Adam Wren is a contributing editor at Indianapolis Monthly.

It was a clear Indiana day last spring, and Gov. Mike Pence was at a podium watching his presidential ambitions disappear. Days earlier, Pence had signed the controversial Religious Freedom Restoration Act, a bill that many claimed would have allowed businesses to use religion as an excuse to discriminate against customers from the LGBT community. Now a pride of national reporters—not just the statehouse regulars—had descended on the Indiana State Library to grill him about the imbroglio that would all but end the speculation around his run.

Only months before, Pence had been seen as a unity Republican candidate for 2016, the kind of fiscal and social conservative who could knit together the Koch and the Dobson wings of the party, the free-marketers and the family-values camp. He was “Tea Party before it was cool,” as he once put it. Some even compared him to Ronald Reagan. Like the 40th president, Pence, the 57-year-old son of an Irish Catholic gas station manager was folksy, funny, media-friendly and usually quick with a quip.


On this day, though, Pence would encounter a far more hostile audience than he was used to. His advisers expected him to clean everything up handily. “I’ve never seen somebody who was so good at going to an interview, and be briefed before the interview, and then who could digest the basics in a quick amount of time and nail the key points,” Marc Short, his former chief of staff in Congress, would later recall.

But for the second time in three days, Pence’s talent as a communicator abandoned him when it counted. The trouble began before he even spoke, when live mics picked up the comically deep breaths of a man obviously readying himself for a painful experience. In his remarks, Pence said the controversy surrounding the bill was a mere “perception” problem, saying “this law has been smeared,” then in almost the same breath asked lawmakers to bring him a fix that week. Did he stand by the bill or didn’t he? Nobody could tell. If he was “proud” to sign the law, as he had said days earlier, what about it needed fixing? A potential national star had fumbled a prime-time slot—and hurt himself at home, too. By that November, his approval rating had dropped 15 points, from 62 percent to 47 percent.

For Mike Pence, that kind of high-pressure moment—which even Pence allies acknowledge was the lowest of his career—will now become his day-to-day reality. As Donald Trump’s running mate, he’ll be out campaigning for a candidate with whom he finds himself crossways on everything from free trade (“Trade means jobs, but trade also means security,” Pence tweeted last in September of 2014) to Trump’s Muslim ban (“Calls to ban Muslims from entering the U.S. are offensive and unconstitutional,” he tweeted last December) and the U.S. invasion of Iraq (Pence voted for the 2002 resolution to authorize force). And that’s not even counting the inevitable string of Trump-generated controversies that the VP will have the job of smoothing over.

“Each day, he’s going to have to go out on the trail and eat a shit sandwich,” says one top Indiana Republican. “He’ll square his jaw, tuck his bottom lip in, and do it.”

Each day, he’s going to have to go out on the trail and eat a shit sandwich,” says one top Indiana Republican. “He’ll square his jaw, tuck his bottom lip in, and do it.”

That’s supposed to be the kind of thing Mike Pence is good at. Trump has said he wants a “fighter skilled in hand-to-hand combat” as his running mate; he also clearly needs some political ballast on his ticket, someone who can whip votes and sit down with heads of state and fluidly navigate a political world that Trump has barely even visited. Trump has clearly decided that Pence is that guy: a governor with 12 years in Congress on his resume, an experienced legislator who also has a way with words, someone who has pull with the party grassroots and establishment alike. On Friday, Congressional leaders from Jeff Flake to Kevin McCarthy to Paul Ryan hailed Pence as a rock-ribbed conservative with great communication skills. “He has the ability to communicate,” McCarthy said.

But his experience in Indiana paints a different picture of the governor. Those who’ve watched Pence closely and covered him over the years see a man who has repeatedly fumbled balls both easy and difficult—not only flubbing his response to RFRA, but also tripping over plans to announce Just IN, an oddly conceived taxpayer-funded state news service that was quickly dubbed “Pravda on the Plains.” The story dripped, dripped, dripped in local, state and national media outlets until Pence finally scuttled plans for the outlet. They also see a wounded politician who has been booed riding in Indy 500 parades, throwing out first pitches minor league baseball games, and even as he walked into the tony Columbia Club on Monument Circle on Tuesday ahead of a high-dollar Trump fundraiser.

From 2015: Pence slams liberals as he stands by 'religious freedom' law

Pence’s gubernatorial and congressional records are far thinner than they look. In private conversations, former aides to his predecessor Mitch Daniels jokingly call him the “press release governor.” Among social conservatives, his stock has been falling since last spring, when they say “he wilted in the heat” following RFRA. And in the last three-and-a-half years in the governor’s office, Pence has proved far more effective at attracting flak than repelling it—a trend that may be a harbinger for a rocky ride as Trump’s running mate.

If every transaction Trump does is a deal, it’s very clear what Mike Pence gets out of this one: The VP slot allows him a dignified exit from a reelection fight he was at risk of losing, and puts him one chair away from a job he’s been eying most of his life. On Friday morning around 11 a.m., an aide withdrew Pence’s name from the November ballot. It’s not clear at all, though, that Trump is getting the better end of the bargain.

***

Seven weeks ago, sitting in Trump Tower with Donald Trump, longtime Pence pollster and senior adviser Kellyanne Conway first dropped his name in an afternoon meeting. Up until that point, Conway says, Pence wasn’t in the running.

What do you think about V.P.? Trump asked Conway.

Conway suggested Pence, her friend and client since 2010. He had Rust Belt bonafides, and a valuable connection to establishment figures such as the Koch brothers, who backed Pence’s gubernatorial bid. (The Pence-Koch connection has been “greatly exaggerated,” one Pence insider said. His joining the ticket was never likely to warm the Kochs to Trump.

Trump wondered if Pence was exciting enough. “You have all the excitement you need,” Conway remembers telling Trump. “You don’t need any more excitement.”

Conway, in part, pitched Trump on Pence’s ability to frame and deliver a killer talking point. She pointed to one he delivered in the aftermath of Trump’s war with Gonzalo P. Curiel, the Indiana-born federal district judge for the Southern District of California in the Trump University case. Asked about Trump’s comments about the judge in June, Pence told reporters: “Every American is entitled to a fair trial and an impartial judge, but of course I think those comments were inappropriate. I don’t think it’s ever appropriate to question the partiality of the judge based on their ethnic background.”

Conway zeroed in on the first part of the line: Every American is entitled to a fair trial and an impartial judge. Subtly, Pence seemed to give cover to Trump’s claims that the judge may not be a fair arbiter in the case. Trump seemed intrigued. Conway also mentioned Pence to Trump’s son-in-law and kitchen cabinet adviser Jared Kushner and Paul Manafort over lunch. Manafort also became a Pence fan, perhaps the biggest pusher besides Conway in the campaign.

Pence suddenly seemed like whole package. He was governor of a state that Trump had once called “Importantville”; he had executive experience and a story to tell about Indiana’s economic revival. And then there was Pence’s time in Congress, which seemed to check off Trump’s desire to have a legislative insider, his own Joe Biden-like figure who could be his emissary on the Hill. And despite his three terms in Congress, Pence could still claim an outsider mantle, having bucked the George W. Bush administration on everything from No Child Left Behind to Medicare Part D. “He was in D.C., but never of D.C.,” Conway says.

In many ways, Pence is known back in his home state as a paper tiger.

In many ways, though, Pence is known back in his home state as a paper tiger. Privately, Indiana Republicans are quick to highlight Pence’s slim gubernatorial and congressional records. They see him as a generally affable guy, but pine for the Mitch Daniels days. In many ways, they say, as governor, Pence has drafted off of the reforms made by his predecessor, the far more popular Daniels. When news broke that Pence was on Trump’s shortlist, many Republicans publicly and privately pined for Daniels to come back to the State House. A website to “Draft Daniels” popped up online to collect signatures. (On Thursday morning, Daniels quashed such talk, taking his name out of the running for a spot on the gubernatorial ticket.)

Pence, whose personal evangelical Christian faith leads him to pray with staffers amid hard times, struck many statehouse reporters and politicos alike as a man in a hurry to get somewhere. “He’s wanted to be president since he was 18,” a high-level Indiana Republican told me. Alums of former Gov. Mitch Daniels administration privately deride Pence as a pol without the vision or leadership of their former boss, and have long suspected Pence decamped from D.C. back to Indiana not because he wanted to run the state, but because he saw it as a quicker route to the White House. Each legislative session, the source says, Pence would wait for state legislators to release their own agendas before unveiling his own. “He’s stylistically different than Mitch Daniels,” says Ryan Streeter, Pence’s former deputy chief of staff. “He’s collaborative, but that doesn’t mean he’s undecided.”

Pence is no Sarah Palin. A reader, his version of pro-trade conservatism is rooted in his study of Russell Kirk, the thinker who wrote the seminal “The Conservative Mind” in 1953. “There’s obviously a tension there that will have to be resolved on the trade issue,” says Streeter, who lunched with Pence to discuss Kirk’s books over friendly meetings. “Trump never talks about stuff like that.” Pence sees throwing in with Trump, they say, as his best opportunity to position himself for a run in 2020 or 2024. Of course, there’s a flip side to that: One former Pence adviser told me that members of his inner circle fear his alliance with Trump will permanently damage his brand. “I worry that Mike will come out compromised from the campaign,” the former adviser said. “This experience will end up tainting his record as a spokesperson for principled conservatism.”

In throwing in with Trump, Pence sees his best opportunity to position himself for a run in 2020 or 2024.

What exactly that record is though, will be a matter of contention. Sure, Pence was by all accounts a conservative legislator who occasionally locked heads with his own party during his 12 years as a congressman—he arrived with fellow freshman Paul Ryan. But it’s clear Pence’s aides are preparing for criticism about Pence’s lack of keystone legislative accomplishments. Asked about Pence’s time in Congress, Short emailed me what appeared to be a carefully crafted talking point from a larger document. (The talking point he highlighted appeared under the heading “Zero Bills That Became Law Claim.”) “Mike Pence is fond of saying that in Indiana, we do two things: we grow things and we make things,” it read. “To that end, Mike has authored legislation to help Hoosier farmers, entrepreneurs and small businesses. You have numerous bills that have become law, including the Truth in Domain Names Act, the Child Pornography Prevention Act, an amendment to the patent reform law, the Farm Flex pilot program, and other appropriations amendments and laws that you sponsored with a Democrat partner. Also, you’ve had numerous non-binding Foreign Affairs resolutions pass the House. And you’ve had important bills like media shield that passed the House but were blocked in the Senate.”

Interestingly, after he won his gubernatorial bid in 2012, that December, Pence had his congressional papers sealed in an agreement with Indiana University’s Modern Political Papers collection until 2022 or his death, whichever happens later, according to the university. “The availability of the papers are being governed by the original terms of that agreement, and the governor has taken no action on the collection since donating the papers to the university,” says Mark Land, associate vice president, public affairs and government relations, with the university. The records include 23 cartons and 70 GB of electronic records, according to IU.

Trump may have other areas of concern: Pence is not a natural hand-to-hand fighter. In fact, he has disavowed negative campaigning. After unsuccessful bids for 2nd Congressional District seat in 1988 and 1990, Pence turned inward. In the October 1991 edition of Indiana Policy Review, of which he became the president of in the wake of his defeats, Pence authored a manifesto called “Confessions of a Negative Campaigner.” “Negative campaigning is wrong,” he wrote. Conway, for her part, says Pence doesn’t need to be the ticket’s attack dog. “That’s the part that Mr. Trump seemed to relish,” she says.

Vander Plaats had a sense that whether or not Pence realized it, his political career had already reached its apogee.

And then there is the matter of Pence as an ambassador to social conservatives. Bob Vander Plaats, CEO of The FAMiLY Leader, told me that Pence’s pick would warm him to the Trump ticket. But, while he expressed admiration and a close friendship with Pence, he also acknowledged fears that when social issues such as religious liberty come up in the general election, Pence will be an imperfect messenger, acknowledging that by asking lawmakers for a fix for the RFRA bill, he “wilted under the heat.”

“Because of that one stumble for Governor Pence, he’s frankly, in my humble estimation, in a no-win situation,” said Vander Plaats. In the wake of RFRA, Vander Plaats said he remembers taking his two sons to the NCAA Final Four, an event that some thought would be canceled to protest the religious freedom law. While in Indianapolis for the event, from gauging the sentiment of people he talked to and listening to media chatter, Vander Plaats had a sense that whether or not Pence realized it, his political career had already reached its apogee.

“I hope and pray the best for Governor Pence,” Vander Plaats says.

***

“It’s been a tough week here in the Hoosier State, but we’re going to move forward,” Pence told the nearly three dozen reporters back in the Indiana State Library in March of 2015 in a sober tone.

It was far from the syrupy, lyrical cadence Pence usually used to put audiences at ease. Pence can come off as if he’s just finished watching Jimmy Stewart’s performance in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington for the millionth time: no sin, all sincere. (“Oh, gosh,” he would say on Wednesday after the disastrous Sunday show appearance, the day hoop-crazed Hoosiers will remember as the Veepstakes Final Four. “I’m governor of Indiana. I’m seeking reelection. I’m honored to be considered, and humbled to be considered.”)

It was a skill Pence had learned, as Reagan had, in the entertainment world. Before the RFRA blowback, before he was in Congress, and before Trump would ask him to join the ticket, he came to public attention in talk radio, as host of “The Mike Pence Show,” which aired from WRCR-FM in tiny Rushville. In 1993, he launched the show, expanded to 18 radio stations statewide, and it ended in 1999. The experience, during which he often called himself “Rush Limbaugh on Decaf,” helped him hone the art of dispensing artfully crafted one-liners. (Two of Pence’s greatest hits: “I’m a conservative, but I’m not angry about it,” and the ever popular “I’m a Christian, conservative, and a Republican—in that order.”)

But under significant political pressure, all this folksy composure seemed to dissipate. “Clearly, there’s been misunderstanding, and confusion, and mischaracterization of this law,” Pence continued. And he confessed it was partly his fault, thanks to the way he handled a combative interview with George Stephanopoulos on ABC’s “This Week” a few days before. That Sunday, six times in the span of 11 minutes and 36 seconds he had dodged his interlocutor’s questions about whether it should be illegal for a Christian florist to deny providing flowers for a gay wedding.

George …

“It’s a yes or no question.”

George, look … come on. Hoosiers don’t believe in discrimination …

“Yes or no: Should it be illegal to discriminate against gays or lesbians?”

Pence pursed his lips. A beat passed.

George …

“Final question, governor: Do you think it should be legal in the state of Indiana to discriminate against gays or lesbians?”

Pence sighed. He looked down to his left for a talking point that wasn’t there, or wouldn’t come.

Later that week, state lawmakers worked to insert a fix into the language of RFRA that prevented businesses from using it as a tool for discrimination. And a little more than fifteen months after those struggles in the hot seat, it’s unclear that Pence has learned from the experience. In the manner of his new boss, he’s found other places to lay the blame: the media, wayward staffers. “Mike was frustrated at the coverage and the way it reflected on the state,” says one informal Pence adviser and confidant, who blamed the halting ABC appearance on poor staff work. “He was surprised and taken aback. Mike is always the best communicator, and there’s always a tendency to push out Mike and clean it up. I don’t think they prepared him for that. It became clear that his staff hadn’t prepared him for some of the controversies that were being brought up.”

Several weeks after the press conference at the Indiana State Library, Pence hired Matthew Lloyd, his former congressional aide and director of communications for Koch Industries. Lloyd, a Midwesterner whose parents grew up in Illinois, decamped from D.C. to Indianapolis to help Pence navigate the months-long RFRA fallout. Since then, he’s been Pence’s closest staffer, acting act as a deputy chief of staff and bodyman in the vein of Ted Cruz’s Bruce Redden, holding out a recorder in Pence gaggles to do rapid response if Pence is misquoted. Lloyd is the kind of aide whom Pence would bring with him to Trump Tower.

Another such aide is Short, the former Koch operative who now is a self-employed consultant. Reporters spotted Short on Friday morning huddling with Pence at the InterContinental Barclay Hotel. On Thursday morning, Short told me that the last time he had spoken to Pence was two days prior, when they had talked on the phone and traded texts on Tuesday about the vice presidency. Short declined to say whether he would staff Pence on the Trump campaign.

All of which raises the question: If Pence couldn’t handle the blowback from JustIN and RFRA, how will he handle life inside the Trump tornado? I asked Short that question. He pointed to the time in 2006 when Pence challenged Boehner as leader of the House Republicans, lost 168 to 27, and how later, Pence made nice and Boehner would ask him to join his leadership ticket.

“Mike is a happy warrior,” he told me.

For now.