A Year At The Circus
Page 15
If you have a ‘hard pass’ like I do you can come and go from the White House estate at will, once you have been through the security post on Pennsylvania Avenue. Needless to say, to become the recipient of one of these hard passes you have to go through a bit of a security rigmarole. The Secret Service will do background checks, you will be fingerprinted – and woe betide you if you lose the pass.
Anyway, back to the news conference after the midterms. The President at first seemed extremely weary. He had declared the results nearly perfect, but seemed to be tired and scratchy. He perked up when it came to questions. And he took questions for the best part of an hour and a half. From American journalists and from foreign ones; some friendly but many hostile. And say what you like about this president, you could hardly accuse him of being remote. True, he may have scarcely entered the Briefing Room, but in the Oval Office, in the East Room, on the South Lawn pathway from the White House leading to Marine One, at the back of the plane on Air Force One the President is hugely accessible.
But then came an encounter with Jim Acosta, the chief White House correspondent for CNN. Acosta is suave, a bit of a Clooney lookalike, personally delightful, and has a big ego (I don’t say that as a criticism – if having a big ego was a disqualifier I’m not sure how many of us would still have a job). But he has been guilty of grandstanding on any number of occasions, and does kind of project himself as the conscience of the White House Correspondents Association. The lonely fighter of the President’s intemperate language. The spear carrier for the rights of a free press. He famously walked out of the Briefing Room when Sarah Sanders refused to condemn the President for using the phrase ‘enemy of the people’ to describe the press. Though was it ever realistic to expect the President’s press secretary to condemn her boss? If she did that she would no longer be able to serve the President. What she said was that the President chooses his own words, which seemed an elegant way for Ms Sanders to skirt the issue. But Acosta wouldn’t let it go. When she would go no further he walked out. Now isn’t that the very definition of grandstanding?
It was a similar story when the President called him to ask a question. Even though there is bad blood between them, Trump still pointed to the CNN man; and he was one of the first to be called. But Acosta didn’t want to ask a question, he wanted to conduct an interview with the President. He asked three separate questions on different topics, and an exasperated Trump told him to shut up and give the microphone to someone else. Rudely. There was a bit of a tussle for the microphone with an intern, but it was entirely legitimate for the President to want to let other reporters have the opportunity to ask their questions.
It was a piece of theatre that actually suited both men. To Trump’s supporters this would show the rudeness and impossibility of the ‘fake news’ media and vindicate their president’s caustic approach towards them; to Acosta it burnished his and CNN’s credentials as the people who would speak truth to power – and stick it to Trump. And for Acosta, who had a book to write, the exchange would have probably added significantly to the advance he would be able to demand. Brand Acosta had had a good day. So too had Donald Trump.
But Trump wasn’t presidential in the way he treated Acosta; and Acosta wasn’t respectful in the way he spoke to the President – and this is not a lame ‘we’ve all got to be polite’ because of the augustness of the office. The whole thing just felt like journalism as provocation. The President was doing what we all ask him to do – making himself available to answer our questions. We might not like the answers he gives, but it’s his prerogative to answer as he sees fit – since when do we get to write his script? And for 90 minutes the President took on all comers. The stars from the networks and national press, local newspapers, international publications.
But then the next day the White House managed to turn their win into a loss. The Secret Service revoked Acosta’s pass to the White House estate – no doubt at the President’s insistence – thus making it much more difficult for him to do his job. The claim from the press secretary was that Acosta had ‘laid hands’ on the intern, and to further her case she posted a doctored video that had originally appeared on a right-wing, conspiracy theory-soaked website. The video was the very definition of ‘fake news’.
This action sparked a predictable furore over free speech and the rights of journalists enshrined by the First Amendment of the US Constitution. The President warned that there were other rude correspondents he would also like to have banned. It sent a chill through the journalistic community, a community not hitherto noted for its ability to take collective action. But over this all the major news organisations – including Fox News – spoke with one voice, agreeing on legal action against the ‘weaponisation’ of a ‘hard pass’. CNN would argue that the actions pursued by the White House would ‘threaten all journalists and news organisations’. Relations between the press and the President took another downward turn.
And the President’s mood would not improve when the White House had eventually to surrender. It lost in court, and despite its claim that it would carry on the legal fight, the battle ended with a whimper not a bang. An ill-considered ban, which looked tough at the outset, had foundered on its first real contact with the US legal system. It was the President 0, CNN 1. And can you imagine how much that must have hurt.
But that is to see things as the President sees things, where everything is a zero-sum game; where there are only winners and losers. Worryingly for the long-term health of journalism, too much of the media sees it that way too, as though we are somehow part of the resistance. Marty Baron, the editor of the Washington Post, has been a powerful voice on the dangers. He has made clear to his newsroom that however Donald Trump may treat us, we must not retaliate. Journalism must rise above this. He is not our foe. We are there to hold him to account. Fairly and honestly. Toughly and accurately. Critically yet dispassionately. Let the Democratic Party or dissident Republicans or whoever is seeking elected office be the enemy. Journalism is not the enemy of the people; nor should it be the enemy of the President.
Chapter 5
The Residence
The East Wing is the grand mansion of Washington. If the West Wing is where the dirty business of making the sausages is done, the East Wing is where they are put on finely polished silver platters and served with cocktail sticks, and handed out by immaculately turned-out liveried staff. It is where the state banquets are held; it is where the President conducts public ceremonies – the handing out of medals to worthy recipients; the venue of news conferences when a visiting prime minister, president or member of royalty is in town. It is the public and ceremonial face of the presidency. It is also where the Residence is.
It is also the domain of the First Lady. This is where she has her office and staff. And the First Lady (capital F, capital L) is an official position within the government, fully funded by the US taxpayer. My first experience of the profound difference between the British and US systems came on my first visit to the White House, back in 1998. Tony Blair was prime minister and Bill Clinton was laying out the red carpet, giving him a state visit (even though, of course, the British prime minister is not the head of state – the Queen is).
There was a press briefing where the US journalists wanted to know what the First Lady would be wearing at the banquet that evening. Hillary Clinton’s press person started going through the list: shoes by this one; dress by such and such designer; make-up by Mme Macquillage and hair by Monsieur le Scissors, etc. Then one of the US journalists asked what Cherie Blair would be wearing – and up popped the Downing Street press woman, a take-no-hostages, feisty Scot called Maggie Cleaver who sadly died a few years ago: ‘First I haven’t the faintest idea, and second I wouldn’t dream of asking her.’ Adding for good measure, ‘She’s a private person.’ The US journalists looked astonished, with puzzled, ‘but what have we done wrong’ expressions on their faces. In Britain there isn’t even a title – consort to the prime minister? Wife/husband of? Altho
ugh things have moved a touch nearer to the American system in the intervening 20 or so years – while the PM’s partner is given some support, it is still nothing like the role played by the First Lady.
The basement and ground floor of the Residence are the public areas; the top two floors of the East Wing are not quite the flat above the shop, as Margaret Thatcher used to describe her somewhat cramped quarters at the top of 10 Downing Street – but they are places you go only at the invitation of the first family. If you ever attend a White House function there is always a secret service officer on duty to check you don’t by mistake – or design – wander up the staircase to the private quarters. And unlike the Downing Street flat there is nothing poky about the top two floors of the Residence.
For those most esteemed visitors on whom you want to bestow a special welcome there is the Queens’ Bedroom, part of a suite of rooms that also includes the Queens’ Sitting Room and the Queens’ Bathroom. Any number of European royals have spent the night there. Queen Elizabeth first stayed when she came to Washington in 1957 to visit President Eisenhower, and was a frequent visitor after that, returning to Washington for the US Bicentennial in 1976; she made a state visit at the invitation of George H.W. Bush; and came again when his son was president.
Then there is the Lincoln Bedroom, which as the name does not suggest, is somewhere Abraham Lincoln never slept. But he did work there, and the décor has a mid-nineteenth-century, chintzy feel to it. Big heavy furniture, and a famous bed with giant rosewood headboard, make for the most cracking overnight invitation a President can offer up to friends and political supporters by way of reward. They will be entertained in the Yellow Oval Room, a grand drawing room that has been used down the ages for the visits of presidents and kings and queens. It opens out onto the Truman Balcony on the south side of the building, with wonderful views across to the Washington Monument and down to the Potomac. President Truman’s demand for the addition of this balcony set off an enormous furore at the time about whether its construction was in keeping with the neo-classical design of the rest of the White House.
This floor also has a kitchen and dining room, where the president and first lady can try to maintain an air of normality: of doing the things that other normal humans do, like cooking their own food and eating it. The Clintons turned it into a family kitchen – installing a TV too, naturally – and by all accounts this is where Bill would sit with the White House butlers and watch the basketball. Barack Obama and Michelle would have as many family dinners together as possible with their girls.
On the top floor is another suite of bedrooms, which each president and first lady have put their mark on – starting with the solarium built by President Taft. The top-floor sitting room was turned into a gym by the Clintons, and was keenly used by George W. Bush when he moved in. There is a games room and a music room too – plus many more bedroom suites. One of the touches that Donald Trump has added, according to his former aide, Omarosa Manigault Newman, is a sunbed – which would explain his frequently tanned appearance, but with white eyes where he would have been wearing protective glasses. I took one photograph on my smart-phone of the President at a news conference in the Rose Garden, and later I thought there must have been something wrong with the camera. He was, well, an irradiated shade of electric orange, while the people he was thronged by were of totally normal colouring. Sarah Sanders would seek to explain away that deeply tanned appearance by putting it down to his good genes. Hmm.
The lower floors of the White House are the ones which the public can tour. Unlike 10 Downing Street, which no member of the public would ever be able to visit – unless they knew someone working in the building who could show them around – the White House is the ‘people’s house’, with tours organised when the president and first lady are away.
In the days when relations with the press were rather better than they are now, I was invited to the last two Obama Christmas parties at the White House before he left office. I am sure that among the events organised by the Social Secretary – the other key person who has their office in the East Wing – the evenings of receptions for the media (one night for print, the other for broadcasters) are ranked as two of the least important. But these evenings are special. Really special. For a start the house is decorated exquisitely. It is as if Walt Disney himself has intervened and brought a touch of his magic kingdom to the humdrum world of politics. Beautiful trees and decorations adorn the rooms, the champagne flows. It is as if fairy dust has been sprinkled around the place. Marine bands play in different rooms – a jazz ensemble here, a string quartet there, some rock and roll somewhere else. Representatives from all the branches of the armed forces are in their immaculate dress uniforms to guide you around and make your evening more special. And you are free to wander the lower two floors of the White House, as if your most special friend in the world has lucked out on the best wedding venue there is; into the plate room, where there are samples of the dinner services that each president has had designed to mark their period in office; and there’s the library, the red room, the blue room and the green room.
In the mansion’s two biggest rooms, the East Room and the State Dining Room, there are tables groaning with the most delicious food – oysters, lobster, shrimp, filet mignon, lamb chops, wonderful salads, and endless little delicate pastries, cooked by the White House chefs. In the corner of the State Dining Room stands a huge 3D gingerbread sculpture of the White House itself. And along the corridors you pass the portraits hanging from the walls of previous presidents. John F. Kennedy, with arms crossed looking down thoughtfully. Lincoln, legs crossed, right hand on his chin. Bill Clinton, staring ahead purposefully, one hand in pocket, the other hand resting on a table. You had to pinch yourself that this was really happening and that you were really there.
Then the dénouement of the evening. Your time with the President and the First Lady. This is not some haphazard encounter where you bump into each other in a corridor. No, it is much more like what I remember from being a child and queuing at the local department store to see Santa. As you arrive at the White House you are given a colour coded ticket, and when it is time for your colour you form an orderly queue and are taken downstairs into the Map Room. One military officer checks you and your partner’s names. Another confiscates your drinks – do you really want to be photographed between the First Lady and President with a half-empty glass of fizz in your hand? A third military person puts you into the holding position – and then your names are called out. It is all done with enormous grace and charm, and designed to put you at maximum ease, even though you are inwardly panicking that some piece of the spinach tart might have lodged itself stubbornly and prominently between your front teeth.
You walk into the Diplomatic Reception Room, where Barack and Michelle are waiting for you. You shake hands, and the more bold – and less British – sneak a hug and a kiss as well. There is a brief bit of chit-chat with your host and hostess, you stand in front of the fireplace, with a portrait of George Washington above the marble mantelpiece, lush Christmas trees on either side of you – and you put on your best smile. Three camera flashes later, you are on your way out – and the next couple are on their way in. This practice was carried on by the Bushes and the Clintons, but did not carry on with Donald Trump. Though who can blame him, frankly? Standing in the same spot for the best part of three hours, with a fixed smile on your face as your tormentors – the serried ranks of the White House press corps – pass through. Exhausting. Who needs it?
That night when my wife, Linda, and I finally left the White House we were on a high. We were probably a little bit tipsy, we had almost certainly eaten too much, we had met the most wonderful people, who had all been charming and welcoming. And we got into the taxi to go home discussing whether that was the best party we had ever been to and whether there could be a more perfect evening. But then we got home, only to discover that our stupid (or maybe not so stupid) dog had managed to climb onto the dining room table
, and had wolfed down a whole packet of Fortnum and Mason mince pies – full of raisins and sultanas, that can be deadly for dogs. So, an emergency dash to the Friendship Animal Hospital and stomach pump later – and my pocket $1,000 lighter – the glow of our first White House party with the President was beginning to lose some of its lustre.
Today’s White House has altered and changed bit by bit over the years, but the major work of reshaping it was carried out nearly sixty years ago under the watchful and interior design conscious eye of Jacqueline Kennedy, wife of John F. Kennedy. She was only 32 years old when she became First Lady, and did not seek the political limelight. Having spent a year abroad studying French literature and then worked briefly for Vogue, she was chic and poised – and so when she moved into the White House with her young family, she set about its restoration and transformation. Period antiques would be placed strategically around the place, the world’s leading musicians would be brought in to enliven fancy White House dinners. It was the greatest transformation of the building since the attempt made by the British in 1814 during the Revolutionary Wars. They tried to burn the place down.
In 1962 she hosted an extraordinary TV documentary where, with her slightly whispery drawl, she took viewers on a tour of the White House, whose changes she was overseeing. In some of it she speaks directly to camera; in other sections she is interviewed by one of the great American war correspondents, Charles Collingwood. She is asked to justify the expenditure – and explains that until she moved in her predecessors were free to sell or get rid of any furniture or artefacts they didn’t like. But a new law passed by Congress that she had championed would mean everything in the White House would be part of the government art collection. Her sense of history, her poise, her detailed knowledge of antiques (and maybe her striking beauty too) had Americans transfixed. The documentary won her an Emmy award. Just as her husband was the first president of the television age, so she matched him with her ease in front of the camera. She was smart, self-confident, a modern woman in an era of change.