In fact, Sargent spent that whole year looking for ways to align himself with the state’s Democratic “mainstream.” Opposition to the war was not enough. He needed issues that hit closer to home.
And so, citizens of the Commonwealth were treated to a statewide TV address, in which the Governor revealed, he had rethought state policy, and was now announcing: a moratorium on highway construction in greater Boston.
In the summer, as the campaign heated up, Sargent asked for statewide airtime again, to announce that lobbyists for the lawyers and insurance companies were jamming the State House, trampling the interests of the citizens! Sargent would stand for it no more! He vowed to keep the Senate in session till he got a no-fault bill. ... “I don’t care if the session runs until hell freezes over!”
And the Senate passed no-fault.
There was great keening and rumbling from the insurance industry. This was the nation’s first no-fault bill. Companies threatened to stop writing policies in Massachusetts. So Sargent went back on statewide TV—he signed the bill, on the air!
How could White and Dukakis match that?
They could not. In fact, White couldn’t do anything in the last month of the campaign. A bleeding ulcer sent him to the hospital. Michael had to carry the ticket on his own.
And he did. Everybody saw how ably he ran, how he spoke on the issues. (And Michael only second man on the slate!) In fact, Dukakis wanted to debate: not against the Republicans’ Lieutenant Governor nominee—he wanted Sargent.
Of course, Sargent ducked. He was cruising in the polls—and no one wanted to debate Dukakis: that was a pattern that would persist.
There were others:
Dukakis had to work with White’s wise guys ... but he didn’t want their direction, their words in his mouth. He wanted his own people (who took their cues from him).
For the first time now, there was money—a different kind of money. (Though, still, there was turkey tetrazzini ... in fact, Michael could cook a mean tetrazzini himself.) Michael had a friend doing money, Dick Geisser, a nonpolitician, a businessman who’d sold his company. Every night, Geisser would come to Michael’s kitchen table with the checks, and read out the names.
“Nope,” Michael would say.
“Nope, nope ... send it back.”
Michael wouldn’t take more than five hundred dollars—though the law allowed one thousand. He didn’t like contributions over a hundred. And no lobbyists—not a cent. And no one who did business with the state. No one who was regulated by the state.
His own guys—Carl Sapers, for one—told him he was crazy.
Geisser was the one who’d have to ask, “Why not?” ... He was the guy who’d have to call up the donors, tell them why their money was no good. Michael would explain who this one was, and that one. It was a masterful tour of Massachusetts ... by check.
That was the other pattern: Michael knew more than anyone else in that room. And the rest of the fellows—if they stayed, they fell into step. Everybody wanted good marks from Michael. You sure didn’t want to argue: he’d give you a look—you weren’t just wrong, you were on the wrong side!
In the end, the wrong side won. Michael’s campaign ended a quarter-million votes short ... but not without honor. Michael Dukakis had carried the Party standard, all by himself—and everybody could see ...
Michael Dukakis should have been Lieutenant Governor.
That’s what they said, afterward, in living rooms around the state. See, he never really stopped. After the election, he was out of the House, out of office—first time in ten years. He went back to Hill & Barlow (they made him a partner) ... but, really, what he was doing was sewing up the state. The next time was his, to run his own race, his own way. He had earned it.
That’s what they told him:
“Michael, you deserved it—you should be Lieutenant Governor.”
Hell, more than a few said: Michael Dukakis should be Governor!
44
Their Kinda Guy
MAYBE THAT’S WHY IT seemed so familiar—the living rooms, the coffee shops, the miles overland to the next little group. ... Michael was convinced he’d done it all before. And that, in turn, fed his growing confidence in Iowa, his air of command, his self-possession. If it wasn’t so efficient and purposeful, it could have been mistaken for ease.
Actually, it was more like relief. How could he have known, when he got into this, that it wasn’t some mysterious sheet of sheer ice? He might have fallen on his face! People might have ridiculed ... but they did not. Michael didn’t even stumble. This wasn’t any harder—wasn’t any different ... didn’t feel different.
Sometimes, if he was alone, or with Kitty, or John, or the girls, he’d admit: it was almost unbelievable, how doable it was, how people looked at him as a serious candidate for the Presidency of the United States. That summer, Newsweek called him the Democratic front-runner ... the man with the money and the horses ... him! A child of parents who came to this country without one dollar, one word of English! It was ... terrific.
Of course, that’s not how it came out when he talked about his feelings ... well, he didn’t talk about his feelings. He might do a child-of-immigrants riff, but he’d rattle it off like one more credential, or some check mark on his to-do list:
Governmentthatworks ...
Immigrantswhomadeit ...
If a profile writer, or some other blip on his screen, asked what these months meant to him, they’d get a snappy answer that left no doubt: Michael was unswayed, unaltered ... unmystified.
But, Governor, hasn’t it changed, for you?
“When you first walk in, you don’t know what to expect. Then you get your sea legs. You get your confidence. You have more information.”
End of discussion. Michael’s tone made it clear, he was past all that.
Sometimes, he’d say what a “terrific learning experience” Iowa had been. But when pressed for lessons learned, he’d say: “People here want very much the same things people everywhere want.”
Of course, he meant people in Massachusetts.
By July, his wise guys were already after him to “broaden the message,” to speak more “Presidentially,” to be more “inspirational.” Sasso’s memo at the start of the month—the third-quarter plan, as John called it—gently suggested: “We have not hit that high note yet.” Sasso urged him to reach for broader themes as he moved into the fall.
Of course, Michael took it from John—at least in concept. Sure, they could work more of that into the plan. ... But if someone handed him a speech that strove for “that high note” ... well, Michael went to work with his pencil, brought it back to “in my state.”
They told him: People have to hear something more!
“It’s a marathon, my friend ... plenty of time for that ...”
If they persisted, they found he had no more time for them.
“Nope. Nope ... it’s not me.”
End of discussion.
The problem was, if he acknowledged that this was anything different ... then, the next thing—they’d want him to be different. And he wasn’t going to do that. Where would it stop?
“Nope. Steady as she goes, my friend ...
“That’s us ... steady, strong.”
He was most intent on proving that he knew what he was doing. And how could they argue? Ahead in New Hampshire ... closing on Gephardt in Iowa ... three million dollars in the bank. ... Everything worked great!
Except when he didn’t know:
He got to a café in Iowa, and ruled that the print press could follow him in—cameras out ... nope, no cameras. (The iron ring still bothered Michael: the boom mikes, lights—how could people talk?)
Of course, the TVs went bullshit. They were doing stand-ups in front of the closed door: how Dukakis froze them out. ... The Press Secretary, Patricia O’Brien, tried to soothe them: she knew campaigns, she understood ... she’d talk to the Governor. ... This was her credibility on the line, too!
&n
bsp; So Michael came out, buckled up in the backseat, and Pat turned around from the front—she was on him.
“Governor, you can’t do it that way.”
“That’s the way I do it.”
“No, Governor, you can’t do it. That is not the way you do it. Not in this.”
“I don’t want cameras ... they change ...”
“The cameras are why you’re here!”
Now Michael glared at her in the front seat; he gave her the look. “Will you listen to me?”
“I’ll listen to you when you start listening to me.”
Of course, he knew she was right. That’s what was galling. He was still staring at her with a look you’d give a misbehaving child ... but he didn’t have a leg to stand on.
“Well,” he said. “Well. ... Well! PUT ON YOUR SEAT BELT!”
The funny thing was, they got great press—respectful, serious—almost fond! This was partly because of the diddybops: they just assumed the race revolved around their man. But once the Duke’s first-quarter fund-raising figures surfaced (four million?) ... no one questioned again whether the guy was a player. He could play. ... If anyone still made bold to ask why he thought he should be President, Michael had a neat and serviceable answer: opportunity for all, government that worked ... he was more than airy ideas, he was the hands-on manager who made it happen. (“That’s the kinda leadership I think we need in this country. I’m the kinda guy ...”)
Anyway, they seldom asked why. If they weren’t speculating on the horse race, they were busy with Karacter ... and it was apparent, Mike was their kinda guy.
Michael didn’t screw around (but liked his wife), never took drugs (but blamed himself for not watching his wife), never got drunk (but would taste wine), never lost himself in fancy for a movie, a book, an idea of any kind ... never overate, overslept, overworked, overpaid, overspent, overreached, overspoke ... never lost control, in any way they could see.
And never changed.
Perfekt!
There was just enough for a nice, neat profile: a joke or two up front about how cheap he was (heh heh—that snow-blower is twenty-five years old—heh heh) ... which played right into the “crisis of his life,” the time he lost, in ’78—because he wouldn’t raise taxes fast enough ... how sad he was, in loss, but how he got smarter (at Harvard!) and came back, better, harder, brilliantly ... as Duke II.
Forty column inches—no loose ends.
There was a woman named Gail Sheehy on the prowl that summer—the Karacter Kops’ drum majorette, she marched at the head of the parade. And after a long shiny-magazine inspection of Dukakis’s life, she went (cautiously) gooey on her new squeeze:
“... Or might we be ready for a hardheaded, thoroughly decent, pre-war model of a man, one who would wear very well indeed, never tell us a lie, give good value on the dollar, and keep Amtrak running on time?
“We have waited so long for a political leader to believe in with all our hearts ...”
What higher praise could the Top Kop offer?
Even reporters, who actually tried to cover the man, could find no handle for dire speculation—secret failures, frissons, hints of danger ... certainly not the Streak of Wildness.
Maureen Dowd, the most observant political writer on The New York Times, essayed The Profile that summer, and came out with:
The cheapness joke ...
The passion for Kitty ...
The crisis of his life, ’78 ...
And she wrapped up this life lesson as neatly as would Michael:
“... When he recaptured the governorship in 1982, Mr. Dukakis had learned the art of politics. Duke II, as he is sometimes dubbed, does not scoff at patronage. He has created an awe-inspiring political machine. ...”
God! She must have been talking to Sasso!
Actually, the big-feet were all talking to Sasso, though Patricia O’Brien was a splendid Press Secretary, and Sasso had ruled, by memorandum, that all comment—from everyone—had to funnel through Pat’s shop. What he meant was, everyone but him.
John thought O’Brien hadn’t quite made the leap from her previous life as a working reporter. She didn’t quite get how the game was played. So every once in a while, he’d work a story, or a big-foot, himself. When it came time to announce Michael’s extraordinary $4.5 million first quarter, John was rubbing his hands with relish. This was the kind of story that would put his man on the map!
Pat meant to announce the figure, on the day such figures were announced. But, no ...
John meant to work this: Michael would be in Atlanta, ten days before the figures were announced. So Sasso would leak partial figures (not enough to step on the main story) to The Atlanta Journal. Then, just to cover his tracks (and take care of a friend, or two), he’d leak some numbers to The New York Times ... so both papers would have partial stories. (Who could tell where they got the stuff?) Other papers and TV would pick up from that. Then, later, comes the main story. That way, John could get a whole week of play ... with news organizations chasing each other to find out exactly how big was Michael’s triumph. Gorgeous!
Pat said: “John, you can’t choreograph reporters. They aren’t puppets! It’s going to cause a lot of ill will ...”
John said: “You’re right, Pat ...”
But he did it anyway. Sasso knew which stories offered room for a few downfield moves and which he had to run straight up the middle. (The story of Michael’s decision to run, back in March—no one got that early, not a whisper!) ... Sasso was good with the press—that was part of his job—he was good at his job. And Pat didn’t have to know everything. Who was she gonna complain to—Michael?
Michael didn’t have to know everything, either. He’d long since come to rely on Sasso’s friendships within the press, his handling of stories ... to Michael it was a simple management problem, basic shop. Michael knew, John ran a good shop.
The proof was in the papers. In July, at last, Kitty made her announcement—she had taken speed for twenty-five years. This was a textbook piece of management.
Al Peters, husband of Kitty’s sister, knew of a hospital in Norfolk, Massachusetts, that was dedicating a new wing for substance-abuse patients. The campaign got the hospital to dedicate it to Kitty.
Kitty’s statement was a labor of weeks ... three drafts, four drafts ... they had to answer all questions—favorably, but firmly. They wanted to raise this once, then put it to bed. No second-day loose ends ... and no lingering questions about Michael.
How could Mr. Hands-On not know about his wife’s addiction for twenty years?
Why did he lie when she went for treatment, in ’82 ... that story about her hepatitis?
That was Sasso’s worry—this could raise doubts about Michael. Tell the truth, John had no patience for this drug business. John didn’t even want to deal with Kitty.
To Kitty, it seemed none of the men understood. It got to be very much a woman’s affair: Patricia O’Brien and Susan Estrich worked with Kitty on her speech, and they worked in secrecy. If word got out, this would turn into a circus. The campaign had people calling doctors to make sure the medical facts checked out. Of course, they were only asking about “a friend.” The doctors said there was no way five milligrams a day could constitute a physical addiction. But that was the word Kitty wanted to use: addiction. This was important to Kitty. This wasn’t just a problem of press relations. This was her coming out.
That’s why it was wonderful that Michael was there, when she told the world. Michael could have been on the road—Iowa, California—anywhere. Let Kitty do her thing. But Michael said no. He’d be with his bride. That’s what made it so moving: he was next to her, at the hospital, as she started the story ... and he started to cry. She paused to brush a tear from his cheek. And another ...
“Michael didn’t know,” she said. “I was already taking the pills when I met him. Pills are easy to hide, and I hid them.”
(She hid them in a shoe—she always hid the pills in her shoes.)
/> “But above all, I didn’t tell my husband, because I knew, if I did, I would have to confront my dependency. I would have to stop. I was afraid I couldn’t stop.”
The small crowd applauded her warmly. And by the next day, the whole country was applauding Kitty.
And applauding Michael.
His ignorance for twenty years, his lie in ’82—those issues disappeared overnight, replaced in the lore of the big-feet by his mastery of the story. The next day, E.J. Dionne quoted lunch-buddies:
“In its current mood, some politicians said, the nation may reward candidates who appear a bit vulnerable: confessional politics may also be smart politics.”
In fact, he suggested, Dukakis helped himself by softening his icy image. E.J. quoted another anonymous source, saying Kitty made Michael “look like a warm, caring, loving and compassionate husband.”
Of course, that referred to his tears ... which appeared in only one paper, E.J.’s own New York Times. See, attendance at the hospital had to be controlled. No press circus—Kitty might crumble. So the campaign put the hospital event on the schedule—but without explanation. Only after she knew Kitty started her speech (this thing was timed to the minute—no mistakes!) did Patricia O’Brien make a round of calls alerting (only local) reporters that Kitty had something to say—did they want a half-hour with her that afternoon? ... So, at the hospital that morning, there were just a couple of local TVs ... and Maureen Dowd, from the Times—she did a great job. And the scene at the hospital made the story so much better.
Lucky she got there. She must have been talking to Sasso.
For Kitty, this was the start of a new world. She was scared ... stressed out ... and thrilled. She must have done fifteen one-on-ones that afternoon—same script, but still: one after another, after the other ... it was brutal!
What It Takes Page 77
