Last of the True Believers?

That said, Sanford's principles aren't helping him weather the economic downturn, which has left South Carolina with the second-worst unemployment rate in the country. Before Congress passed the stimulus bill, the governor proudly questioned the necessity of a federal bailout; afterward, he penned a Wall Street Journal column claiming the plan would "create more problems than it solved"—in direct contrast to the general consensus among economists that government spending is necessary to prevent a steep recession from becoming a depression. At the time, many South Carolina officials, including Republicans such as state House Speaker Bobby Harrell and U.S. Sen. Lindsey Graham, echoed Sanford's opposition to the stimulus package. But they balked when the governor revealed that he was willing to reject millions meant for struggling schools and jails unless the legislature dedicated an identical amount to debt reduction. "Now, I agree with the governor 90 percent of the time," Harrell tells NEWSWEEK. "But it's real shame that he's saying to South Carolina taxpayers, 'I'm not going to let you use this money for K-12 or college or law enforcement, even though you have to pay it back.' It must be philosophical, because it's certainly not practical."

As Sanford holds court at the Fort MillRotary Club—the latest in a series of local events designed, he says, to help determine whether he's "out of touch here"—it's obvious that many rank-and-file South Carolinians remain as resistant to the governor's plan as their representatives. The crowd is hardly liberal; nearly every question is prefaced with the phrase "I voted for you twice." But the attendees repeatedly challenge Sanford's judgment. "I understand what you're saying about paying down debt," says Sam White, a self-described fiscal conservative. "But if we end up not getting that money, it doesn't make any sense." "I'm a little lost on the mathematics," adds Guynn Savage, a former town-council member. "Aren't we cutting off our noses to spite our face?" Local school superintendent Keith Callicutt chimes in as well, telling the governor that he'll face a budget cut of $2.5 million to $5 million without an infusion of stimulus cash. It's hardly the sort of scene Sanford wants to show a national reporter, and he soon gets snappish. "I don't think you heard what I said to the last person," he tells one incredulous Rotarian. After the event, Sanford tries to convince his chronicler that he prefers "environments we don't control" to "fake, canned events," even if they're "more left-leaning" or "education-heavy," like this one. But he's immediately interrupted by Rebecca Masters, a former Reagan appointee who has come, as she puts it, to speak truth to power. "Don't take the state down the tubes with you," she says.

Sanford insists that he's not "on a philosophical jihad." In Fort Mill, he calmly frames his plan as a "middle ground" compromise meant to protect the state's finances in case the economy hasn't recovered by the time the stimulus runs out in 2011—"at which point," he adds, "South Carolina will be forced to find a new source of funding to sustain the new level of spending, or to make sharp cuts." It's a reasonable position, and given that Sanford has already agreed to spend more tax dollars this year than ever before—many of them on social-welfare programs—the charge that he's balancing the budget on the backs of the poor doesn't hold up. That said, the state's debt burden isn't nearly as dire as Sanford claims; according to Moody's, South Carolina is one of nine states with a AAA credit rating, and it boasts the lowest debt-per-capita ratio of the bunch. So it's clear that caution isn't the only force at work. During the car ride from Fort Mill to Columbia, Sanford hints at what's really driving him. "We can't spend our way out of a problem that was caused by too much spending," he says. "There's not a huge market for austerity in austere times, but that doesn't take away from the reality of that being where we need to go." It turns out that by backing the powerful state legislature into a corner—do what I want or lose the money—Sanford believes that he can finally reach the promised land; without the $700 million, his thinking goes, the House and Senate will have no choice but to create the leaner, meaner state government he's always dreamed of—even though he admits that "in the near term, clearly South Carolina wouldn't be better off." It's Goldwater's root-canal economics (pain today, efficiency tomorrow) as an elaborate game of chicken. And if Sanford can finally claim, as a side effect, the sort of political victory that's been eluding him for two terms— a résumé boost that would appeal, incidentally, to the kind of conservatives who vote in Republican primaries—then so be it. After all, he's gone in 20 months.

What happens then is anyone's guess, but Sanford's steady schedule of national television hits, op-ed columns and appearances as chairman of the Republican Governors Association has done little to dampen speculation about 2012. Asked at the statehouse whether he's looking forward to returning to business once he leaves office, Sanford is quick with a response. "I am," he says. "OK," says the interviewer. "That's my last one." For a second, Sanford is silent. And then he decides to answer a question that was never asked. "I mean, people always say, 'Are you going to run for president?' and all that stuff … And the truth is, it's sort of this double-jeopardy question, 'cause I always say the same thing: 'I don't know. It's not my intention at this point.' Which is absolutely accurate. And they say, 'Would you positively, absolutely rule it out?' And I say, 'Well, no.' 'Well that means you're contemplating it.' And I say, 'No, well, it's not my aim. It's not where I'm focused.' I just learned long ago in life that the day you got's the day you got. Doors will open and doors will close." The waiting, apparently, is the hardest part.

© 2009