slammed Trump during the primary but urged listeners to "close ranks" when it was over. After the Orlando shooting, he proposed changing the rules of the convention to deny Trump the nomination, but then he backed off.
ON THE FENCE
Ted Cruz: Trump's leading rival during the primary, the Texas senator has stayed unusually quiet about whether he'll vote for the man who insulted his wife's looks and accused his dad of helping kill JFK.
Jeff Flake: The Arizona senator said he's not sure he can get behind Trump, even as Clinton makes a play for his state. In June, he urged his Senate colleagues not to rush to get behind their nominee: "Some of the things he's done I think are beyond the pale."
NEVER MEANS NEVER
Mark Kirk: The endangered Illinois senator endorsed Trump but rescinded his support after the nominee said a Chicago-born "Mexican" judge would be inherently biased against him in the Trump University fraud case. His campaign ads prominently note that Trump is "not fit" to be commander-in-chief.
Mitt Romney: Though he flew to Las Vegas to accept Trump's endorsement during the 2012 campaign, Romney denounced Trump inMarch. He has since said he's looking for an independent or third-party candidate.
Jeb Bush: In a July interview, Bush said "the bar's not that high" for a GOP nominee to win his support—but that Trump couldn't clear it. The two ex-presidents in his immediate family have both said they won't endorse the nominee. Jeb's mother, Barbara, told CBS News in June that she doesn't "know how women could vote for someone" like Trump, given his attacks on Fox News host Megyn Kelly.
Rick Wilson: The longtime Republican ad maker and former Rubio backer helped start the #NeverTrump movement when his nomination looked unlikely, calling him a "scenery-chewing, oxygen-sucking political black hole." In June, he dubbed Trump "Cheeto Jesus."
Bill Kristol: Romney, Sasse, General James Mattis, and even little-known National Review columnist John French turned down the Weekly Standard founder's entreaties to challenge Trump as an independent. He's said he will vote for neither Trump nor Clinton.
Glenn Beck: The talk radio host compared Trump to Hitler, although in fairness, he compares lots of people to Hitler. He was suspended from his show in May after a guest mused about assassinating the GOP nominee. Beck has supported the idea of a third-party candidate but has not picked one himself.
The woman selling this t-shirt in downtown Cleveland, just a few hundred feet from the entrance to the Republican National Convention, told me, "I usually don't keep it out because I don't like children seeing it, but my boss said put one of each out."
And you can see why—the neon green color scheme is just hideous.
How Trump opponents tried and failed to block his nomination.
Pema Levy and Tim MurphyJul. 18, 2016 6:19 PM
On Monday afternoon, after the Republican National Convention officially opened, a series of speeches and pre-recorded videos by popular GOP politicians publicly conveyed a unified front for the GOP. But that lasted a short while. Within hours, a last-ditch effort to defeat Donald Trump exploded into shouting and protests on the convention floor—with the Never Trump movement ultimately failing to block Trump's path to the Republican nomination.
The final stand by Never Trump delegates focused on an effort to block the convention from adopting rules that would force anti-Trump delegates to vote for the real estate tycoon. Many delegates are required to vote for Trump because the rules of their state parties compel them to follow the will of the voters in the state. If the delegates were freed to vote their conscience, then it was possible that Trump would fail to garner the 1,237 votes needed for the nomination. In this Hail Mary scenario, delegates would have then held a series of votes until a nominee was chosen.
In order to free up convention delegates, the Never Trump movement hoped to reject the convention rules package on the floor. First, the anti-Trump delegates had to force the party to hold a roll-call vote, instead of a voice vote, on the rules. This required Never Trumpers to obtain the signatures of the majority of delegates from at least seven states. After that, anti-Trump delegates would have needed a majority of all the delegates to reject the rules package. It was unclear whether the anti-Trump forces could have bagged a majority of all the delegates. But Carl Bearden, a Missouri delegate and a member of the Never Trump movement, believes that had his side forced a roll-call vote and won, the convention would have reverted to a previous version of the rules, under which delegates bound to Trump could instead vote their conscience.
This was all a bit complicated. But what wasn't was the emotion and passions expressed as Never Trump delegates huddled in the halls and back rooms of Cleveland's Quicken Loans Arena to put their plan in motion.
Their scheme had come together on the fly. Republican Sen. Mike Lee of Utah, who became a vocal Never Trump advocate last week, met throughout the afternoon with a small group of conspirators, including former Virginia attorney general Ken Cuccinelli and Colorado delegate Kendal Unruh, at the back of the convention floor. They eventually rounded up the support of eight states—Washington, Iowa, Virginia, Colorado, Utah, Minnesota, Wyoming, and Maine—plus Washington, DC, two more than necessary. They handed off their petitions to Gordon Humphrey, a former US senator from New Hampshire, to deliver them to the convention secretary, Susie Hudson.
But Humphrey and his co-conspirators couldn't find her. The Never Trump delegates scoured the convention hall for her, and they texted around a photo with a small headshot of Hudson. They feared that she had gone into hiding to avoid receiving the petitions. (At one point, the Never Trump effort circulated a photo that purported to show Hudson hiding behind a curtain.) When Eric Minor, who led the Never Trump faction of the Washington state delegation, learned, secondhand, that Humphrey had finally handed the petitions to a Hudson emissary, he gleefully relayed the news to his colleagues. But he was only cautiously optimistic about their efforts. Would it work? "Who knows?" he said. "I don't know. Nobody knows."
It didn't work. Trump operatives, fearing an insurrection, pushed hard to peel off support from the anti-Trump crowd. Rick Dearborn, chief of staff to Alabama Sen. Jeff Sessions, warned delegates that backing a roll-call vote for transparency purposes would undermine the convention by turning the attention of the network newscasts to the fracas. (Cuccinelli told reporters that Trump backers had threatened political retribution against Virginia delegates who supported a roll-call vote.)
Chaos ensued when the rules were ultimately brought up for a voice vote, as delegates from Virginia and a handful of other states chanted "shame!" and "I object!" and "no!" A frustrated Cuccinelli—in an apparent dig at Trump's complaints during the primary process—said, "Disenfranchised! I seem to remember hearing something about this." He took off his credentials and tossed the badges to the floor, appearing to concede defeat. Yet he was quickly persuaded to fight on, and he began waving the Virginia placard back and forth as if it were a flag.
Delegates from two states, Iowa and Colorado, walked out in protest. The roll-call backers who stayed behind struggled to get Rep. Steve Womack of Arkansas, who was overseeing the process, to acknowledge their objections. One Virginia delegate proposed throwing something on stage to get the chair's attention. (He elected not to.) The chants for recognition from the anti-Trump delegates were drowned out by a shouts of "We want Trump!" in the risers behind them. And the unamended rules were approved.
On the floor, anti-Trump delegates were furious. "That was so egregiously bad," Minor told a group of reporters huddled around him. "They do not want Trump to be embarrassed and they want to ramrod him through as the nominee."
Minor contended that the Republican National Committee and the Trump campaign had not operated in good faith regarding the petition for the roll-call vote: "They have operated completely dishonestly from the get-go here."
Minor couldn't say whether the anti-Trump delegates would try to hold a walk-out or other form of protest later. (They had not yet had time to convene and discuss other options.) He wasn't even sure if he would remain a delegate. "I wouldn't be surprised based on this display right now if they try to yank my credentials, and I could not care one bit about it," he said. "There's no party unity for me."
Pigasus the pig, the Yippies' presidential candidate in 1968
Steak magnate Donald Trump emerged from the Republican primary with just enough delegates to stave off a potential floor fight in Cleveland this week. While that's bad news for what's left of the GOP's #NeverTrump contingent, the real loser may be political junkies, who thought they'd finally see the ivory-billed woodpecker of American politics—the brokered convention. Instead, they'll have to settle for reliving the chaos of years past.
1836: The Anti-Masonic Party may have invented the political nominating convention, but it certainly didn't perfect it; the party's second effort ends without a presidential nominee amid fears that front-runner William Henry Harrison does not actually oppose Freemasonry in all cases.
1839: The first contested convention ends with the first instance of candidate-on-candidate violence. Henry Clay assaults war hero Winfield Scott—who was deep in a game of whist—after hearing that his rival cut a deal to hand the Whig nomination to Harrison. Clay is dragged from the room. Scott challenges him to a duel.
1860: The gold standard of dysfunction. Southern delegates walk out of the Democratic convention in Charleston, South Carolina, over slavery. They bolt again when the party holds a do-over in Baltimore two months later. Mirroring the schism nationwide, the party goes into November with two nominees.
1912: Undeterred by a violent primary campaign (delegates in Missouri were chosen by voters swinging baseball bats), ex-President Theodore Roosevelt promises to use "roughhouse tactics" to seize the Republican nomination from "fathead" President William Howard Taft. Roosevelt breaks with tradition by showing up in Chicago, but after losing a key procedural vote—and amid allegations of bribery on both sides—he abandons his plan to "terrorize" the convention there. Instead, he and delegates walk out and form their own party.
Theodore Roosevelt at what appears to be the first Progressive Party Convention Library of Congress
1920: Ohio Gov. Warren G. Harding enters the phrase "smoke-filled room" into the political lexicon when Republican power brokers huddle in Room 404 of Chicago's Blackstone Hotel to pick a compromise candidate. Harding wins on the 10th ballot.
The opening of the 1920 Republican National Convention in Chicago AP Photo
1924: Known as "the Klanbake," the longest convention in history (16 days) pits the Ku Klux Klan-backed William Gibbs McAdoo against New York's Catholic governor, Al Smith, in Manhattan. After a plank condemning the Klan is nixed from the platform, 20,000 Klansmen—including some delegates—celebrate in New Jersey by burning a cross and throwing baseballs at an effigy of Smith.
Gov. Alfred E. Smith received a 90-minute ovation at the 1924 Democratic Convention AP Photo
1964: New York's Republican governor, Nelson Rockefeller, is booed unmercifully at San Francisco's Cow Palace when he proposes an amendment condemning the "extremism" of the KKK and the John Birch Society. Meanwhile, supporters of the eventual nominee, Barry Goldwater, harass reporters, hurling trash (and racial slurs) at two African American journalists. The "Woodstock of the Right" ushers in a conservative revolution and an electoral disaster. Sound familiar?
Susan Goldwater promoting the candidacy of her husband, Barry Eve Arnold/Magnum Photos
1968: Some 10,000 anti-war protesters clash with more than 20,000 police officers and National Guardsmen outside the Democratic convention in Chicago. The violence spills into the convention hall, where CBS News' Dan Rather is assaulted by the police on air. Protesters from the Youth International Party—the Yippies—hold a shadow convention to nominate their own presidential candidate, a 145-pound pig named Pigasus.
1976: With President Gerald Ford 24 delegates shy of victory in Kansas City, Ronald Reagan bets the house on a risky move—he picks a running mate. Reagan's choice of moderate Pennsylvania Sen. Richard Schweiker blows up in his face when the party's right wing threatens a revolt. Although Ford wins (by a hair) on the first ballot, Reagan has the last laugh: His concession speech overshadows the nominee and sets the stage for his conservative revival four years later.
Ronald Reagan and his running mate, Sen. Richard Schweiker, at the 1976 GOP convention AP Photo
He argued it would confuse fans of his own cycling event.
Tim MurphyJul. 6, 2016 6:00 AM
Until the election, we're bringing you "The Trump Files," a daily dose of telling episodes, strange-but-true stories, or curious scenes from the life of presumptive GOP nominee Donald Trump.
In 1989, Donald Trump teamed up with college basketball analyst Billy Packer to host a bicycle race called the Tour de Trump. It ran from Albany, New York, to the Trump Plaza Hotel in Atlantic City, New Jersey, passing through Newark, and it was designed to serve as the American version of the famous Tour de France. It was a very Trump affair—one of the teams was sponsored by a Dutch brothel.
But there was another bicycle race that had just made its debut. Organizers in Aspen, Colorado, called their event the Tour de Rump, and its logo was a bicyclist with an oversized posterior.
Trump decided that the rights to the name "Trump" also extended to the word "rump," and he quickly moved to have the competition squashed. As the Aspen Times reported:
Trump's attorneys sent a letter to Tour de Rump organizer Ron Krajian. The lawyers contended that Tour de Rump violated the trademark for Tour de Trump, a road cycle race sponsored by Trump decades ago.
"You are using the name and mark Tour de Rump in connection with an 'inaugural' cycling event," Trump's counsel wrote. "Your use of that name and mark is likely to cause confusion and constitutes trademark infringement, unfair competition and false designation of origin, all in violation of applicable federal and state laws.
"Unless you give us your written assurance within 24 hours after receipt of this letter that you will forthwith cease and desist using the name and mark Tour de Rump, or any name or mark confusingly similar to Tour de Trump, we will institute legal action against you seeking injunctive relief, legal fees and actual and punitive damages."
The Tour de Rump folks were not intimidated. They did not change the name, contending Trump had no case.
It didn't take long for market forces to settle the matter. The Tour de Trump lasted two years—until Trump's plunging finances forced him to turn over his sponsorship to the DuPont corporation. The Tour de Rump is still going strong.