Who is Bill Halter?

LITTLE ROCK — The lieutenant governor of Arkansas entered the restaurant with his 2-year-old daughter in one arm, and his wife, carrying their 3-month-old baby girl, on the other.

But before Bill Halter, wife Shanti and their daughters Lauren Renee (the 2-year-old) and Julia Nancy could make their way to the wait station here at the Olive Garden in North Little Rock, the family was interrupted by Charles and Anne Allen.

A very nice couple from West Little Rock, the Allens made a beeline for the babies. Who could resist? And when I approached, press badge around neck and notepad in hand, for our 6:30 dinner appointment, the impromptu party grew louder and livelier. Then our table was ready. And as the Halters moved toward the dining room as one big, bundled-up, kid-accessorized family portrait, Mrs.

Allen had a final word, nodding toward Halter, "He's really a good man."

It's the word really that hung in the air. Why had she added the adverb?

What was she trying to emphasize? Was it a rebuke to the conventional wisdom, the popular viewpoint and snide book on Bill Halter as a coldly ambitious politician with, as one legislator put it, "zero social skills" and fewer allies at the state Capitol? Or was it nothing more than a journalist's over-developed sense of reading something into nothing? Heck, who hasn't dropped a really on conversational impulse?

But still, you spend a few days on the Bill Halter beat and you'd be reading somethings into nothings, too. Because this profile was supposed to be a snap.

We all know the lieutenant governor is a one-dimensional caricature: He's the pro-lottery eager-beaver who's too big for his constitutional britches, who gave up a run for governor and then, when the going got unlikely, bought the No.

2 spot, who never met a good ol' boy he couldn't alienate, who tries way too hard and takes himself way too seriously and who needs to learn how to play the Arkansas political game, starting with giving due deference to the proper Arkansas political names like Mike Beebe, whom he sorta ran against, and Mark Pryor, whom everybody knows he wanted to run against.

End of story. Right?

Instead, it turns out that Bill Halter is as human, and as multi-dimensional, as the rest of us.

Really.

AT DINNER

The Halters are regulars at the Olive Garden in North Little Rock. It's not far from their house on the north side of the Arkansas River, and it is family friendly. That's a big deal when you're trying to dine with two little ones.

Bill and Shanti met in California, herhome state. He was working in Washington at the time for the Clinton administration, but he remained on the board of trustees of his alma mater, Stanford University in Palo Alto, which took him to northern California at least once a month. Shanti lived and worked as a lawyer in Sacramento.

Mutual friends brought them together ("I thought at first, 'I don't want to go to Palo Alto for a date,' " she says, "I had better things to do.") and the rest is history. Sort of. Shanti moved to Washington before they married-"to make sure that it wasn't a case of quality over quantity," and they wed right as Halter began his campaign for governor/lieutenant governor of Arkansas.

Their first child arrived near election 2006. Their youngest arrived near election 2008.

Imagine the life changes for the still-newly wed Mrs. Halter-marriage, kids, a new husband's new job as a the second-ranking constitutional officer in the state, two rough-and-tumble campaigns, criticisms galore of her husband, not to mention the culture shock of relocating from Sacramento, California, to North Little Rock, Arkansas. Plus, giving up her own law practice to raise the kids-although, modern mom alert, she works longdistance for a California firm even as she cares for Lauren Renee and Julia Nancy.

All that and she doesn't seem the least bit fazed.

"I've got Arkansas roots," Shanti says. "My mom's father and 13 brothers and sisters grew up in Fayetteville."

When Shanti's grandmother met this young political comer named Bill Halter, his home state provided the seal of approval.

"My grandmother pulled me aside," says Shanti, "and told me, 'I married an Arkansan. You need to do it, too.'"

As mom talks, dad holds Lauren Renee in his lap as he tries to attack a bowl of pasta and chicken. He ends up sharing most of the chicken with his daughter.

"She is a daddy's girl," Shanti says. (As if it's not obvious.)

But I have made the mistake of asking about the lieutenant governor's post-lottery plans, and he morphs into the policy wonk even as he feeds his daughter.

Is there kind of a post-partum now that the lottery has passed?

"Oh yeah," he says. "You know, what's next? It's a big victory for the state, but we're really in the third quarter of the game. And to run the football analogy into the ground, the state is ahead by two or three touchdowns, but there's still time on the clock."

Football analogies are a staple of Halter's.

In his campaign commercials for both lieutenant governor and the lottery, Halter featured George Loss, his old football coach at Catholic High.

"This last time, he called me up and said, 'what do you think about gambling?'" Loss says. "I've been to Tunica, and I've seen all those cars from Arkansas. We're losing money to other states." So the old coach signed on for another commercial.

Halter was a 160-pound tailback for Loss and the Rockets, moved there from quarterback because of his speed. (Note: At Catholic High in that era, speed was a relative term.)

Loss' son, George Jr., stayed at quarterback. "Both were straight-A students," says the old coach. "They'd sit in English class together and wonder what grade the other one got. They were good friends but very competitive with each other."

After Coach Loss was fired at Catholic High, George Loss Jr. transferred to Little Rock Hall for his senior year.Halter stayed at Catholic, where he graduated as valedictorian of his 1979 graduating class. He chose Stanford for college, in no small part because Stanford provided the best financialaid package. George Loss Jr. went to Dartmouth. He's now a transplant surgeon in New Orleans.

So. Bill Halter in high school. You figure, what?, suit, tie and briefcase? Separated at birth from Alex P. Keaton? A candidate for student-body president who runs on a 12-point parking plan?

Not quite.

"I probably shouldn't be telling this," says Chris Hart, a former classmate at Catholic and a Harvard grad who-yes, another example of Arkansas' braindrain-now works in Washington as a partner at the law firm Locke Lord Bissell & Liddell.

Oh, do tell.

"But Catholic High had this big raffle every year. The classes would compete against each other, and Bill's younger brother Charles declared that his junior class would beat our senior class. Bill organized a keg party to sell raffle tickets. We got in trouble, but we won the raffle."

AT THE JOB

It's shortly after noon on the first day of the 87th General Assembly when Bill Halter bangs the gavel to bring to order the Arkansas Senate.

This simple movement-gavel gripped tightly, forearm up, down, up, down, Bang! Bang!-pretty much constitutes the job requirements for the state's lieutenant governor. You also need a pulse.

No doubt about it. Halter's gavel work is flawless. Smooth stroke, solidcontact.

And for this he graduated Stanford, earned a law degree, won a Rhodes Scholarship, studied at Oxford, and spent the better part of a decade working in the Clinton administration?

Ah, but you can say that about almost any lieutenant governor of Arkansas-generally overqualified, underpaid and perpetually on hold, in waiting, sitting on go. The difference between Lt. Gov. Halter and his predecessors is evident on this first day of the legislative session.

His issue and controversial calling card-a state lottery to generate money for college scholarships-is tops on the agenda. Halter led the charge to get a lottery amendment on the ballot and get it passed.

Bob Johnson, the longtime legislator and new president pro tempore of the state Senate, called it the biggest issue of his career.

As it happens this day, Johnson's political mentor, Ray Thornton, is on the Senate floor to speak in praise of his former aide. Thornton wraps up his comments by telling the senators, "You have one of the most important tasks in the history of Arkansas facing you."

He's talking about the establishment of a state lottery. It's simple, though you might have a hard time getting folks to say it: No Halter, no lottery. Like it or not, and plenty of folks don't seem to like it, Halter is that rarest of Arkansas political animals: a relevant lieutenant governor. And he wants to stay that way.

The day before the session began, in a wrap up of major players, this newspaper described the relationship between Halter and the legislature the last time out as "frosty."

Is that an accurate description?

"Yes," says Gilbert Baker, a Republican state senator from Conway. "His politics . . . He . . . no, I'm not gonna use that word. I hate to use that word. . . . In politics, a lot of folks want to be in charge. They want to lead."

Then Baker stops. It's perhaps as close as the congenial senator will get to saying that Halter desperately wants to be Da Man. And at the state Capitol, no matter how activist the lieutenant governor, Da Man, Mike Beebe, sits in the governor's office.

"I have told Bill this from Day One, and I've said it before, 'You put skin in the game,'" says Bob Johnson, the senator from Bigelow. "He took a huge political risk with the lottery. The lieutenant governor put his neck out, and he would have taken the political hit. He's done a lot of research on this. He put out his principles for lottery legislation. He's called legislators about it.

"If anything, I've just told him to settle down. Just settle down. [Because] Bill had a lot at stake. And now this is on the cusp of happening. The last thing any politician wants is to be left at the station as the train pulls out."

AT THE COCKTAIL PARTY

The handshake is "the threshold act, the beginning of politics," writes Joe Klein in Primary Colors. "[A]s I recall it, he gave me a left-hand-just-abovethe-elbow plus a vaguely curious 'ah, so you're the guy I've been hearing about' look, and a follow-me nod."

As I recall it, Halter gave me a righthand-out-of-deep-left-field side-winder with an earnest "it'll be great, glad to do it" look and a see-you-later nod. His left hand may or may not have lightly gripped my right bicep.

But he was in a hurry then, barreling through the Capitol halls.

Now, at a reception for Robbie Wills, the new speaker of the House, at the Clinton presidential library, Halter works the room more diligently.

Actually, the room works Halter. Rather than him doing the seeking, Halter is sought out. By legislators. By lobbyists. By academics. By friends and spouses of legislators, lobbyists and academics.

If the handshake is indeed the threshold act, the beginning of politics, and in this room with this crowd at this time, it's all politics, then what of the Halter handshake? The signature move is a right-hand shake while the left hand rests on the shoulder, gently directing his subject to lend an ear for a private chat. But you get the sense that, unlike Klein's "fictional" character, with Halter the move isn't about giving the illusionof conspiracy. No, it's about getting some business done.

One of the things about Halter that must annoy his critics is that he always seems to be On, working on the next big thing. And with the lottery, his baby, now in the hands of the legislature, the lieutenant governor says he does indeed have other items on his agenda. As for what exactly, he won't offer details, only an curiosity-fueling "stay tuned."

He can be aggressive and ambitious in a state that prefers its politicians to fake humility if they must. But, in my experience, he doesn't come across as a phony, and there's no doubting his intellect. After a few days with Halter, who seems perfectly comfortable around legislators, it does seem as if there has been a thaw.

"It's a lot different than last time," Halter says between sips of ice water in a wine glass. "I've been through a session with many of these folks. Of the 135 members of the legislature, I tried to meet one-on-one, for 35 to 40 minutes, with all of them. And I probably met with 130 of the 135."

Later, he says he plans to do the same thing this time around, and he offers to provide a schedule of whom he's already met with if I'd like to see it-as if he's out to prove his Get-Along bona fides.

If you could outline a way to run for statewide office in Arkansas and not endear yourself to the political establishment, Bill Halter did it in 2006.

Consider that he returned to a state he left 20 years ago for name-brand schools, corporate boards and Washington, D.C., to challenge a hugely popular Democratic candidate for governor who'd never left and built a base of friends and party loyalists across the state because of his years of public service as a state senator and attorney general. Then he slid down the ballot to run for lieutenant governor against more Democratic Party dues-payers. He largely funded his campaigns with his own money and that of out-of-state donors. He won. Since then, instead of quietly occupying an historically inconsequential office, he presented the General Assembly with his own legislative agenda and championed a lottery in a socially conservative state in which many folks consider gambling of any kind a corrupting influence.

In the minds of some Arkansas politicos, says Bud Jackson, who ran Halter's campaign for lieutenant governor and the campaign for the lottery amendment, this new guy simply hadn't paid his dues. And he's been paying for it.

"In their minds, you had to have experience that was defined as working in the legislature and living in Arkansas your entire life," Jackson wrote in an email. "They didn't consider getting a worldclass education, working in Congress, advising Fortune 500 companies, serving in a Democratic presidential administration, and running the government's largest social program, to be enough experience to qualify you to run for governor, or for lieutenant governor. They viewed Halter's experience as leaving Arkansas.They brushed aside the fact that he accumulated all of this knowledge and experience and still chose to return home and essentially take a pay cut to run for office. . . . So for the party activists and insiders, Bill Halter had two strikes against him long before they really got to know him."

Which holds some water. Arkansas is a small, clubby state. It's hard to break in, and even harder to break back in.

AT THE PODIUM

It's 2 p.m. on a Thursday at a convention of the Arkansas Municipal League at the Statehouse Convention Center, Governor's Hall 1. At the podium in front of dozens of the state's mayors, city and county officials are legislators Bill Pritchard and Tracy Steele, moderator Gary Campbell of Fort Smith, and the lieutenant governor.

Pritchard speaks first, defending the voters' approval last fall for annual legislative sessions. Hot topic. Lots ofcontroversy. Questions from the audience? None.

Steele speaks last, talking up the need for a new statewide trauma system that will be financed by a hefty cigarette tax. Hot topic. Lots of controversy. Questions from the audience? None.

Halter speaks in between. Lottery talk. Scholarships. Hot topic. Lots of controversy. Questions from the audience? Oh, yeah.

Folks line up at two separate microphones. The first question comes from a fella who says to the Lottery Man, "God bless you."

"I didn't pay for that," Halter replies. "I will say with respect, you're welcome to come to any public event I have and ask the first question."

The following questions and comments aren't any more critical. Most local officials want details about grade-point averages and trade schools. One man from a community college says, "I want to congratulate you."

The point is this: The lottery amendment passed with some 63 percent of the vote. Arkansans may have been voting for the gambling or the scholarships orboth, but it's clear they were interested in the issue-and not the least bit interested in the inside-politics reputation of Bill Halter.

He went to the people. He connected. And he won.

AT THE OFFICE

The interview with the lieutenant governor is scheduled for 9:30 a.m. I show at 9. No, I'm not anxious, just forgetful. When I leave to find a House committee room with coffee, Halter is coming up the Capitol steps, a cell phone to his ear, a backpack-satchel the envy of a Sherpa slung over his shoulder.

A half-hour later, I'm back and the subject is in his office, ready for game time in a uniform of white shirt and tie, slacks. He's not the type of Arkansas pol who looks uncomfortable in "church clothes."

After 15 minutes of lottery talk, we arrived at the seemingly unavoidable political gossip and rumor part of the show.

Roll the Q-and-A.

Let's talk about Mike Beebe and your relationship with him. How would you characterize it and how many times do y'all meet?

We visit either at events we're together at or occasional private meeting. All the private meetings are at my initiation. Or virtually all. And we communicate directly.

Has he ever turned you down for a meeting?

Yes.

What was the circumstance?

I suggested that we have, this was early on, during the transition, I suggested that we have a regular lunch. And he doesn't want to do that.

Did he give you a reason why?

Subsequently, he said that he's just not a regular-meeting kind of guy. But I don't want to put words in his mouth. I share this with you . . . I try as much as I can to keep the communications that I have with the governor and other elected officials confidential.

Did you ever seriously consider running against Mark Pryor for the U.S. Senate? Bud Jackson said there was not a conversation to that effect.

I did not have a conversation with Bud Jackson about that.

Was it a consideration of yours? Did you think about it?

I was forced to think about it because the rumor mill forced me to.

Was it because you didn't go to the fund-raiser Pryor had to kickoff his re-election campaign?

Yeah. Just yesterday. Literally, last night after we were done with dinner . . . .

Somebody asked if you were gonna run against Blanche Lincoln, Arkansas' senior senator. [I'm joking, and he knows it.]

[He laughs hard.] There ya go! No, after our dinner, I called Mark to congratulate him on his spot on the Senate appropriations committee and, you know, we had a long enough conversation that, by the end of it, both of us were saying, I gotta go take care of the kids.

After the interview, I ask Halter to show me around his office, explain the plaques and statues, the art. He talks with genuine appreciation about the lovely statue given to him by the National Guard and how it was his "highest honor" to stand as commander in chief of the Guard when the governor was out of town. He's proud that all of the art is by Arkansas artists.

He has some other impressive trinkets from his service in the Clinton administration. But what impresses most are two framed proclamations that he glosses over shyly: One is a personalized appreciation for his service on Stanford's board of trustees. The other is about his Rhodes Scholarship.

And it occurs that Bill Halter could still be in Washington or Palo Alto, New York or Oxford, making big money and a big name for himself. Heck, some may wish he were. But he moved back to Arkansas, started a family, and chose to serve.

And for his troubles, he gets questions like. . . .

So, are you going to run against Blanche?

"Oh, for the love of . . . any other questions?"

Nah, I'm done.

Really.