He is the man who believes he could be governor, but years of political infighting have stranded him in Norristown, cowboy boots on his desk, surrounded by souvenir firearms and other relics of past success.

Bruce L. Castor Jr., the golden-boy prosecutor who became a feckless Montgomery County commissioner, is restive again. Eighteen months after being cut out of power by his fellow commissioners, he is eyeing a state Senate seat as an escape.

"We have embraced everything that I campaigned against, and we have failed to implement anything that I campaigned for," he said ruefully.

"I thought it would be totally opposite."

He is 47, and a once-turbocharged political career has stalled. He remains as sharp and telegenic as when he made his name as a big-trial, perpetually televised prosecutor more than a decade ago. Though the cameras come around less, he retains a high public profile from his days as the charismatic, tough-talking lawman of the suburbs.

"At some point in time, he will hold statewide elected office," said Tim Woodward, a Norristown defense lawyer and colleague. "The only surprise is that it hasn't happened."

For now, for all his considerable assets, Castor is adrift in the political tides.

A state representative is in position to outflank Castor for a Republican nomination to the Senate seat, insiders say. That Castor is even in this battle is surprising, given his ambitions.

"I am not a legislator. I am not a consensus-builder. I am a leader," he said seven years ago. But he's now gamely talking up his quest to join a crowd of equals in the Senate.

"I guess I've mellowed some," he shrugged.

His once-boundless future lies in the hands of a GOP hierarchy he has previously offended. Castor may have more at stake than just a state Senate nod.

"I don't know if he can suffer a defeat of that nature and bounce back politically," said John Kennedy, political science professor at West Chester University.

A blue-blood ascent

Bruce Lee Castor Jr.'s smooth ride up began with his blue bloodlines.

In the family tree are early-20th-century Philadelphia Mayor Thomas B. Smith and Breyer's Ice Cream president Clyde H. Shaffer. Castor Avenue took its name from where it once led: the Frankford family farm Castor's Swiss ancestors founded after arriving in 1732.

After law school at Washington & Lee University in Virginia - where a hobby was riding horses - Castor bonded with Mike Marino, the three-term Montgomery County district attorney.

"He's very, very quick," Marino said of his former protege. "He can analyze something in 30 minutes that would take another guy two days. I mean, that's how good he is." Castor still occasionally rides horses at Marino's farm.

Showing up early and winning high-profile murder cases got the young lawyer noticed. At 32, he became Marino's top assistant. At 33, his name was already in circulation for the top job.

By the time Castor succeeded Marino in 2000, he was already talking higher office - attorney general, perhaps governor, people who knew him then say.

Montgomery County was the state's largest under GOP control. And he was regularly on television in Pennsylvania's largest media market, delivering flamboyant speeches as he sent criminals to jail.