[Dont eat before you read this.]
Clinton's Final Bid for Redemption
By John Harris
Washington Post Staff Writer
Sunday, September 10, 2000
Still his airplane. The indignities of commercial travel, or
hustling jets from rich friends, were still a few months away. So
Bill Clinton made him-self comfortable aboard Air Force One on a
Saturday night in June as the great plane streaked across the
continent � away from the gaggle of entertainment moguls and
celebrities who had loudly cheered him during a sprint of
fundraising appearances in Los Angeles, toward the empty,
spouseless, second-story apartment otherwise known as the White
House living quarters.
His shoes were off, his feet were on the couch. One hand held a
Diet Coke, leaving the other free to point, wave and chop the
air. The mood and moment were perfect for lecturing his way from
one coast to the other.
And he had an appreciative audience. Sharing the ride was
Commerce Secretary Bill Daley, who just days before had been
tapped by Vice President Gore to be the latest head of his
campaign. For a year, the operating assumption of Gore and his
campaign had been that the disgraced incumbent was a terrible
burden to be overcome. Daley's view, as he had expressed it
privately to friends, was, "Anyone who thinks that is an idiot."
Why not reap the benefits of association with � and advice from �
the most successful Democratic politician of this generation?
Why not indeed, is Clinton's view. His airborne discourse that
night was an especially spirited rendition of a performance he
has delivered hundreds of times this year-usually in private with
friends or aides, but occasionally blurted out publicly in some
after-dinner speech or interview when his certitude got the
better of him. It is Clinton's new self-appointed role:
consultant in chief.
The president ran down the list of names then in play to be the
vice presidential nominees for both Gore and George W. Bush,
clinically dissecting the merits and problems of each. He told
Daley: Here's the argument you need to make against Bush,
unfolding the attack line by line, phrase by phrase. And here's
the argument Gore needs to make for himself, line by line, phrase
by phrase.
Then Clinton turned to his own role. Come autumn, Clinton said,
he would be in the thick of battle against congressional
Republicans over the budget. Normally, when vice presidents run
for the top job it's best for the sitting president to recede
into the shadows. But by the particular logic of this year �
happy coincidence! � the best thing for Gore would be for Clinton
to keep a high profile as a fully engaged president, activist to
the end, framing the debate on behalf of Democrats.
"I can help here," Clinton said.
I can help here. It says much about Bill Clinton's drive for
self-justification that a president who never commanded a
majority in a presidential election, who endured a succession of
personal scandals that culminated in impeachment, whose character
is disapproved of by a large majority of Americans � even by
those who say they support his presidency � finds it perfectly
reasonable to presume that he would be a splendid asset to any
other politician fortunate enough to be associated with him.
It says something about America on the brink of the post-Clinton
era that he may well be right.
Bill Clinton has outlasted everyone. Those who despise him, no
less than those who adore him, now operate in a political
landscape in which Clinton methods and Clinton values reign. This
is a place where judgments are never final, and reality is always
pliable, where it really does depend on what the meaning of is
is. A great president or a disgraced one? A peacemaking statesman
or a perjurer whose home state authorities are seeking to have
disbarred? A tempered idealist or a money-chasing, poll-obsessed
cynic? There is no right answer, only an argument that goes on
and on � rest assured it will not end on January 20, 2001 � and
that Clinton devoutly believes he is winning bit by bit.
Which may be more than wishful thinking. Almost exactly two years
after Clinton's survival looked to be in doubt on that September
morning when he told a White House prayer breakfast that he had
reached "rock bottom truth" and announced that he was beginning
spiritual counseling � he is on his way to arguably the most
successful and energetic final year in the history of the modern
presidency.
Truman left office despised. Eisenhower left beloved, but in
slumber. Kennedy was killed, Johnson crushed, Nixon evicted, Ford
and Carter both defeated. Reagan at the end was drifting into
senescence, and Bush was staggering from forces he neither
anticipated nor understood. Now comes Clinton, whose ordeals were
more searingly personal than those of his predecessors. And he is
not slumping to the finish line but sprinting.
"In terms of personal credit," Clinton said in an interview for
this story, "you know, presidencies go through several
incarnations, many of which occur after they're long gone. I have
had the opportunity just in my service as president to read about
administrations, including administrations that most Americans
don't know much about. And I see all the time there is this sort
of constant process of reassessment about every period in our
history. So I'll leave that to history."
But not just yet. For now, he's a man in a hurry. The finish line
isn't a goal to be reached so much as an enemy to be defied.
"I'll make a little confession," he said. "The only thing that I
am feeling about this last year is that I just want to keep
working, I never want to sleep."
He didn't get much sleep, in any event, on the day of our
conversation early last month. It began at 6 a.m. when he left
the White House for a day trip to tour forest fires in Idaho.
After a four-hour flight, he found himself on a small helicopter
receiving an airborne tour of the fire zone.
Clinton began the helicopter ride in a lively spirit. His manner
was at once more imperial, and more colloquial, than he shows in
public. "I'm cold. Are you cold? It's cold in here," he honked,
his Southern accent a bit thicker than I'm used to hearing.
"Let's do something about the temperature!" It was like he was
doing a Lyndon Johnson impersonation. By his feet was a garment
bag with a change of clothes, but Clinton said he didn't care if
the clothes he was wearing got a little wrinkled. "What the heck
is this doing here? Let's get that out of here." He munched on a
bagel and a banana, and listened as Forest Service Chief Mike
Dombeck gave a tour. Clinton had many questions: How fast do the
fires move? Isn't it true that more logging would do nothing to
curb fires? Dombeck remarked on the enormous energy contained in
the lightning bolts that start many fires. "That's a good
argument," the president cracked, "for getting off the golf
course" in a storm.
Within minutes, though, the chatter trailed off. While Dombeck
was still talking, the president's eyes closed behind the
sunglasses he was wearing. He was asleep.
He woke up a few minutes later and picked up right where he left
off with more questions and comments about the burned expanse
below.
Air Force One landed back in Washington 14 hours after taking
off. But Clinton wasn't going home. Instead, another helicopter
was waiting to take him on an hour flight to a fundraiser in
Charlottesville. He didn't return to the White House until nearly
1 a.m., 19 hours after the day began.
This day was noteworthy only because it was routine. While his
aides circulate their resumes, Clinton circulates himself. His
days are a comic juxtaposition of the grand and the trivial.
Ennobling moments come hard up against embarrassing ones. He jets
overseas for international summits (seven trips and 13 countries
so far this year), then jets back home to raise money for obscure
members of Congress (some $75 million at 115 events for various
Democrats between the first of the year and the end of the
Democratic convention). He phones Jerusalem to talk with Prime
Minister Ehud Barak about Mideast peace, then dials his lawyer,
David Kendall, to talk about the Little Rock proceedings to strip
his law license. One day brings a searching sermon on education,
and what America will be like a hundred years from now. Another
brings a reminder from the world's most powerful man that
Americans should be sure to handle their food safely this holiday
weekend to avoid salmonella.
With just four months left in his presidency, he remains the
Jupiter of our national space. He dominates any appearance as
effortlessly as on the day he arrived. He is so dominant, in
fact, that even his wife, Hillary Rodham Clinton, now running for
the Senate from New York, has had to weigh carefully how often he
should be allowed to appear on her behalf.
Both of his would-be successors labor in his shadow. Al Gore
thought his problem would be that voters would assume he is
another Bill Clinton. It turns out his more likely problem is
that many voters have appraised his clumsy reinventions � the
tinny, artificial voice he brings to the artifices of politics �
and concluded: This guy is no Bill Clinton; now there is someone
sincerely good at artifice. George W. Bush, meanwhile, is running
a campaign that amounts to a daily salute to the incumbent. While
the Republican promises to restore the lost honor of the
presidency, he crafts a centrist strategy that is lifted
expressly from Clinton's book on how to command the middle ground
in American politics.
Part of the mythology about Clinton is that he is the Great
Compartmentalizer, capable of putting unpleasant subjects out of
mind while he concentrates on the business at hand. This was
always fiction, "pure bunk," in the words of a former aide who
once helped promote it. He and many colleagues now acknowledge
that during the Monica Lewinsky scandal Clinton often seemed
utterly lost to the world, overcome by a combination of rage
toward his opponents and recrimination toward his own weak self.
It turns out the real compartmentalizer is the public itself. The
Clinton years have enveloped all America in one dysfunctional
family. Things that once seemed extravagantly weird � a president
who goes to pastoral therapy sessions once a week to recover from
his sex addiction; a first lady who moves out of the White House
to run for office in a state where she never lived � now seem
routine. And everyone has learned to avert their gaze from those
sides of Clinton they prefer not to see.
Those who hate Clinton can't bear it. Not only has he survived,
he has mastered the office of the presidency as thoroughly as any
occupant since Franklin D. Roosevelt. Never mind if you agree
with his ends. Think only of sheer competence. The public can see
part of it: the casual fluency he shows at news conferences, or
the ease with which he trumps congressional Republicans in public
relations battles over legislation. There is much that remains
unseen: the way Clinton has merged his polling and policy
operations, so that he almost never gets caught flat-footed by an
emerging issue or controversy. Or the way that Clinton, no matter
how controversial at home, moves nimbly among foreign heads of
state, clearly the dominant figure at any summit. It strains
memory now to think of the first-term Clinton, how callow he
seemed, how often his fumbling White House was swamped by
Washington and left timid and confused by events overseas.
Set aside, if you prefer, sheer competence. Think only of
appearance. Clinton's hair is full gray now, and his weight still
goes up and down. But the combined visual effect is one of
maturity and command. Alone among modern presidents, he actually
looks better at the end of his term than he did at the beginning.
The conclusion is inescapable: This is a man with an endless
capacity for recovery and growth-by far his most appealing
characteristic-and he is in tangible ways a better president than
he was before.
But those ready to glorify Clinton can't face another truth: In
maddening ways, he is unchanged, a recidivist to the end. His
sense of selfish grievance-by far his most unappealing
characteristic-still erupts with dreary frequency. Clinton is the
Old Faithful of whining. In late July, shortly after a new poll
showed Hillary Clinton running behind her GOP opponent in New
York, Clinton moaned in an interview with a Miami Fox TV
affiliate, "Everybody that always hated me all those years and
were so mean to me, they've all transferred all their anger to
her now. It's almost as if they've got one last chance to beat
me."
And there is the familiar flight from reality over Lewinsky. He
has apologized for the affair ad infinitum but to understand how
Clinton really feels you must listen to the apologies very
carefully. What he did was a "personal mistake," he concedes, but
as events recede he becomes more defiant than ever that he does
not bear responsibility for its public consequences. He paid a
judge's $90,000 fine for providing false testimony under oath, he
says, to get the matter over with, not because he lied. He
settled the Paula Jones case, he said at an April news
conference, because the appeals court that would have heard the
matter was politically biased against him. And then there was his
interview in May with WAMU's Diane Rehm, when she asked what
effect the White House years had had on his marriage: "Oh, I
think it's been good for ours, because I got to live above the
store." His own aides rolled their eyes: What planet is he on? Of
course, it was this penchant for denial that some friends believe
led to the scandal in the first place.
And the scandal led to the imperative of 2000: to try to cleanse
the stain by having the most hyperkinetic final year in office
that any president has ever had. Clinton may not have exorcised
his demons � the vanity or the compulsiveness � but he does seem
to have harnessed them to a higher purpose. He wants to negotiate
Mideast peace, elect Hillary, beat Republicans on the budget,
solve Northern Ireland, elect Gore, travel to Vietnam, raise
money for his library, win back the Congress.
Bill Clinton, as ever, wants it all.
The news was bad, and it was greeted by an explosion of
presidential profanity and indignation. "They're trying to
destroy my last year in office," he hissed.
This thunder was provoked when an adviser reported back to
Clinton on a conversation with a man who under other
circumstances has been an important administration ally: AFL-CIO
President John Sweeney. The labor leader told the Clinton
emissary that union political strategists believed that they now
had the votes to defeat the president on his most important
legislative priority of the year, and one of the most important
of his presidency: a vote on whether to extend permanent normal
trading status to China. Labor's vehemence was well understood;
the vote cut straight to the fissure in the Democratic Party over
trade. But Clinton was feeling unappreciated. Think of all he had
done for working Americans, he railed, and think of how much he
had riding on this vote over China. And he was being killed by
his friends.
As it happened, Sweeney's optimism was premature. Clinton won the
May trade vote, and by a surprisingly wide margin. The
presidential outburst was noteworthy, though, in several ways. It
was a reminder that the stereotype about Clinton-that he is a
risk-averse leader who allows politics to trump all-can be
unfair. His first instinct is to avoid conflict. But in this
case, as in several previous episodes in his presidency, Clinton
defied the most expedient course and took on a fight with a
powerful constituency in his own party. And Clinton's line about
the union wrecking the last year of his presidency underscores
something else: He is in the midst of what surely counts as one
of the most methodically, and self-consciously, organized closing
acts in White House history.
"Legacy" is a word that Chief of Staff John Podesta has banned
from the Clinton White House, lest Clinton be perceived as a lame
duck trying to score last-minute points on some historical
ledger. Even so, several current and former White House aides say
Clinton has approached the year with an acute sense of history
and of the fact that the window is swiftly closing on the chance
to make it.
What was once perhaps a chaotic and random White House operation
has become among the most controlled. So in late 1999, White
House senior adviser Douglas Sosnik (who has since departed for a
job with the National Basketball Association) began at Clinton's
instruction to prepare a detailed final-year road map. The
process began with a question for the boss: What was important?
Clinton had a long list of legislative proposals, from HMO reform
to gun control to increasing the minimum wage, but most of these
fell in a second-tier category: It would be fine if they passed,
but hardly a disaster if they didn't. The China trade vote was
the paramount exception, a must-win issue. For once, a Clinton
legislative effort was not conducted with the equivalent of an
end-of-semester all-nighter. For weeks, Clinton worked over
wavering House members of his own party, lecturing them in small
groups in the Yellow Oval Room of the White House, bending their
ears in phone calls.
Several foreign affairs issues � sketched in a memo from national
security adviser Sandy Berger � likewise fell in the no-nonsense
category. A president who was once uncomfortable with foreign
policy, aides say, has developed over time � like many of his
predecessors � a preference for this part of the job. And
foremost among his ambitions is the Middle East. Clinton,
according to several people close to him, sees the intractable
rivalries and hatreds of the region as filled with redemptive
possibilities, a noble use for his powers of seduction and
persuasion. He once made this point publicly, during the height
of the Lewinsky scandal, when he said that laboring to close the
gaps between Israel and Palestinians was part of his "personal
journey of atonement." In the months before July's Camp David
summit, which brought the two sides closer than ever but ended
without agreement, Clinton worked the issue assiduously, usually
without publicity. There were 30 presidential phone calls between
January and July to Barak and Palestinian Authority Chairman
Yasser Arafat.
"I think he believes all things are doable," says former senator
Dale Bumpers, who has been friendly with Clinton since their days
as Arkansas pols. "I think he thinks he is a great facilitator,
and that he can use that for good, and I agree with him . . .
Most of us at the end of our political careers start to realize,
this is history-making time, and I think he's afflicted with
that."
There were other questions as Clinton and his team planned out
how they wanted this chapter of history to read. Where did
Clinton want to travel? (A planned November trip to Vietnam was a
priority.) What could he do to help Gore, Hillary and
congressional Democrats? (Raise money, lots of it.) How much time
would Clinton need for legal battles, including the fight over
disbarment and an ongoing probe into 1996 fundraising? (One
adviser says that while legal matters don't require vast amounts
of time, they do take "far more psychic energy" from Clinton than
he lets on; aides have learned to cushion his schedule
accordingly.)
All this planning took place with an awareness that the natural
cycles of politics were working against an eighth-year incumbent.
Aides carefully looked at the calendar for dates when all eyes
would not be on the presidential candidates, when Clinton would
be able to "break through" and attract news coverage. The
planning also took into account a more personal factor: Perhaps
no president has ever sought the office more intensely, or
savored the emotional rewards that come with it more exquisitely.
"We wanted to plan a year that would allow him to inhale the
job," recalls Sosnik.
Some old advisers marvel that he is still so interested in
inhaling. Few people have endured more during Washington's war
over Clinton these past eight years than former White House
deputy chief of staff Harold Ickes. He has been called to testify
under oath 35 times before sundry congressional panels and in
grand jury proceedings and depositions. Weary himself, Ickes
notes of his former boss: "He doesn't seem tired, he doesn't seem
worn out, there's no sense of ennui."
One person who has worked for the administration offers this
guide to understanding Clinton's presidency: Think of this not as
year eight but rather as year two of the fourth consecutive
presidency Clinton has occupied. There was the first presidency,
when he was surrounded by Arkansas loyalists and young campaign
aides still swooning from their first political crush. This was
the presidency of the successful 1993 budget bill and,
disastrously, health care reform. That led to the repudiation of
the 1994 elections, which led in turn to the second Clinton
presidency, the one in which Republican consultant Dick Morris
held sway, refashioning Clinton for reelection. This led
logically to the reign of Chief of Staff Erskine Bowles, a
conservative businessman, who trekked regularly to Capitol Hill
to strike deals with Republicans. Then came scandal, and the
third Clinton presidency, sending Clinton back into the embrace
of congressional Demo-crats as survival became the all-consuming
goal. Now Clinton is in stage four, the Last Chance Presidency.
At times, while his aides juggle job interviews and goodbye
parties, Clinton appears to be the only person in this White
House not coasting. "There's nothing, when you put it in front of
him, that he doesn't want to do," says Jim Steinberg, who
recently departed as deputy national security adviser. As Clinton
himself told me, "I can rest starting at noon on January 20th."
It is revealing to look at the people around Clinton now. The
star-struck young aides, like George Stephanopoulos before his
disillusionment, or the longtime associates, like Morris or Mack
McLarty, or the personal friends, like Bowles-those sorts of
people are nearly all gone. Overwhelmingly, the senior White
House is made up of Washington operatives, like Chief of Staff
Podesta, or his deputy, Steve Ricchetti, both veteran lobbyists.
The anonymous Sosnik spent far more intimate time around Clinton
than the famous Stephanopoulos ever did. But he was never under
any illusion about his real role, basically that of a lawyer to a
client. In year eight, romance has been replaced by
professionalism.
Also realism. In their clinical detachment, some aides wonder if
his admirable energy is approaching a worrisome frenzy. In June,
Clinton was preparing with aides for a news conference later that
day. Usually, Clinton nibbles a healthful raisin bagel during
such sessions. But this time he was shoveling down food, a full
meal in moments. Perhaps he was just hungry. But here is how you
have learned to think if you are a veteran of the Clinton White
House: Uh-oh. He eats like that when he's out of control. And
when he's out of control bad things happen. So as the meeting
broke up, one aide confessed to wondering: What new surprise is
hurtling toward us now?
Hillary Clinton, the new Senate nominee, had just finished her
acceptance speech at the New York Democratic Party Convention in
Albany this past May when she and her husband met with supporters
at a reception. His presence in Albany was a last-minute
surprise. His aides told reporters he had decided only that
morning that he simply could not miss this occasion. And now
Clinton told the crowd that the thing that had been holding him
back before was a previous commitment he had made to the Mexican
American Legal Defense Fund. "So I told that group, `I've been
with you a long time, and if you let me go hear my wife give a
speech, I'll do any event you want, anywhere in America,' "
Clinton said.
Here is a fine specimen of Clinton phraseology. Words are for him
the currency in a negotiation with reality, in which a statement
can qualify as true so long as it is not demonstrably false. In
fact, he had been waiting for more than a week for word on
whether he would be allowed to go to Albany. Hillary Clinton's
two most important advisers, Mark Penn and Mandy Grunwald, had
been against it, sources familiar with the deliberations say,
feeling that his presence would send a not-so-subliminal message
that her campaign is really about him. Other aides, including
press secretary Howard Wolfson, felt just as strongly: It looks
weird when a candidate's spouse does not show up at an event that
most normal couples would attend together. The candidate sided
first with the stay-away side, brooded some more, then reversed
herself.
The very existence of such a debate underscores the transcendent
weirdness of the New York campaign. The paradox is that even as
she has moved physically apart from the president, the campaign
has underscored, and strengthened, their closeness.
To the astonishment of many who work with both of them, the
relationship is by all appearances as strong as it has ever been.
They talk constantly, aides say, often several times a day. He is
informed about and often the decisive adviser on every aspect of
her Senate campaign. One old Arkansas friend of his isn't
surprised that the relationship has seemingly rebounded so
swiftly from the Lewinsky catastrophe. "This is a relationship
that thrives on distance," says the friend. With Hillary in New
York, this theory goes, the president can nurture the idealized
portrait that he has always had of her virtues. And now that she
is immersed in a project that is truly her own, say people close
to her, she more than ever appreciates and benefits from the
extraordinary political mind that first attracted her to him.
For her major speeches, he sometimes takes hours out of his
schedule to help with her presentation. Drafts of the text, an
adviser recalls, go back and forth between New York and
Washington. "B, what do you think of this?" she asks. He
scribbles up the page with notations, then adds, "I love you, B."
"I'm not kidding," the adviser who told me this added hastily.
It is true, however, that the Senate campaign's origins lie
emphatically in the year of scandal. The story line Hillary
Clinton has promoted is that she was taken aback when New York
Democrats in early 1999 began talking her up as a possible
candidate. But this notion of her being drafted into service is
contradicted by a White House adviser, who recalls the Clintons
in the fall of 1998 talking in dead earnest about her running. It
was plain then that her heart was set on it from the moment
incumbent Daniel Patrick Moynihan made clear he was retiring-and
well before even a murmur of public speculation had been heard.
The president offered only encouragement. In the wake of the
scandal, the scales in the marriage were weighted heavily in her
favor. "His view was that whatever she wanted, he was going to
give her," says a former White House aide. "This was a project
for them to work on together."
The project has shown something else: In a way that unsettles
some of her admirers, Hillary is more like Bill than many people
imagined. Her approach toward even longtime Clinton loyalists has
become frankly utilitarian; several of these people say that when
they told her they thought running for Senate was a bad idea, she
turned cold before their eyes. Even her chief of staff, Melanne
Verveer, was cast into a secondary orbit, sources say, after
arguing that Hillary had nothing to gain by making the race.
If there is a compartmentalizer in this marriage, it is her, not
him. One White House aide recalls conversations with her in the
thick of the sex scandal, in which she analyzed defense
strategies with the incisive detachment of a lawyer discussing a
client. Diane Blair, the Arkansas political scientist who was
Hillary's best friend before her death from cancer this summer,
once told a White House aide that the first lady had never
discussed Clinton's adultery with her during countless
conversations in the year of Lewinsky.
There is a popular view, which many of her advisers once
endorsed, that Bill and Hillary represent two distinct poles in
the Clinton Enterprise. She is the ideologue, eager to win but
motivated principally by the higher cause; he is the compromiser,
eager to do good but motivated principally by the imperative of
victory. But it is Bill Clinton's brand of politics that is the
animating force of her campaign.
Nothing illustrates this more than a tense episode early this
year when she was deciding who to hire as her media adviser. The
job had been all but offered, several sources say, to a veteran
Chicago political consultant named David Axelrod. The president
himself then weighed in with another idea: Hire Mark Penn. He was
already signed on as pollster for both Hillary's campaign and the
White House. Clinton believed he should take on an additional
role in shaping her campaign's message.
[continued]
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The Best Way To Destroy Enemies Is To Change Them To Friends
Shalom, A Salaam Aleikum, and to all, A Good Day.
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