The vision Johnson traced in those predawn hours had been incubating for many decades. From his populist father he had inherited the belief that the role of government was to look after those who needed help. “That’s what we’re here for,” his father had repeatedly reminded his son. The seminal concept that government should use its power to better the lives of others had been consolidated during his work in Roosevelt’s New Deal. It was further enumerated in his “call to arms” speech in the wake of his near fatal heart attack, and informed his maneuvers to pass the 1957 civil rights bill.
“That whole night,” Moyers recalled of Johnson’s musings at The Elms, “he seemed to have several chambers of his mind operating simultaneously. It was formidable, very formidable.”
How was Johnson able to actualize this vision?
Make a dramatic start.
Lyndon Johnson’s most important task, the necessary condition upon which all else hinged, was to convince his countrymen that he was capable of filling the brutally sudden vacuum of leadership. He had to dispel doubts, quell suspicions, and allay fears.
In this time of dark national emergency, the new president was inclined by temperament to act quickly. At each new position in his long career he had sought a quick, sure start, an attention-fastening moment. Now, the day after Kennedy’s burial, he chose to make a major speech to the nation. This choice was not without risk, for, with few exceptions, Johnson had revealed an inability to speak persuasively in large, formal settings. The man who could exercise instant command over any small gathering had tended to stiffen when forced to stand behind a podium. And this address would be the most important he had ever delivered. “He knew,” Moyers said, “that the people watching it were burning with questions, wondering, ‘Who is that man?’ ” When he stepped off the podium, “they would either have confidence in him—or not.”
Lead with your strengths.
From the start, Johnson made two important decisions. First, he would deliver his speech before a live audience at a Joint Session of Congress rather than before a television camera in the empty Oval Office. Congress had been his home for more than three decades, the source of his security, achievement, and power. Many in the audience would be longtime friends and colleagues. Also in attendance would be the Supreme Court justices and the members of the cabinet, the full panoply of legitimate succession.
Second, he would use the occasion to call upon his former colleagues to break the total legislative gridlock that had prevented every one of Kennedy’s major domestic initiatives from becoming law. A month before the assassination, columnist Walter Lippmann had written that there was “reason to wonder whether the Congressional system as it now operates is not a grave danger to the Republic.” Indeed, as an editorial in Life magazine had pointed out, this Congress had sat longer than any previous body “while accomplishing practically nothing.” The inability of Congress to move legislation forward, Johnson agreed, was “developing into a national crisis,” exposing America’s democratic system to widespread criticism at home and abroad.
In choosing to focus on Kennedy’s blocked domestic agenda, Johnson settled on the field where he felt most deeply involved, most confident of his knowledge, most comfortable in dealing with policy details. The arenas of foreign and military affairs, which had been the specialty and focus of the Kennedy administration, were uncongenial to him. And he was fortunate to come into office at an ostensibly tranquil moment in international affairs.
“If any sense were to come of the senseless events which had brought me to the office of the Presidency,” he later said, “it would come only from my using my experience as a legislator to encourage the legislative process to function.” Believing that Kennedy’s death had created “a sympathetic atmosphere” for the passage of the stalled New Frontier agenda, Johnson planned to turn the “dead man’s program into a martyr’s cause.” But the window of opportunity was very small. If he had any chance of succeeding, he had to move ahead at warp speed before the supportive mood began to dissipate.
Simplify the agenda.
From the outset, Johnson decided to pare down Kennedy’s domestic agenda to two essential items: the civil rights bill designed to end segregation in the South and the tax cut intended to stimulate the economy. Over many hours of conversation at The Elms, Johnson’s advisers debated the wisdom of these choices. “At one point,” attorney Abe Fortas recalled, one of the men spoke up forcefully against recommending “congressional action on civil rights,” and most particularly against making it his “number one” priority. “The presidency has only a certain amount of coinage to expend,” he warned Johnson, “and you oughtn’t to expend it on this. It will never get through.”
“Well,” Johnson replied with an unambiguous answer, “what the hell’s the presidency for?”
When Johnson entered the House chamber at noon of November 27, 1963, a hush came over the audience. “All that I have,” he began, “I would have given gladly not to be standing here today.” With simple eloquence, he set a tone of sorrowful humility that would blend a funeral oration with an inaugural call for action.
On the 20th day of January, in 1961, John F. Kennedy told his countrymen that our national work would not be finished “in the first thousand days, nor in the life of this administration, nor even perhaps in our lifetime on this planet. But,” he said, “Let us begin.” Today, in this moment of new resolve, I say to all my fellow Americans, let us continue.
In contrast to the Kennedy inaugural, however, which presaged a resurgent America in the world’s eye with no mention of domestic affairs, Johnson outlined his hopes for domestic policy with hardly a nod to foreign policy.
First, no memorial oration or eulogy could more eloquently honor President Kennedy’s memory than the earliest possible passage of the civil rights bill for which he fought so long. We have talked long enough in this country about equal rights. We have talked for one hundred years or more. It is time now to write the next chapter and to write it in the books of law.
And second, no act of ours could more fittingly continue the work of President Kennedy than the early passage of the tax bill for which he fought all this long year.
He firmly believed, Johnson said, “in the ability of the Congress, despite the divisions of opinions which characterize our Nation, to act—to act wisely, to act vigorously, to act speedily when the need arises. The need is here. The need is now. I ask your help.”
In his call for action to fill the leadership vacuum, one journalist noted, Johnson appeared to have “modeled” himself “after the man he has most admired in his political career—Franklin D. Roosevelt.” Just as Roosevelt had called “for action, and action now” to carry the people through a “dark hour” in their national life, so Johnson had exhorted us to show the world that “we can and will act and act now.” Both men addressed a volatile, depressed, and fearful nation. Both men countered despondency and confusion and sought to give hope, confidence, and renewed direction. And both men ministered to a stricken nation and uplifted the country’s morale.
By the time Johnson finished, the applauding audience was on its feet, many in tears. “It was a remarkable performance,” critics agreed, “perfectly suitable to the most difficult circumstances, directly calculated to get results.” Equal to the words of the address, his demeanor, measured pace, solemnity, and determination all conveyed that a genuine transference of power and purpose from the slain president to his successor had taken place. Headlines told the story:
LEADERSHIP IN GOOD HANDS
JOHNSON EMERGES GRAVE AND STRONG
NEW CHIEF MET THE TEST
Through this single speech, delivered to a nation still in mourning, Lyndon Johnson bridged what had seemed an impossible span. He had seized the reins of power and established a shared sense of direction and purpose for his sudden presidency.
Establish the most effective order of battle.
While passage of the civil rights bill was the foremost of Lyndon
Johnson’s two objectives, the tortuous legislative path to get there resembled a maze filled with false corridors, pitfalls, and dead ends. After speaking with congressmen and senators on the Hill, Johnson concluded that he should first push for the tax cut before contending with the far more divisive issue of civil rights. Kennedy’s aide Theodore Sorensen disagreed with this order of battle. Sorensen reminded Johnson that as vice president, he had been absent from the last Congressional Leadership Breakfast, where the decision had been made to move first on civil rights. Johnson listened respectfully to Sorensen, but on this procedural issue, he trusted his own instincts and experience rather than that of the Kennedy team. A straightforward charge for civil rights would prevent both the civil rights bill and the tax cut from succeeding.
Even if the civil rights bill could get through the southern-dominated committee structure in the House, it would be stopped in the Senate, where southern leaders were fully prepared to mount a filibuster, shutting down all other business until either the bill was withdrawn or its proponents managed to secure a two-thirds cloture vote to bring debate to an end. As long as the filibuster endured, no other piece of legislation could reach the floor. Such prolonged deadlock would only deepen the national crisis and severely wound the new administration’s prospects. If the tax cut could be passed first, however, traction might beget a sense of momentum. With actual evidence of progress, the administration could then single-mindedly address civil rights.
Yet success in enacting the tax bill was by no means certain. The bill had lingered in Congress for thirteen months before its passage in the House and was now firmly mired in the Senate Finance Committee, whose chairman, conservative Virginia senator Harry Byrd, was guardian of the gate. The genteel southerner had the power either to keep the bill locked in committee or to release it to the floor. At the time of Kennedy’s death (in a reversal of future roles) support for corporate and individual tax cuts came from liberals and opposition from conservatives. Kennedy’s young economic advisers argued that tax cuts would stimulate the economy and expand tax revenues, which could then fund a range of social programs. Conservatives, preaching the gospel of the balanced budget, were ideologically committed to the fight against deficits. And no one represented this Old Guard frugality more categorically than Harry Byrd, who had elevated reduction of government spending into a crusade.
Searching for whatever might pry the bill from Byrd’s clutches, Johnson ceaselessly worked the phone with various members of the Finance Committee. From Florida’s George Smathers he gleaned that Byrd was determined to hold the bill in hearings until he could carefully evaluate the upcoming budget due on January 9. If that budget exceeded $100 billion, a “magic” line for him, he would prevent the bill from leaving his committee. With this knowledge, Johnson suddenly saw the glimmer of an opening. If he could shave the budget below the psychological barrier of $100 billion, perhaps a deal could be made that might allow the bill to come to the floor, even if Byrd would eventually vote against it.
In his courtship of Byrd, Lyndon Johnson spared nothing. On December 4, less than two weeks after Kennedy’s assassination, Johnson invited Byrd to the White House: “Harry, why don’t you come down here and see me tomorrow. I want to get some of your wisdom.” A presidential limousine met the senator outside the Senate office building. The president personally greeted him upon his arrival and then played tour guide through the West Wing, the swimming pool, and the massage room until they settled down in the small room adjoining the Oval Office for an intimate lunch over Byrd’s favorite potato soup and vanilla ice cream.
After reminiscing about old Senate days, the mannerly haggling began. “Harry, that tax cut is important to me, mightily important,” Johnson began. “You know that we cannot have a tax cut without serious decreases in the budget,” Byrd countered. “Yes,” Johnson agreed, “but my latest studies tell me that I would be fortunate, really fortunate, if I could get it down below $105 or $107 billion.” Both men knew he was starting high in the manner of all country dickering. (The working Kennedy budget was $103 billion, leaving a deficit of more than $10 billion.) “Too big, Mr. President, too big,” said Byrd. “Well Harry, just suppose, and I say just suppose because I don’t think it can realistically be done, just suppose I could get the budget down somewhere under $100 billion, what would you say then?” In that case, Byrd answered, “we might be able to do some business.” Knowing that Byrd was a man of his word, Johnson summarily stood up and offered his hand. “Harry, you have made a deal. It’s been good seeing you. I don’t see enough of you.” He then gently ushered Byrd to the door.
Honor commitments.
Now the hard work of budget paring commenced. Members of Kennedy’s team told him they had whittled it down as far as they could. There was no fat left, they warned; any more cutting would hit muscle and bone. But Johnson was adamant. “Unless you get to $100 billion,” Johnson warned everyone, “you will not pee one drop.”
“I worked as hard on that budget as I have worked on anything,” Johnson recalled. “I studied almost every line, nearly every page, until I was dreaming about the budget at night.” He recognized that to the ordinary citizen the federal budget was a boggling compilation of statistics—“thicker than a Sears-Roebuck catalog and duller than a telephone directory”—but to a president responsible for setting priorities, it was “a human document affecting the daily lives of every American.” For Lyndon Johnson, as for Franklin Roosevelt, people lived behind the figures, people hoping for some form of aid from their government.
The campaign Johnson launched to reduce government expenditures cast a wide net. He consolidated federal buildings upon land the government already owned, ordered agencies to buy in bulk, and turned out lights in the White House, earning him the nickname “Lightbulb Lyndon.” More significantly, he sent memos to each department, including the Pentagon, demanding lists of cuts. So intent was he to jump-start his domestic agenda that the largest cuts—more than $1 billion—came from the Defense Department under Secretary Robert McNamara.
Byrd had told the president he would have to see the budget in writing and have sufficient time for his staff to analyze it before he allowed the tax bill to move forward. Fully aware that Byrd’s team would spot any gimmicks, Johnson reduced the budget down to $97.5 billion, leaving plenty of room for argument. “You can tell your grandchildren you were the senator who finally got a President to cut his budget.” He wanted Byrd to understand that future judgment would be rendered upon this achievement, and he was more than willing to share the credit if it would enhance and speed along the present objective.
All along, Johnson knew that reciprocal trust was of paramount importance. So long as he fulfilled his promise, Byrd would keep his end of the deal. And in early February, the chairman finally released the bill from his committee to the floor. Still, time remained of the essence. The ordinary legislative process to move the bill forward through debate on the Senate floor, on to a vote, and then to the conference committee with the House, might take weeks, or even months. If this lengthy pace of business prevailed, if, as Johnson worried, “they just procrastinate, and put off, and shimmy around,” then the window of opportunity to harness public sentiment for the martyred president would surely close.
Drive, drive, drive.
“No detail of the legislative process eluded him,” White House aide Larry O’Brien said of Lyndon Johnson. “Every day, every hour, it was drive, drive, drive.” No sooner had Byrd’s committee voted to send the bill to the floor than Johnson called the chief committee clerk, Elizabeth Springer, to urge her to make all haste writing the majority and minority reports to send to the floor. How soon could the report be completed? he inquired. Told it would take about a week, Johnson asked, “Are they working any at night?” Tell everyone, he said, he would provide overtime. Thrilled by hearing directly from the president, Springer called back to promise that the report would be completed in three days. “Oh that’s wonderful, I love you,” Johnson t
old her. Immediately, he placed a call to the Government Printing Office to rush the printing of the report. “There’s a crew working tonight,” the printer assured Johnson, “we’ll keep the plant open and get the job done.”
Once the bill reached the floor, Johnson worked with individual senators to hold the line against the attachment of a single amendment, which would “open the floodgates” and delay the process. He pushed all his cabinet officers to lean on wavering senators. To those who had planned to attend a foreign policy conference on NATO, he made it clear that he didn’t “look with very much favor on their hightailing it around the world.” The job they needed to focus upon was on Capitol Hill, not in Europe. Once the bill passed the Senate, he turned to the chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee, Wilbur Mills, urging him to use his powerful influence to speed the bill through the conference committee.
On February 26, three short months after Kennedy’s assassination, the tax bill passed both houses. At the signing ceremony, Johnson lavished praise on Senator Byrd, chief among the half dozen men he had termed his “partner” during negotiations. That Byrd had allowed the majority to work its will despite his continued opposition to the bill was the mark of “a gentleman and a scholar, and a producer.”
To sweep away stagnation, to get things moving in this lethargic Congress, Lyndon Johnson had used every straw of the broom. Furthermore, he made it clear to Congress and his administration that he was now prepared to brush aside all other pending legislation to clear space for a single-minded focus on civil rights.
Master the power of narrative.
Leadership Page 41
