Sean-Paul Kelley | San Antonio | October 17

The Agonist - How did a radical, insignificant backbencher from the Texas Legislature nicknamed "Hot Tub Tom" become the most powerful man in the United States Congress? Lou Dubose and Jan Reid set out to answer that in their new book, "The Hammer, Tom Delay: God, Money, and the Rise of The Republican Congress." Weaving together a tapestry of opportunism, self-righteousness, hypocrisy and corruption they tell the story of Tom DeLay's rise from backbench obscurity to pinnacle of power.

The Hammer: Tom DeLay

More after the jump.

"Hot Tub Tom," as he was called when he arrived in Austin in the late 1970s, was better known for his effective partying skills than for politics. Democrats laughed when DeLay rose to speak in the Texas Legislature, chanting his name derisively as he spoke: "Dee-lay, Dee-lay, Dee-lay," recall Dubose and Reid. "[He] never achieved much in the Texas Statehouse," they write. "[And] no political oddsmaker in Austin would have put any money on [him being a future success]." But it was in Austin where DeLay honed his skill at counting legislative votes and where he learned the value of money in politics. Both would serve him well in the future.

DeLay sailed into Congress on the coattails of Ronald Reagan in 1984. Known as a "right-wing crank from Sugar Land" in the Texas Legislature, DeLay had no intention of remaining a backbencher in D.C. Sometime during his first turn "a colleague observed DeLay's stress level and urged him to watch a video by the conservative evangelist James Dobson," write Dubose and Reid. While George W. Bush was being reborn in private with Billy Graham, "DeLay, the quintessential suburbanite," they write, "found God while staring at a TV screen." A transformation came to pass when, in his second term, DeLay secured an appointment to the powerful appropriations committee. God and money met and there was congress between them.

After the massive Democratic Congressional defeat of 1994, the Republican revolutionaries gathered to elect their new leadership. Tom DeLay was prepared. Before the 1994 elections he set up a candidate's school. He threw money into colleagues' races; going so far as to hire a political consultant to "direct his giving and advise the candidates he was backing," write Dubose and Reid. While campaigning DeLay even visited twenty-five states. DeLay accumulated great amounts of loyalty from many freshmen; loyalty DeLay would use.

Newt Gingrich would be Speaker of the House and fellow Texan Dick Armey was a lock for Majority leader, leaving Delay with one choice. He would run for the number three position in the party hierarchy: Majority Whip. Party whips ensure members vote with the party. Sometimes they induce members with money, often times by sheer political pressure. Showing off the skills he learned in Austin DeLay beat Gingrich's handpicked candidate by a hefty margin. The transformation was complete: "Hot Tub Tom" became the Hammer.

It wasn't until the Lewinsky scandal broke and the Republicans in Congress began their impeachment jihad that DeLay's name became common outside the Washington. As impeachment ground on the revolution consumed its makers. First Gingrich and then his successor, Bob Livingston, succumbed to the same crime (adultery) for which they were persecuting the president. But DeLay, like a modern Robespierre, forged ahead, utilizing his well-honed skills. He destroyed any attempt at a compromise (censure of the president). He arranged for his former Deputy Whip, Dennis Hastert, to become Speaker of the House. He threatened fellow Republican Congressmen, warning one that "the next two years [will be] the toughest of your life," and informing others that if they didn't vote his way they'd get "primaried." (This tactic, of running hard-line opponents against moderates in primaries, DeLay would later use to eliminate any trace of moderation in the House.) In the end, DeLay's victory was half-empty; Clinton was impeached but survived the Senate trial.

But DeLay wasn't chastened. He quickly threw his energies into the "K Street Project." Directed by anti-tax zealot Grover Norquist and enforced by DeLay the project changed the way K Street lobbyists do business on the Capitol Hill. In the past lobbyists donated to campaigns to influence legislation--a kind of open, but tolerated corruption. For DeLay this wasn't enough. "No longer was the old Sicilian practice of "paying tributo" sufficient," write Dubose and Reid. "Lobbyists would [now] need resumes and references that established their [Republican] party bona fides." The consequences of turning the old K Street rules upside down and by extension turning the lobby into an extension of the Republican House Caucus, say Dubose and Reid, "will last for at least a quarter of a century."

Meanwhile DeLay has anointed himself House Majority Leader. Having ascended the heights of power by gaining control of the party machinery like other 20th century revolutionaries, the only question now is: what next?