Grin and Bear It

Another bit of freelance lobbying from that period has now come back to haunt Thompson. In 1990, an abortion-rights group hired him to argue its case before the first Bush administration. It wanted to block an obscure provision that would strip federal funding from medical clinics that provide abortion counseling. This summer it became an issue when someone dug up the records and tipped off reporters. At first, Thompson denied that he'd lobbied for the group. But after billing records turned up, he said he couldn't remember. Thompson pointed out he has a 100 percent rating from National Right to Life, the anti-abortion group. So far, he's managed to escape the kind of criticism Mitt Romney has faced for his shifts on the issue. But it's certain to come up again.

With thriving gigs as an actor and lobbyist, Thompson turned down Baker's overtures to run for the seat Baker was vacating in 1984. "The hassle factor is up, and the pay is not," he told The Washington Post at the time. The seat went to a Democrat, Al Gore. A decade later, Gore was vice president and the seat opened up. Again, Baker came calling. Again, Thompson wasn't interested. But Baker leaned on him hard. This time, Baker said, it was personal. Rep. Jim Cooper, the Democrat Thompson would run against, had beaten Baker's daughter, Cissy, for a House seat. Thompson was a miserable candidate, and he was miserable being one. He hated the confined, tightly controlled bubble of life in a Senate campaign. He hated the hectic schedule, the endless speeches, the dark campaign van. His obvious lack of enthusiasm was reflected in the polls. Thompson was getting crushed by Cooper, who tagged him as a "Gucci-wearing, Lincoln-driving, Perrier-drinking, Grey-Poupon-spreading, millionaire Washington special-interest lobbyist." Thompson poured out his woes to Tom Ingram, an old friend and influential Tennessee political strategist. "I'm not having any fun," Ingram recalls Thompson saying. "I just want to get the hell out of here." Ingram sat quietly for a moment, then asked, "Well, what would you rather do?" Thompson said what he really wanted was to ditch his suit for a pair of jeans and drive up and down the state in a pickup truck. "Well," Ingram replied, "why don't you?"

Everyone in Thompson's camp thought it was a gimmicky idea that would sink his already-struggling campaign. But he rented a beat-up Chevy King Cab and took to the road. Dressed in jeans and dusty boots, the candidate came alive. "You could literally see the difference," Ingram says. "The polls just shot up." He beat Cooper by more than 20 points, part of the nationwide sweep that gave Republicans control of Congress that year. Thompson drove his red truck to Washington, where he parked it in front of the U.S. Capitol and posed for pictures.

The old line in Washington is that freshman senators are supposed to be seen and not heard, but Thompson was no ordinary newcomer. His movie stardom gave him unusual influence. In December 1994, Bill Clinton delivered a major economic address on live television. Bob Dole, the Republican leader and a fan of Thompson's movies, picked him to deliver the GOP's response. Thompson took it for what it was: an acting job. Perched on the edge of his desk, he delivered bromides about tax cuts and small government in a folksy, down-home tone that won him immediate comparisons with Reagan. Tom Shales, The Washington Post's tough TV critic, called him a "first-class communicator." Clinton enjoyed Thompson's sermon so much he sent him a cigar and a letter of praise. "I had to fight with my staff as to whether I should smoke the cigar or keep it as a memento from the President," Thompson wrote Clinton. "We compromised. I am going to keep the tube it came in." (The letter, along with thousands of other documents from Thompson's time in the Senate, is archived at the University of Tennessee.)

Thompson also gained plenty of attention for his private life. Long divorced, he was a hit with the ladies. He was a regular on Washington's cocktail-party circuit, always arriving with a beautiful woman on his arm. At various times, he was connected with country singer Lorrie Morgan, socialite Georgette Mosbacher and GOP pollster Kellyanne Conway.

Though he'd been in the Senate only a few years, in 1997 Thompson was picked to lead a major investigation into Democratic fund-raising abuses during the 1996 presidential campaign. Republican leaders dreamed of calling top White House aides—and maybe even Bill Clinton and Al Gore—to testify about big checks from shady Chinese businessmen and rich donors buying pajama parties in the Lincoln Bedroom. GOP leaders saw Thompson as the perfect master of ceremonies for what they envisioned would be a C-Span skewering.