Perhaps his greatest talent was discernment. With Hart, Broadhurst discerned two things right away.
Number one, Hart needed time away from Senate business, and, later, campaign business. Anyone could see that—everyone on Hart’s staff, for instance. But who had the money to finance a weekend getaway to Turnberry Isle? Who among the Hart wonks even knew Turnberry Isle existed? ... Billy B. knew. He also knew fine food and wine. And he could pick up a check.
The great thing was, Broadhurst didn’t ask for anything in return. He didn’t insist on his status as a player, didn’t try to insinuate himself into strategy sessions, issues, or political meetings. Broadhurst just wanted to be of help ... to Gary. And the greatest thing, for Hart: he didn’t have to sit through a chat-fest with Broadhurst.
That was number two. Broadhurst sensed that Hart valued space and silence. That’s why Hart liked to travel with Billy Shore. They could sit through a flight across the country in silence. Broadhurst quickly learned to keep quiet around Hart. Broadhurst could sit for hours on a boat without saying a word—and without expecting Hart to say a word.
At HQ in Denver, no one knew much about Broadhurst. He was impressive, with that gray hair (though he was three years younger than Gary) and his southern manner. They knew he was a lawyer from Louisiana, he had connections, he had money. He could travel at his own expense, to make contacts for Gary. They knew he had to have a desk set aside for when he was in town. That’s all they knew.
He was certainly generous. There were never dollars wasted in the office on Downing Street: it was wholly Spartan—used desks and chairs, no luxuries. Broadhurst hadn’t been there three days before he gave one of the workers a hundred dollars for a coffee urn and another hundred for a microwave. People could eat and drink—Broadhurst was a hero!
Then he started working with the field staff. He was good about coming by to ask what he could do for them. He’d mention that he was going to Kentucky, staying at the Governor’s mansion. He’d see who Gary could line up down there, where he should stand on local races. Broadhurst was on the road for Hart more and more, as the winter waned in ’87.
The first sign of trouble came at a schedule meeting, in February, in the conference room. There were meetings every day in that room—that hole without windows. Broadhurst had never sat in before. This time, on the new block schedule, a weekend trip to Puerto Rico had suddenly been cut to one day. The second day of that weekend, suddenly, had no events. And Casey wasn’t arguing—which was weird. Usually, she’d obsess about a day ... Christ, a whole day? There were so many days lost to the law firm, so many for Iowa, or New Hampshire—never time enough. A day was precious!
But Sue was silent. And she knew more about the schedule than anyone. Still, someone asked: “Well, uh, what is this?”
It was Broadhurst who answered, quickly and firmly: “There’s an extra day. Gary wants it, and it’s on there.”
That was a day Bill and Gary were going out on the boat.
The way Broadhurst saw it, that was just one small thing he could do for Hart—give him time for relaxation ... away from it all. That was important in any campaign, Broadhurst said, and though this was his first Presidential campaign, he could see it was probably more important than ever at this level.
“You’ve got to have mental relaxation and talk about other things,” he would say. “You need space and time.”
He meant, Gary did.
It was on a boat, a charter boat, the last weekend in March, that Broadhurst met Lynn Armandt. That was just happenstance. What happened was, Gary and Bill were down in Florida for a weekend on this boat ... and Gary ran into Donna Rice, invited her back to the boat for dinner, then for a cruise ... and Donna called Lynn Armandt to go along. Donna didn’t want to go with two men, alone. And Lynn was fun, she’d get along fine with new people. Lynn would know how to act—she was sharp, a woman of business.
She had a very hip and knowing manner—casual, like her clothes—Miami Beach funky (unlike Donna, who spent her working days in business suits). They were both twenty-nine years old. Donna had only known Lynn a few months—they were mostly just workout buddies at the Turnberry health club ... but Lynn lived at Turnberry Isle, so she could come out to the boat on a minute’s notice—that’s why Donna called her.
Lynn Armandt wasn’t exactly part of the actress-model-TV crowd in Miami; she was more a part of the Turnberry Isle crowd. She was one of the people (good-looking, or rich, for the most part) who were given free memberships and encouraged to hang around. Lynn had never fooled with college—what for? She had her own shop, the Too Hot Miami bikini boutique at Turnberry, which was a good place for business—a fast crowd and plenty of cash.
She was ever a young woman with her eye on the main chance ... which, of course, Bill Broadhurst discerned. Right away, on the boat, he started talking to her about a business opportunity. His law office in Washington needed someone to coordinate its social functions. The woman who’d held the job had left the firm. Would that be something of interest to Lynn?
Yes, it would.
So, early on, Bill said he would invite Lynn to Washington to talk more about the job. It may have been that whiff of business on the Florida air that made Lynn so sanguine about the time spent with Bill and Donna and Gary. As she later told People mag (business again—big cash for her story), Lynn had doubts about this boat trip, at the start. But with a lunch of lobster salad, cold asparagus, white wine ... and a detailed account of Gary Hart’s latest novel, from the author, who was “a great storyteller” ... Lynn relaxed. “So she made no objection when she found the boat was headed for Bimini. ‘I felt very comfortable.’ ”
In fact, none among them felt any pain, by late afternoon, as they steamed into Bimini and pitched up in a bar called The Compleat Angler. They drank more, talked more, and took over the bandstand. It was Donna and Lynn singing “Twist and Shout,” Broadhurst on drums, Hart’s merry fingers on the castanets. It was on the dock that Hart had his picture taken with Donna Rice on his lap. (Come to think of it, that was Lynn’s idea.)
It was Donna’s camera, and Donna’s picture—never intended for public ... well, public anything! She never did let the negative out of her possession. It was always her picture, her property—which was partly what would gall her so when it made its very public debut on the front page of the National Enquirer. (The Enquirer had the nerve to claim copyright on the photo!)
By that time, Donna would know ... it was a terrible mistake to lend the photos from that weekend to Lynn Armandt. (But Lynn was so insistent—said she had to show her boyfriend!) ... And especially that one of Donna on Gary’s lap. (Donna never would have lent that if Gary had already announced his candidacy.) ...
Of course, by that time, Donna would know ... Lynn sold her out at every turn. She wasn’t any kind of buddy at all.
In the end, Lynn was just a woman of business.
How could Donna not have known?
Well, she was quick to trust, chatty and voluble, confiding—why wouldn’t she be? At twenty-nine, she had progressed through her brief adulthood from success to success—people always liked Donna. And admired her: she was a magna cum laude graduate of the University of South Carolina (serious about her grades, that meant), she was a cheerleader—head cheerleader (a serious responsibility)—she was a successful model, and an actress in commercials, industrial films, a few small parts on TV shows. She was always hunting opportunity—though, in those days, she was more and more convinced it was time to move on from the life she’d built in Miami. Her steady line of work was in pharmaceutical sales for Wyeth Labs, and she was serious about it, as was her wont—top salesperson in her district that year. Friday night, you’d likely find her home reading Wyeth reports or the journal of the AMA; she’d order in pizza, maybe watch some TV until she could fall asleep.
She was intelligent.
Worldly she was not.
Mention some name in the news, for instance, and Donna would get this s
weet and serious look on her face like she knew she might know it ... but ... no connect.
Of politics she was blessedly unaware.
For instance: she was going out for some time with the rock singer Don Henley (she’d met him by chance, in Los Angeles, a couple of years before), and she was at Henley’s place in Aspen for this party, New Year’s Day, 1987. She was in the kitchen getting ready to serve some food she had helped cook, and she met ... Gary Hart.
“Can I get you anything?” said Donna Rice ... in complete and innocent ignorance of Gary Hart’s career, his run for the Presidency in 1984, his foreordained front-runnerhood for 1988. This was her first hint that Gary Hart was on the planet ... and tell the truth, even then, she did not take much notice.
Tell the truth, if a friend had not been shooting videotape of the party, all afternoon ... if Gary Hart had not taken ax to firewood, entertaining with his imitation of Abe Lincoln the rail-splitter ... if Hart, thereby, had not got himself prominently into the video record ... if Henley’s intimates had not sat around, after the party, and watched this video, and talked about “Gary, Gary, Gary,” remarking that here was a political leader of the nation ... Donna would never have remembered the name.
The face, of course, was something else. That’s what happened, that Friday night in March, when Donna was at a cocktail affair at Turnberry Isle—it was a charity benefit, crowded and frantic ... and that’s why Donna and a dozen folks she knew walked out to get some air. They strolled along the docks toward a boat they knew (they knew the owner, actually) ... unaware that it had been chartered for the weekend and was occupied, even then, by two older men, who turned out to be Bill Broadhurst ... and Gary Hart—who invited the whole crowd on board for a drink. That’s when Donna got a good look at Gary, and said: “Hey! I know you!”
And that’s how they started talking.
But what did she know?
She didn’t know, for instance, he was married (though Lee was also at that party, in Aspen, New Year’s Day) ... she didn’t know where he lived ... she didn’t know what he’d done in his life. He was just a person ... a nice person.
And so interested in her—at least it seemed so, when he asked her to dinner the next day ... and then Sunday, on the yacht.
That was certainly the reason she accepted ... and called her friend Lynn to come along. They both, these men, seemed so interesting. And she made another call—to her dad, who’d probably know:
“I met this man, Gary Hart—what is he? A Congressman? ... A Senator? ... What state?”
In a way, that only made it better—fresher. He was so sweet, funny and serious at the same time, and he wanted to know what she thought. He didn’t hold forth like some distant, self-important politician. He didn’t presume at all.
And she hadn’t been with him long before she realized how much he wanted to get away from all the political talk, the pressure ... in fact, he was tormented: here was a man who had to choose between devotion to his country and personal happiness. He was facing a run for the Presidency, when really, he—half of him ... didn’t want to campaign at all! ... Donna understood, right away: here was a man facing the crisis of his life.
What stirred in her was not passion, but compassion.
At the same time, she knew that fate had put her with a man of exceptional vision, just as she was searching out a new path for her own life. Here was the world of politics, a new world to her. ... Gary said the best thing about his life in politics—the one thing that excited him the most—was the freshness and idealism of the young.
He was charmed by her.
And she knew it was awfully quick, but ... well, she was more than charmed—though she knew this was not reality, that boat was not reality, at all ... but she was more and more interested—fascinated was her word ... just after a day and a couple of evenings on that boat, and the morning after the cruise, coming back from Bimini ... after which Gary and Bill went to the Miami airport. Lynn and Donna stayed behind, and talked about Gary.
Lynn was the one Donna would confide in, when Gary called, after that. He’d call from the road, and say he was thinking about her, remembering. Sometimes, he was so sweet, she didn’t know what to think—or where things stood. One week, Lynn might try to tell Donna this could turn into something serious. Next time she’d say, maybe Donna should just break this off. And Donna was in turmoil—trying to sort out what she really felt. That’s why she had to think long and hard when he called and invited her to Washington—beginning of May. And in the end, that’s why she went—why she decided at the last minute to go—she wouldn’t know what she wanted until she could see him again.
33
Saturday Night II
HART COULDN’T SIT STILL any longer. He had to find out what those guys were doing—at least let them know he was on to them, they could stop sneaking around his house. Maybe he could scare them off.
He walked outside, he was very alert. He’d try to bait them—he called it “trolling.” He wanted to be certain they were after him. He got into his car, drove a couple of blocks, parked again, and started walking through his neighborhood. He’d walk a block, turn the corner, stop ... listen. Sure enough, here would come the footsteps behind him. Hart doubled back toward Sixth Street, and made sure to pass their car. He gave it a good once-over, including the two guys inside. He let them see he was writing down their license number. Then he walked down the alley behind his house.
Jim McGee, investigative reporter, and Jim Savage, his editor, got out of the car and followed Hart down the alley. They turned a corner ... there he was.
They introduced themselves. They were nervous. Hart was leaning against a brick wall, in his white sweatshirt, arms crossed in front of his chest ... like he was waiting for an explanation.
McGee was saying, they wanted to know about the young woman who was staying in Hart’s house.
“No one is staying in my house,” Hart said, quite precisely.
Well, then, they wanted to know, what was his relationship with the woman?
“I am not involved in any relationship.”
Then why did two reporters just see Hart and this woman going into his house?
“The obvious reason is that I’m being set up.”
The Herald reported that Hart’s voice was shaking. The stories described him as “nervous and evasive.” But Hart was stiff with fury. Somewhere, there had to be a line behind which there was private life. Surely, the door of his own home ought to be a boundary. As Hart recalled, the reporters were shaky. When Tom Fiedler, in his jogging suit, joined the interview, Hart noted that Fiedler’s voice quivered. He couldn’t phrase his questions. He stuttered.
It went on for twenty minutes.
The Herald wanted to know the woman’s name.
Hart wasn’t going to reveal her name.
The Herald demanded to talk to the woman.
“I don’t have to produce anyone.”
What about the phone calls to the woman—what were they about?
“Nothing,” Hart said. “It was casual, political ...”
So what was his relationship with the woman?
“I have no personal relationship with the individual you are following.”
Was he denying he met her on a yacht in Miami?
“I’m not denying anything,” Hart snapped.
Did he have sex with her?
“The answer is no! ... I’m not going to get into all that.” Hart turned and started walking back toward his house. The Herald’s photographer started snapping pictures. “We don’t need any of that,” Hart said, and he was gone.
The Miamis ran off to file their story. They still didn’t know who the woman was, what she was to Hart, what had happened in the house. But they had Hart’s denials ... what the hell!
This was big!
They could still make the main edition for Sunday!
WASHINGTON—Gary Hart, the Democratic Presidential candidate who has dismissed allegations of womanizing,
spent Friday night and most of Saturday in his Capitol Hill townhouse with a young woman who flew from Miami and met him. Hart denied any impropriety.
They would ram the story through in less than two hours.
While they were writing, Bill Broadhurst tracked them down by phone at a Quality Inn, twenty-some blocks away. Gary had called him. Broadhurst was outraged. He said he’d talk to these newsboys, straighten this thing out.
Broadhurst wanted to talk to Fiedler—but he couldn’t. Fiedler was busy, writing. Broadhurst insisted to Jim Savage that the woman the Herald was after had slept with her friend, at his house, not Hart’s. When Fiedler finally came to the phone, Broadhurst offered to host the Herald team at his house, give them his side of the story. “The girls” would be there. But Fiedler had to go. His deadline was now ... he said he’d call Broadhurst back.
He did call back—when the story was headed for the presses in Miami. Six columns across the top of page one:
MIAMI WOMAN IS LINKED TO HART
Then Fiedler wanted to come meet the two women. Broadhurst said they were asleep. They weren’t. But as Broadhurst pointed out: there was no point in showing the Herald guys anything anymore. Their story was filed.
Hart called Lee at the cabin, that night. He called his Campaign Manager, Bill Dixon, in Denver. Dixon called the other white boys into his apartment for a damage assessment. ... Why the hell did Hart talk to those Herald assholes? Dixon would have to get to Washington right away! ... Jesus! What was Gary thinking? ... Did he think this wasn’t going to hurt? ... Didn’t he understand?
No, Hart understood perfectly ... that he was the victim of a process that was out of control ...
He woke up the next day, worked on his economics speech, went out to get the Times (glad to see there was no one watching his house). He took the early calls from Denver—tried to answer questions for the white boys, to help them manage this problem. But the more they asked, the more he had the air of a man who was being picked on—picked to death.
In Denver, they thought he didn’t understand. This was front-page, all over south Florida. The ABC Brinkley-fest gave it big play—top of the news! The wires were calling, the networks ... the white boys told Gary he’d have to get out of his house, the press would be pounding on his door any minute.
What It Takes Page 67
