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The Only Important Candidate

Despite the surprise victory in New Hampshire that made him the sole focus of American political debate, Pat Buchanan probably cannot win the Republican presidential nomination. Nevertheless his candidacy remains the single crucial factor in the 1996 elections.

By Philip F. Lawler

Ice and snow clogged the parking lot of the Crowne Plaza Hotel, and those who arrived early for the Sunday-afternoon event were clad in boots, parkas, and Gore-tex overalls--the standard gear for those facing a New Hampshire winter. But inside the ballroom of this Nashua hotel, the temperature was steadily rising.

The steady flow of new arrivals soon packed the room beyond its normal capacity. Overcoats and woolen scarves were unceremoniously dumped in piles in the back of the room, to bake underneath the dozens of television lights that were throwing their harsh glare toward the stage in the front. Again and again, the sound system pumped out the theme song of America's hottest political candidate: "Pat Buchanan for President...," and his supporters bellowed out the chorus: "Go, Pat, Go!"

This scene was played out on the final weekend before the New Hampshire primary in February--the first major contest of the 1996 presidential campaign. Coming off clear wins at the party caucuses in Alaska and Louisiana, and an unexpectedly close second-place finish in Iowa, Buchanan had been transformed from a protest candidate into a serious electoral threat. In January Senator Bob Dole had been regarded as the overwhelming favorite for the Republican nomination, and Buchanan as one of the minor obstacles in Dole's path. Now suddenly America's political class had awakened to the possibility that Buchanan might actually win the Republican nomination.

As he mounted the stage for his final rally before the Tuesday primary vote, Buchanan was clearly feeling the scent of victory in the New Hampshire air. "We're going all the way!" he shouted hoarsely to his fans. Then, his face crinkled in delight, he added: "This is all just too much fun!"

Oddly enough, Buchanan's supporters constituted barely half of his audience for that Sunday rally. A twelve-foot corridor directly in front of the speaker's platform had been cordoned off for press photographers, and the candidate's speech was accompanied by a steady undertone of noise: the clicking of shutters and the whirr of the cameras' winding mechanisms. More than twenty microphones cluttered the rostrum, and an equal number of television cameras churned silently from the back of the room. Scores of reporters prowled through the crowd, hoping to catch a pithy quotation they could send back to their editors in Boston or New York, London or Madrid. For several months the mass media had ignored Buchanan's crusade; now in February they were hanging on his every word.

And Buchanan--a professional wordsmith, with a keen understanding of how to construct a memorable phrase--did not disappoint them. "The establishment in Washington is running scared," he said, as supporters cheered and reporters scribbled in their notebooks. "They're hiding behind their moats and pullling up the drawbridges, because the peasants are coming with pitchforks!"

"VOICE FOR THE VOICELESS"

Pat Buchanan had stumped the same New Hampshire roads four years earlier, as a Republican candidate challenging the incumbent President George Bush. That effort, too, had shocked the pundits; by winning 37 percent of the New Hampshire vote, he demonstrated the depth of dissatisfaction that would eventually cost Bush his job in the White House. But that campaign had also been an important turning point in Buchanan's political life.

In 1992 Buchanan came into New Hampshire promoting a fairly standard set of conservative ideas; he inveighed against abortion, social engineering, and taxes. But as he toured though dozens of depressed towns in northern New England, saw all the small factories that had been closed down, and talked to the workers who were struggling to meet their mortgage payments, Buchanan began to lose his old confidence in free-market capitalism.

In the months that followed the 1992 campaign, Buchanan became a serious student of economic history. He pored over tariff debates in the US Congress early in the 19th century. He questioned the international trade agreements that enabled American firms to manufacture products in other countries, taking advantage of less expensive labor markets. He became a disciple of Wilhelm Roepke, the Catholic economist who had helped to guide Germany's sensational economic recovery after World War II by combining a firm belief in free enterprise with an equally firm commitment to preserving family and community life. Pat Buchanan--who had once written speeches and columns extolling the benefits of unrestricted free trade--became a firm believer in the need for protective tariffs.

By 1995, when he began plotting a new run for the White House, Buchanan had combined his new economic theories with his old cultural conservatism to form a broad new political platform. His aim, he explained, would be to provide "a voice for the voiceless." The Buchanan campaign would speak out for the unborn children threatened by abortion, the blue-collar workers fearful of losing their jobs, the middle-class parents worried about their children's education, the elderly people haunted by urban crime.

Throughout his career, as both journalist and politician, Buchanan has been a master of the "us-against-them" rhetorical style. As he preached his new political doctrine, he made it quite clear that the his "voiceless" clientele faced powerful vested interests: the doctors who built up abortion-clinic empires, the Wall Street financiers who exploited cheap foreign labor, the social engineers who monopolized the public-school system, the liberal judges who coddled career criminals. In his harsher speeches, Buchanan also seemed to be encouraging antagonism toward people who might themselves have been termed "voiceless," such as the Mexican and Asian immigrants who, he claimed, were threatening the jobs of native-born American workers.

This unusual style of conservative populism was a new phenomenon in American electoral politics. Since the 1960s, voters have grown accustomed to hearing left-wing activists denounce "the establishment;" now the denunciation was coming from an unabashed conservative. Republicans ordinarily defend American corporate leadership; now a GOP contender was speaking out against "corporate greed," and citing the conflict between "Wall Street and Main Street." Searching for historical parallels, pundits recalled Father Charles Coughlin, the "radio priest" of the 1930s.

That comparison is instructive. Like Father Coughlin, Buchanan is a staunch Roman Catholic, whose view of the world was shaped in Catholic schools, and whose political platform is based on his own reading of Catholic social teaching. Also like Father Coughlin, Buchanan has turned the resentments of a large constituency--primarily blue-collar workers, and overwhelmingly Christians--against a liberal secular establishment.

AMERICAN SOVEREIGNTY: "LOCK AND LOAD"

Father Coughlin believed that American workers were being manipulated by international bankers. Buchanan, playing a variation on the same theme, points to international trade agreements. The GATT and NAFTA treaties, he reasons, have been designed not to benefit American workers but to create a "New World Order."

That "New World Order" is a special focus of Buchananite hostility, for two reasons. First, the new trade agreements have hurt the competitive standing of American workers; in the wake of NAFTA, thousands of manufacturing jobs have been disappeared. Second, the agreements compromise American sovereignty. If the fathers of the American Revolution had heard about a plan to cede power to an international organization, said Buchanan in one of his most bellicose campaign speeches, "they would have said just three words: lock and load!"

On this point, the Buchanan argument is undeniably correct. The patriots of 1776 did "lock and load" in their bid to secure self-determination, and they would hardly have surrendered American sovereignty without another fight. In fact, in one count of the indictment of King George, the Declaration of Independence used language that might fit comfortably into a Buchanan stump speech: ìHe has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our Constitution and unacknowledged by our laws.î Those were fighting words in 1776, and Buchanan found audiences willing to take the same stand today.

When he argued that Wall Street financiers were ignoring the needs of middle-class workers, Buchanan again struck a responsive chord. Although 1995 was a banner year for investors, average American families saw a slight drop in their purchasing power. By January 1996 the stock market was reaching record levels, and yet 100,000 American workers lost their jobs during that same month.

The steady growth of economic inequality in the United States has sharpened the appeal of populist rhetoric. Graef Crystal, an economist who specialized in the study of compensation for corporate executives, has pointed out that the average chief of a major corporation earns a salary 40 times that of the average worker. When many families are finding it tough just to keep treading water, Crystal points out, that discrepancy between the corporate elite and the average family is reaching "Marie Antoinette levels." And as if determined to foster popular resentments, some corporate executives have drawn lavish salaries even as they trim their company payrolls. Buchanan has repeatedly pointed to the example of Robert Smith, the chief executive of AT&T. In 1995, the telecommunications giant laid off 40,000 workers, and still barely broke even; but Smith took home over $16 million in salary and benefits.

By emphasizing these economic inequities, Buchanan played into the populist sentiments that are never far from the surface of American political life. He began to draw strength from blue-collar workers and small-business owners. And since he had already captured the hearts of pro-life activists and Christian conservatives, his appeal was reaching a critical mass.

ZEAL FOR COMBAT

For months the mainstream media had refused to take Buchanan seriously. As they handicapped the Republican presidential race, columnists listed Senator Bob Dole as a clear favorite, with his fellow Senator Phil Gramm as his closest competitor; Buchanan was consistently listed among the longshot candidates--if he was listed at all. But in the Louisiana caucus he roundly defeated Gramm, and in the Iowa caucus he nearly tripped up Dole. By the time the campaign moved into the snows of New Hampshire, Buchanan almost looked like the front-runner himself.

While the combative columnist clearly reveled in his new popularity, the reaction of his rivals--in politics and in the media--could only be described as hysterical. Buchanan was denounced as an extremist, and maybe even a fascist. He was described as intolerant, divisive, sexist, isolationist, and xenophobic. Columnist cautioned their readers that Buchanan was exploiting their fears, and even Senator Dole called his opponent an "extremist" whose support came from the "most worst elements" in the Republican Party.

If ever an American politician had been born and trained to weather such an all-out media attack, it was Pat Buchanan. In his autobiography Right From the Beginning, he looks back fondly on a youth which, he candidly admits, featured a constant stream of political arguments, and more than a few barroom brawls. As an adult he confined himself to intellectual combat, but his enthusiasm for a quarrel was undiminished. As a matter of policy, Buchanan refused to respond to ad hominem attacks; he shrugged them off, and plowed forward with his own rhetorical offensives.

While they scolded him for his "extremist," the unrepentant candidate observed, his rivals were beginning to echo his rhetoric. On his way to New Hampshire, Bob Dole had denounced "corporate greed," while Lamar Alexander called for the abolition of the Department of Education--a department which Alexander himself had once supervised. All those nasty charges lodged against him, he calmly told reporters, were nothing more than "the cuss-words of a frightened establishment."

At least a few columnists recognized that Buchanan's political appeal was genuine. Writing in the Boston Globe, Ben Bradlee Jr. commented that he "remains in many respects the center of gravity in the GOP presidential campaign, setting its agenda and forcing the major candidates to compete on his terms." And Newsweek's George Will, an outspoken critic, conceded that Buchanan's was "the only important candidacy this year."

One radio commentator made the perceptive comment that Buchanan's appeal was enhanced by the obvious sincerity of his views. "American voters have grown accustomed to politicians who throw them curveballs," he said; "With Buchanan, they get a steady diet of fastballs right down the middle of the plate."

NEW HAMPSHIRE HYSTERIA

When he won the New Hampshire contest, gaining 28 percent of the Republican vote to lead a crowded field, Buchanan was a sensation; his face festooned the cover of the leading newsweeklies, and his ideas dominated the editorial columns of America's daily newspapers. If anything, the hostility of his opponents became even more pronounced. New York's Mayor Rudy Giuliani, a fellow Republican, led the critical pack. Buchanan, he announced, was a "racist, anti-Semitic, anti-immigrant, anti-integration..."

Of all those criticisms, none was more potentially damaging than the accusation of anti-Semitism. Buchanan had been conducting a running battle with some of the most dedicated Zionists in the American political world since 1990, when--in the days leading up to the Persian Gulf war--he had said that the only lobbies in favor of the war were "the Israel Defense Ministry and its amen corner in the United States." Columnist Abe Rosenthal of the New York Times never forgave his colleague for that comment; in January and February he penned three consecutive columns, all arguing the case that Buchanan was an anti-Semite.

What was the evidence? Yes, Buchanan had argued against the Persian Gulf war, but millions of other Americans had trouble understanding why US soldiers should risk their lives to defend the emir of Kuwait. Yes, he had defended John Demjanjuk against accusations that he was a Nazi war criminal, but even the Israeli supreme court had agreed that the evidence was insufficient to support that charge. And yes, Buchanan had become involved in an argument over whether Jewish denizens of the Treblinka concentration camps had been killed by diesel fumes (an argument which a less combative columnist might have prudently avoided), but he questioned only the method of the killing; he never denied the extent of the Holocaust.

Personal acquaintances insist that they have never detected any anti-Semitism in Buchanan's character. Michael Kinsley has almost made a career of opposing Buchanan; he took the liberal side, with Buchanan as the conservative, in nightly debates on the television show "Crossfire." While he disagrees with virtually every tenet of Buchananite politics, Kinsley insists that his old rival "doesn't have an anti-Semitic bone in his body." Don Feder, the author of A Jewish Conservative Looks at Pagan America, adamantly opposed Buchanan in 1992, convinced that he had detected the tell-tale signs of anti-Semitism. After meeting Buchanan in person, and striking up a friendship, Feder found himself supporting his fellow conservative in 1996.

The argument that Buchanan nurtures a bias against immigrants is more difficult to dismiss. At best he shows questionable taste in some of his offhand remarks about foreign laborers, especially Mexicans. (When the microphone broke down at one campaign rally, he muttered that it had probably been set up by "somebody named José.") And his persistent invocation of the "America First" mentality certainly contrasts with the message repeatedly delivered to American audiences by Pope John Paul II.

Buchanan insists that his proposals can be reconciled with Catholic social teaching. He does not propose to ban immigration forever, he points out; he simply calls for a five-year moratorium, so that the nation can absorb the current high proportion of foreign-born residents. And even Pope John Paul has acknowledged that a nation has the right to defend its own ethnic identity. That quotation is pulled out of context, and it seem inconceivable that the Pope would support this plank of the Buchananite platform. Still, the argument illustrates the depth of Buchanan's Catholic identity: even when his policies conflict with the Pope's prescriptions, he attempts to justify his position with a reference to Catholic social teaching.

On the most important social issues facing America today, such as abortion, homsexuality, sex education divorce, and euthanasia, Pat Buchanan stands foursquare with the clear teachings of the Catholic Church. Long after most Catholic leaders have ceased talking about the right of parents to control their children's education, or the right of workers to earn a family wage, Buchanan espouses those classical elements of Catholic social teaching. So it was ironic to realize that, if he won the Republican nomination, this devout Catholic would probably face the organized hostility of the American ecclesiastical establishment. From Boston to Los Angeles, diocesan newspapers editorialized against his candidacy. Even the normally sensible National Catholic Register argued that Buchanan dissented from "Church teachings" on the NAFTA and GATT treaties.

THE STAR FADES

Undaunted by the criticism, Buchanan himself forged ahead with his campaign. After New Hampshire, the next contested primary was in Arizona, a state with a largely conservative electorate. With a win there, Buchanan could build momentum for the coming primaries in southern states, beginning with South Carolina.

Obviously delighted by the public attention he was now receiving, Buchanan treated the people of Arizona to some stirring speeches about the threats posed by their Mexican neighbors. Like so many candidates before him, he donned a ten-gallon hat for an appearance at a rodeo. To emphasize his opposition to restrictive gun-control laws, he traveled to a gun show and posed waving a rifle over his head. That may have been a tactical mistake. The photo that appeared in the next day's newspapers showed Buchanan brandishing a firearm--at the same time that his rivals were saying he was an extremist.

Meanwhile, the steady drumbeat of criticism was taking its toll. Poll after poll showed that even as his support increased, opposition to Buchanan was also mounting in strength; a clear majority of the voters surveyed considered him too radical for their taste. And if those problems were not enough, millionaire publisher Steve Forbes had invested a staggering $4 million in his own Arizona campaign. When the votes were cast, Forbes won handily. Buchanan's "momentum" was abruptly stopped.

The next crucial test came in South Carolina, where the conservative Christian Coalition enjoyed both the support of Governor David Beasley and the strength of a powerful grass-roots organization. On paper, Buchanan looked like the logical candidate for Christian conservatives. But Ralph Reed, the influential leader of the Christian Coalition, had gone to great lengths to avoid any statement that might be interpreted as an endorsement of Buchanan, and insiders hinted that the Christian Coalition had already made an informal pact with the Dole campaign.

Once again, election day brought a stinging defeat for the Buchanan forces. Dole carried South Carolina with an impressive 45 percent of the vote total; Buchanan lagged behind with 30 percent. Still more telling was the division of the Christian vote. In this largely Protestant state, voters who identified themselves as Christian conservatives had split their votes, almost exactly 50-50, between Dole and Buchanan. Clearly the Christian Coalition had quietly brought a victory for Dole--and perhaps cost Buchanan his best chance at the Republican nomination.

So just a few short weeks after his sensational triumph in New Hampshire, Buchanan found his campaign thoroughly stalled. Senator Dole was again the clear favorite, building an imposing lead in the number of delegates who were pledged to support him at the Republican convention in San Diego.

Buchanan's star had quickly faded, and pundits were wondering whether perhaps they had been too excited about the New Hampshire victory. After all, Buchanan had captured only 28 percent of the vote in that election, and while he maintained a strong core of loyal supporters, that support never exceeded a "ceiling" of approximately 30 percent.

NO BUSINESS AS USUAL

So now can mainstream Republicans safely ignore Buchanan again, and proceed with the routine endorsement of Bob Dole? Absolutely not.

Pat Buchanan probably has no chance to win the Republican nomination. But he will come into the San Diego convention with a large cadre of delegates--some of them angry, and all of them dedicated to the Buchanan agenda. If Dole and other GOP leaders do not measure up to some Buchananite demands, the convention could be a contentious one.

Already Dole has alienated the most committed Buchanan supporters. "Senator Dole said I represent the 'worst elements' of the Party, so I won't sully his campaign with my support," reasoned one bitter conservative. If Dole does not mend some fences, his scheduled coronation in San Diego could be transformed into a nasty intramural fight.

How could Dole win back the affections of the defeated Buchananites? The first absolute requirement is that he must name a pro-life politician as his running-mate. If he follows through with his rumored plan to tap Colin Powell for as his ticket-mate, he will forfeit the support of religious conservatives. Worse still, such a blatantly hostile move might prompt Buchanan to leave the Republican Party, and continue his own campaign as a third-party candidate.

Next, Dole and his allies must preserve the pro-life plank in the GOP platform: a provision that calls for a Constitutional amendment to ban abortion. Many "moderate" Republicans believe that the plank is outdated, since American public opinion today would not support such an amendment. That analysis may be technically correct, but the political symbolism of a change in the platform would be disastrous. Again, religious conservatives would regard the move as a provocation, and the Republican Party cannot afford to lose the support of the religious right.

Finally, Dole could reassure religious conservatives by asking Buchanan to play a prominent role in his presidential campaign--beginning, no doubt, with a prime-time speech at the Republican convention. But if he makes such a gesture, Dole will risk offending the opposite wing of the Republican Party. Four years ago, when the Republican Party met in Houston to re-nominate George Bush, party leaders agreed to give Buchanan the "consolation prize" of an opening-night speech. The fiery conservative proceeded to light up the nation's television airwaves with a powerful indictment of Democratic liberalism. "There is a religious war going on in this country for the soul of America," Buchanan told his fellow Republican leaders. "It is a cultural war, as critical to the kind of nation we shall one day be as was the Cold War itself."

ECHOES FROM HOUSTON

In 1996, media commentators almost unanimously agree that Buchanan's speech was too shrill--that it frightened American voters, and turned them away from the Republican Party. But that is a bit of revisionist history. In fact, at the time it was delivered, Buchanan's speech was a rousing success.

Reporting from Houston that night, television anchorman John Chancellor called Buchanan's performance "an excellent speech;" his colleague David Brinkley agreed that it was "outstandingly good." Ted Koppel of "Nightline" reported that after hearing Buchanan, the GOP delegates "walked out of here tonight enthusiastic; they walked out with something that Republicans have not had for quite a few months: a sense of optimism." Hal Bruno, a reporter for ABC television, told Buchanan: "I've covered 17 national conventions. I've never seen a better first night."

The success of that first-night speech was amply reflected in overnight polls. In just 24 hours, support for George Bush shot upward by 10 points in nationwide Hotline poll. The New York Times, whose pollsters had put Bush 18 points behind Clinton just days before the convention, now saw the two contenders running neck-and-neck.

Moreover, the rhetorical phrases which Buchanan introduced into the nation's lexicon that night have now become staples of political debate. Politicians and pundits routinely refer to the "culture wars," and experts on urban crime agree on the need to "take back our cities" for drug pushers and youth gangs. The Houston speech did not harm the Bush campaign--but it did constitute the first unveiling of the Buchanan agenda that would dominate the presidential race four years later.

Unlike Bob Dole, Pat Buchanan can count on support from traditional Democrats as well as Republicans. The recent converts to Buchananism include trade-union workers who are unhappy with the radical drift of American union leadership, and urban Catholics dismayed by the decay of family life. In short, Buchanan can deliver the "Reagan Democrats" who helped keep Republicans in the White House throughout the 1980s. Without those Reagan Democrats, Dole cannot unseat Bill Clinton. Unless he makes peace with Buchananism, then, Dole cannot win in November. Between now and the San Diego convention, American voters will learn whether or not Dole is willing to pay the price of electoral victory.

Philip F. Lawler is editor of Catholic World Report.

THE VIEW FROM ACROSS THE ATLANTIC

The British media seemed pretty sure that Buchanan's progress was a Bad Thing. By March 6, when Dole won a hatful of primaries and caucuses, BBC-TV described Buchanan repeatedly as the "anti-abortion, anti-immigration" candidate. But the attention bestowed on his campaign has sometimes been more thoughtful.

"Mr. Buchanan... taps into some dismayingly widespread and long-lived American opinions: isolationism, protectionism, thinly veiled racism; and into some more reasonable and more widespread anxieties. That is what makes him dangerous," said the Economist in a lead story headlined "The Voice of America." The magazine concluded that "the Buchananite side of the party should not be underrated."

The Times gave credit to the upstart candidate for his New Hampshire victory: "He alone has articulated a message and offered precise (if rather peculiar and unconvincing) policies... and if the two moderates fail to develop their message Mr. Buchanan will be a force in this election for longer than we suspect." And the former editor of the Times, Lord Rees-Mogg, said that Buchanan is a hero of the disempoweed, who were helping him to split the Republican vote.

The Independent described the first primary win with a string of hyphenated adjectives: "In New Hampshire Buchanan's anti-free-trade, anti-immigration, pro-white, pro-little-guy message carved off a large and jagged chunk of an anxious blue-collar electorate.... Gingrich's "Contract with America" has been defaced by Buchanan's ugly opportunism."

In the Financial Times, Martin Prowse wrote, "The growth of inequality is seen as a social evil of gargantuan proportions. It is a pivotal issue in the Republican presidential primaries with Mr. Pat Buchanan, the conservative columnist, offering himself as a savior for the supposedly downtrodden masses."

The Guardian was more reflective:

What are the illnesses in the United States to which Mr. Buchanan is able to offer his quack-doctor cure? One answer lies in the generalized sense of disquiet among over half of the population whose incomes have declined in real terms over the past two generations. Another is the increasing remoteness of decision-making in the globalized economy. People feel something is wrong somewhere and that is his chance.

And the Catholic Herald offered a friendlier analysis:

Traditionalists share a belief in revealed -- and unchanging -- Truths: absolutes that are not cut to suit the fashions of the day. They also believe in a universe that is centered on God, not man. This orthodox vision may strike some politicos and indeed some voters as anachronistic. But Buchanan's success should send a powerful message throughout America's heartland-- and over here too: age-old truths still appeal.

TWO MORE CATHOLIC CANDIDATES

For most of the 20th century the Democratic Party has banked on the allegiance of most Catholic voters. But the 1996 presidential campaign offers an unusual spectacle. There are three Roman Catholics in the race for the Oval Office: all of them practicing Catholics, all of them deeply influenced by their religious beliefs, and all of them conservative Republicans.

California Congressman Robert Dornan may be President Clinton's most outspoken critic in Congress; he describes the President as a "corrupt, radical, contemptible" leader. His background as a military aviator, his enthusiastic support for the B-1 bomber (built in part by contractors in his district), and his penchant for rhetorical fireworks have all helped to solidify his nickname in Washington: "B-1 Bob." But he has not put together a professional campaign, and despite his fiery rhetoric Dornan has not been able to vault into contention in the GOP race; he has not yet registered more than one percent of the votes in any primary race.

Both Dornan and Buchanan are recognized as masters of the electronic media, with extensive experience in radio and television talk-shows. But for sheer rhetorical brilliance neither of them can match yet another talk-show veteran, Alan Keyes. As a high-school student Keyes won a nationwide oratorical competition; as an adult he is absolutely spellbinding.

Keyes, a black man who pleaded America's human-rights cases at the UN during the Reagan administration, does not hesitate to compare the legal betrayal of the unborn child with that of the Negro slave before emancipation. His entire presidential campaign is built on the premise that the country's problems are primarily moral, not economic. So, he concludes, "We can shift the deck chairs as much as we like, but that Titanic is still sinking."

In his fundraising pleas to fellow pro-lifers, Keyes makes the case that he is a more credible candidate than Buchanan. And although his proportion of the overall Republican tally has generally lagged at around 2 percent, those votes have probably come at Buchanan's expense. (Buchanan would have won the Iowa caucus outright if the Keyes votes had been added to his total.)

By the time the Republican primary reached Georgia, Party leaders had begun to discount Keyes. That proved to be an embarrassing mistake. When he was not invited to participated in a televised debate on the eve of the primary, Keyes first announced a hunger strike, then marched uninvited into the television studio, forcing the local police to remove him at the organizers' request. The embarrassed mayor of Atlanta, learning that Keyes had been arrested, rushed down to the studio, and personally drove the candidate back to his hotel; Republican officials quickly agreed that they would not press criminal charges. But the damage had already been done.