Phill Casaus: Domenici's two legacies renew an electoral mystery for GOP

Jan. 20—"Hey, Felipe, you got a cigarette?"

That was Pete Domenici's only-in-New Mexico way of disarming would-be interrogators. He'd sidle up to unsuspecting local reporters, maybe offer a practiced nudge, and hit 'em with the regular-guy patter he'd perfected in a lifetime of politics — or maybe invented long before any preamble mentioning his name started with the words: "Longtime New Mexico Senator ..."

I remember my first encounter with Domenici, 30-plus years ago, because an audience with St. Pete was a big deal for a reporter moving over to news from the sheltered, smelly and sometimes silly lair of a newspaper sports department.

But hell, let's face it: An audience with Pete V. Domenici was a big deal, regardless of time, place, situation, assignment. He was that powerful.

For a few years, Domenici, the Republican chairman of the Senate Budget Committee during the Reagan era, was one of the most influential 10 or 12 Americans on the planet. Sure, the leader of the free world has the codes to all the nuke silos. Domenici had the PIN number to America's bank account. Who's got more swing?

The name, silent in political circles since his death in 2017, was dusted off last week when Domenici's daughter Nella announced she'd like to make a play for the office her father once held. She started with a stumble. Clearly surprised when reporters got ahold of her filing documents, she delayed an interview, then asked an intermediary to provide a news release announcing her candidacy. It showed up nearly 12 hours later.

But Nella Domenici likely isn't banking on organizational efficiency to win her the Republican nomination for U.S. Senate. At least not in January, five months before she and a few others duke it out in the June 4 primary. In a party where depth is nonexistent and talent is hard to come by — Yvette Herrell? Manny Gonzales? These are the GOP's stars? — a name with Velcro means a lot.

And the Domenici name will get Pete's daughter, at minimum, a hearing with the voting public.

At least the shiny side of Pete's name.

That once stood for the Everyman Republican. For decades, Pete Domenici represented a piece of New Mexico that now seems hard to find. Oh, for sure, he was Republican red to the very core. He believed in strong national defense, standing tough against the Soviets (I wonder what he'd say about Donald Trump and Vladimir Putin) and drenching New Mexico's national labs in cash.

His real conservatism revealed itself mostly in discussions on the federal budget, a document he held in his grip for many years. With Swiss-watch precision, he'd rail against federal overspending — unless it was in New Mexico.

He wasn't a blessed public speaker; he never wowed them on Meet the Press or Face the Nation. But he had a way with people back home that resonated in the overgrown suburb that is vote-heavy Albuquerque, where statewide elections are won and lost. He also was deadly effective at picking off centrist Democratic votes in any region. You don't consistently capture 54% against all comers without crossover appeal.

For the first half of his Senate career, Domenici was as New Mexico as a bowl of green chile stew and Mom's tortillas. People in a smaller, handshake-and-smile state grew loyal to the former University of New Mexico baseball player who'd emerged from Albuquerque's downtown and engaged car salesmen, secretaries and civil servants with an unassuming, buddy-next-door grace.

The darker side of Domenici only revealed itself near the end of his political career, in the first decade of the 21st century, as he aged and his health went sideways. Late in his final term, he battled a condition that led to deterioration of brain tissue. Whether that was at play in his final years I have no idea, but Domenici grew increasingly strident — more prone to hear the acidic call of arch-conservatives who'd gained control of the GOP and went about rubbing out moderates in the party.

Incredibly, Domenici was widely believed to have played a role in the from-the-top dismissal of then-New Mexico U.S. Attorney David Iglesias, because he apparently believed Iglesias wasn't moving fast enough to secure an indictment in a corruption case, a headline-grabber that would've helped the electoral hopes of his protégé, Heather Wilson.

Even more incredibly, given his public persona and public pronouncements, was the revelation Domenici in the 1970s fathered a child with Michelle Laxalt, daughter of Republican Sen. Paul Laxalt of Nevada. The secret was not revealed until 2013, years after he'd left office.

Exactly which Domenici Republicans will remember is easy. They'll recall the more attractive, or at least the more effective, St. Pete, and it won't be hard to find the artifacts. The man helped build modern-day New Mexico — acquiring lockers of cash for the state's few industries, oddly, by employing compromise and moderation.

Today's state GOP apparatus, intoxicated by Fox News and You Know Who, couldn't uncover compromise and moderation with a shovel and a compass. That's why Republicans in New Mexico can't dig or find their way to the winner's circle in any election north of Roswell.

Domenici's daughter's entrance in the race revives a legacy — in June, and maybe in November. Whether it wakes the echoes, the ones that made St. Pete a legend, is a mystery to be solved.

Phill Casaus is editor of The New Mexican.