The heading at the top of Wittgraf’s page said “Press Release,” but in Wittgraf’s lawyerly mind, it was a summation to the jury—his last chance to make the case. The defendant (Dole) ...
“... showed his mean-spirited nature in 1976, when he nearly single-handedly brought the Republican national ticket down to defeat.
“... fails to mention that he and his wife are now millionaires, and had an income of $2.19 million from 1982 through 1986.”
Wittgraf also could not neglect to mention that the Doles lived in “Washington’s posh Watergate apartment complex” ... that they took vacations (regularly!) at a Florida condominium (purchased with the help of Dole’s agribusiness buddies) ... that Elizabeth’s blind trust was under federal investigation. ...
The next day, Wittgraf sent this screed to the Register ... and waited for the explosion.
Dole was at a school in Latimer, Iowa, when Bush’s love note caught up with him. Mari Maseng, Dole’s former Communications Director (now Press Secretary—the Klingons demoted her) backed the Senator into a broom closet.
“Senator, I think this is the kind of thing that—granted, you know, it’s upsetting, but ... you know, the kind of thing where a lot of anger is probably not what we ... you, you probably want, you know, a ‘more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger’ kind of thing, that ...”
Dole just nodded, listening, looking down at the closet floor, with the air of a man who was waiting. Was she finished?
“Senator ... more in sorrow ...”
What she meant was: Oh, God, please—five days to the caucus, please—don’t go nuclear now! Be Ni-i-ice.
Dole stepped out of the closet, and into the waiting iron ring. What he said was ... sorrowful—this kind of thing made him feel sorrow ... because it was pathetic—a pathetic, desperation tactic ... by George Bush.
After that, Dole was warmed up.
Someone asked: Was Dole sure that Bush was behind that release?
“Either George Bush is responsible for this kind of campaign ... or he’s totally out of control,” Dole said.
“Maybe he isn’t in charge. ...
“Maybe he’s not in the loop! ...
“I want George Bush to hold this in his little hand and say, ‘I stand by every word.’ ”
Of course, Bush meant to do no such thing. When his pack pinned him, in Clinton, Iowa, the Veep said of the press release:
“I don’t endorse it. But I don’t reject it.”
Oh, yes, he said, he’d authorized it—he was in charge!
But, no, he couldn’t comment on specifics—he hadn’t read it.
That’s what sent Dole over the edge—thermonuclear. Both men were in Washington the next day for a Senate vote on aid to the contras: on the floor, Dole would carry the ball for the Gip and his favorite guerrillas; Bush would preside, up front, in the chair.
But no sooner had the VP got to the dais, than Dole was making for the front of the chamber ... he was heading for Bush! He was carrying the press release!
It happened so fast, Bush was frozen ... he looked at Dole, then away, as if the doings on the floor might require the attention of the Presiding Officer.
Dole was waving the press release and yammering at Bush. Bush said something back, but that only seemed to set Dole off again.
“I asked him, ‘Did George Bush authorize this?’ ...” Dole reported in the press gallery, within the hour.
“... Because I couldn’t believe that he had authorized this ... very personal attack on me, and on my wife, Elizabeth, and I think we—as I told the Vice President—we’re running for President! This is a very important office! And I said, ‘Did you authorize this release?’
“He said, ‘Yes.’
“I said, ‘Did you read it?’
“He said, ‘No.’
“And I said, ‘Do you know what it contains? Do you know what it says, about me, and Elizabeth?’
“I couldn’t believe it!”
What Dole could not believe was that Bush would try his game of yin-yang Washington knowing ... on this! Bush knew all about the press release ... without being culpable of knowing anything.
That’s why Dole poked the paper onto the desk, under Bush’s nose (“Well, read it!”) ... then stalked away.
Bush wouldn’t pick it up.
Bush could not believe that Dole had made a public spectacle of this, let it get under his skin—a bit of rough and tumble—tipped him over the edge! ... Did he expect Bush to cut and run from a guy like Wittgraf? Been with him for years! ... It had to be phony somehow—Dole was acting—waving that paper (“My wife!”). Dole was acting ... like a bully! Came right at Bush—in his face. That face! ... Bush said later, Dole’s face went strange—like something took over. Dole was out of control!
103
Into the Bubble
IN THE LAST WEEK, the Democrats were neck and neck ... and neck, like thoroughbreds pounding for the finish. The latest Iowa poll had it:
Gephardt: 19
Dukakis: 18
Simon: 17
That’s when Simon went after Gephardt—radio ads, accusing Dick of flip-flops. “Some candidates now profess to be friends of the working men and women, when their votes helped create the problems we face.”
In the bar of the Savery Hotel, Simon’s wise guys were whining because their man wouldn’t go nuclear—put the ads on TV. But radio did the job: Gephardt got a steady drizzle of questions on his votes.
The ’81 tax-cut vote was the favorite. Why did Gephardt vote for Reaganomics?
Well, the short answer was, Dick voted with his district—to be precise, his district-to-be. Redistricting, after the 1980 census, was going to pack a new swatch of Jefferson County suburb into his district—he was nervous, he did the popular thing. Sure, he could kick himself now. He should have known, he should have seen what it would mean if he went national. (When he went national was more like it ... that’s what was frustrating—he should have known himself.)
But that was a long time ago ... anyway, not the kind of answer he could give. So he had this patter worked out—we were headed for recession, we needed a tax cut, he led the fight for the Democratic tax cut ... but the votes weren’t there, so he voted for Reagan’s cut, which was better than none. ... And then, for the next five years, he pushed for tax reform, which closed up a lot of those tax breaks Reagan engineered for the rich.
It was all true, in its way ... but it took about two solid minutes to say, even with no wasted words—and was difficult for a voter to get as he passed by the tube on the way to the fridge. So Dick didn’t like to have to say it ... but he said it.
Some guy in the crowd would stand up, after Dick’s speech, and ask: he heard on the radio ...
Dick would do the patter.
Then he’d start back to the car and some visiting reporter from Chicago would stick a tape in his face, and ask:
Now, what about the ’81 tax vote?
What the hell did she want him to say? He saw her, at the event, hunched over her tape in the back of the room, transcribing his answer the first time. Did she think he’d change his answer for her?
No, he’d blink, once, slowly, and start:
“I led the fight for the Democratic alternative ...”
“Yes, yes,” she said, after the patter. “But the deeper question, the deep issue, is that you’re being expedient ...” She tried to make her voice rise at the end, so it sounded like a question.
But Gephardt knew it wasn’t a question. The net result was, he spent less time with the press. He had two vans-ful trailing him now, and rent-a-car paratroops dropping in for an hour or two. He was the front-runner: they all wanted a chat.
Well, let them get in line.
He had to husband himself as a campaign resource. Eight events a day were draining enough. At every stop, he had to bring up that hot resolve they expected from the TV. Dick would ask, as the Advance man’s hand reached for the door of his van: “Where’s my Wall Street Journal?”
Someone would hand him a fresh copy of the Journal editorial, the one that claimed the trade deficit was “just a fact of life.” And Dick, in his shiny-green parka, would take that clip on stage—and wave it.
“I wish the people who wrote the editorials would come with me out of their office, out of New York, and sit with the workers at the J.I. Case plant in Bettendorf, Iowa. Twelve hundred jobs in that plant six months ago—today none.
“Talk to people thirty and forty and fifty years old, who lost their life insurance, lost their health insurance, lost their pension. Have no idea how they’re gonna support their families ... standing in welfare lines and unemployment lines ... tell them it’s JUST A FACT OF LIFE that their jobs left Bettendorf, and they’re now in South Korea. Or go to the Farm-All plant in the same town. Three thousand jobs. And tell those people the same thing. People making twelve and thirteen dollars an hour. Or go to the Caterpillar plant, which is half closed down—in six months WILL be closed down—two THOUsand more jobs in the same town. SIX to seven THOUsand jobs in one town ... HERE in Iowa. And the jobs are GONE, in the last six months ... tell THEM it’s just a FACT OF LIFE ...
“Well I don’t LIKE their facts of life. I wanta CHANGE the facts of life. And if you’ll stand with me on February 8th, we’ll confound the critics, we’ll surprise the Establishment, and we will turn this country in a new direction. IT’S YOUR FIGHT, TOO!”
They’d be screaming and stomping when he finished, men pumping his hand, hammering his shoulders, women in union jackets busting through to kiss him, and tell him he’s going to win.
The crowds were bigger now, and hotter, pumped for his arrival by Bruce Springsteen (“Born in the U.S.A.”) thudding and wailing though the P.A. Barry Wyatt, the Guru of Advance, had moved into Iowa for the final push, and he was training a feral pack of twenty-year-old triggermen. (“Goddammit, is that the best goddam sound system you could find? ... You call that a fuckin’ backdrop?”) Those kids would fan out through the state, living off the countryside, begging or stealing what they needed, leaving a trail of abandoned rent-a-cars and shell-shocked locals—but Dick’s events were beautiful TV. ... Then they’d come back to Des Moines, through the big new office, with their premature suits and premature swaggers, boasting of their all-night ride on this corn combine, or the way they talked that car dealer out of his thirty-foot flag, (“put it up behind the stage—Dick looked like fuckin’ Patton!”)
And it wasn’t just the new Advance pack that swelled the office—the staff had tripled in a month, as everyone from the southern offices and most of the people from D.C. sped to Iowa, where the action was. In the new downtown storefront, they’d scream to one another over the tacky walls of their carrels. (“JIM! This six-eighteen from Burlington First, is that today or last week? IS THAT LAST WEEK? NO ... SIX-EIGHTEEN!”) There were scores of women on scores of phones—updating hard counts every day and every night. Joyce Aboussie had moved in from St. Louis and was whooping and whipping a cadre of Missourians into making noise everywhere Dick went. Murphy had a closed office in the back, from which he’d emerge, screaming imprecations, at irregular intervals. There were press and camera crews, come to talk to Murphy or record this frenetic scene, and they moved more or less at will through the chaos.
And the net result was, Dick didn’t come to the office. He couldn’t wander in, to ask how it was going, or talk to Murphy, or do an interview. It was a public event when he appeared. He’d have to make remarks. He’d have to show some fire to match the heat in that storefront.
No, if someone had to talk to Dick—members of the House, money men, Washington smart guys—the Schedulers would tuck them in, in Waterloo, or Iowa City ... they could join up there, maybe have ten or fifteen minutes with Dick on the trip to Quad Cities. ... Most of these VIPs felt constrained to bring Dick some warning or complaint. Sandy Levin, a House member from Michigan, set up a constant mewling whine about Dick’s us-versus-them rhetoric. Levin assured his fellow mewlers in Washington: this was not Dick Gephardt ... he knew Dick ... he’d talk to Dick ... to let him know, he could, uh, make enemies. ... Jack Guthman, Dick’s old pal from Northwestern, now a hot-shot zoning lawyer in Chicago, was trying to position Dick in Illinois—and he had to warn him, his business friends didn’t like what they were hearing. Jack was afraid Dick was losing perspective, pouring everything into Iowa, losing track of the rest of the country.
Dick, of course, would cock his head and keep the baby blues on their faces, and say at the end, they were right, he understood. But the fact was, he was pouring everything into Iowa ... and he didn’t mean to stop. The fact was, he wasn’t worried about enemies, back in Congress. He wasn’t going back.
But he wouldn’t say that. So, the net result was ... he didn’t talk much to his old pals. What was the point? ... Loreen was upset about the ads, the way they brought up Matt’s illness, the way they repeated that falsehood about Lou Gephardt losing his farm, but Dick didn’t talk to her about that. What was the point? ... Even Jane was cut off from his new world, off in a smaller, grimmer bubble of her own, as she plied ladies’ luncheons and coffee-shop patrons in other parts of the state. Jane didn’t understand—what was the point of running her around, her and Nancy, or her and Liz Kincaid, driving hundreds of miles through the snow to another cheap motel with its clattering heater and nubby polyester bedspread? She and Dick would talk at night from their two motel rooms, but all he could say was, they’d do the best they could. The Schedulers had to know what they were doing—or he had to assume they did.
Only the road crew and the killers knew what was happening in Dick’s narrowed world. They were the only ones he really heard.
“I gotta hand it to the guy,” Reilly said at lunch one day, with Ethel Klein. “He’s really stickin’ with us. You know, all these people are coming at him, complaining, but he’s just not paying attention. I gotta say, the guy is backin’ us—the guy is amazing! Those are his old friends!”
“Yeah,” Ethel said, quietly. “But pretty soon, we’ll be his old friends.”
Finally, the Secret Service arrived to seal off Dick’s world from everyone who did not have a badge. And then it was easier. The motorcade was longer, but the cars ran better. There was less for the boys in the bubble to think about ... rides, planes, motels—all arranged. There was less dissonance in Dick’s ear ... less information altogether. He had to call meetings to ask his crew—what was happening out there? ... Were they doing okay? ... Were they winning?
He thought they were winning. He could feel that much, at events.
But he couldn’t know.
In the last week, the Register endorsed Paul Simon. That had to stop Simon’s slide. Dick thought Simon’s support was holding—he could see Simon people at his own events.
What about the Duke?
Dick was worried ... he wanted Dukakis to run second. If it ended Gephardt, Dukakis—first, second ... that would kill off Simon. Dick could go to New Hampshire as the clear alternative—he could be not Dukakis. But he couldn’t see Duke’s people on the ground ... where were they?
He kept asking Reilly, Ethel, Trippi, Murphy: “What’s he doing? Where’s the Duke?”
104
Ucch, God ... Their Life Was Over
THE STAFF SCREWED UP, booked them into a single room at the Savery. Kitty hadn’t been sleeping. Michael, of course, slept correctly. He only needed five hours a night. But Kitty couldn’t sleep. It would happen before every primary.
She was awake at 3:30 A.M.—no place to go. There was no second room. She didn’t want to sit in the bathroom. She couldn’t wander the halls. She was Kitty Dukakis. She was in prison, tossing and turning.
She was supposed to talk, that evening—some event—but the snow was too bad. Kara, her youngest, had to fill in. Kitty wondered how Kara did. She must have done all right. She had the political moves. Kara had to get back to school next week. That would be hard for her. Andrea hated politics. Anyone who wasn’t for her father was an insult. Kitty
wondered what this campaign was doing to the girls. Would they ever be the same? Probably not. This was too long. Oh, God! ... She had to do the Today show the next day! ... Kitty thought about the snow—in Boston, did it snow? Would the neighbors clean the walk? If they were home, Michael would be out with his old snowblower. That thing ought to go to the Smithsonian! ... Maybe it would go to the Smithsonian! Would they ever be back in Brookline, Michael blowing snow? ... Oh, God, if they won, they would never ... Who did the snow? Secret Service? ... Ucch, God ... their life was over.
She was tossing. Michael stirred. Concern, annoyance, and sleep were in his voice. “What,” he said, “is the problem?”
“I just can’t sleep anymore.”
He grunted. “What is it, babe?”
“I’m afraid you’re going to win ... I mean, I don’t want you to lose ...” She could hear him stirring. “But I’m not sure I want you to win.”
Michael sighed. “This,” he said, “must be part of your ethnic heritage.”
Michael didn’t have any second thoughts. No, this was not the time ... he was getting out of Iowa. Like a veteran runner, he could smell the tape—that close! He could feel this thing turning. He could win! He was better every day—the crowds could feel the striving. All of a sudden, it wasn’t like being in a meeting with Michael ... he was trying to reach them.
And they fed his certainty. He dug in his heels against his staff—against all comers. He wasn’t going to hit the other guys in this race. Not on PACs, not on anything. He wasn’t gonna start that kinda politics now. Hart’s bubble had burst. Hart was going to finish nowhere. ... Simon had crested. Michael was convinced his organization would grab off the voters who’d been “leaning” to Simon. ... Gephardt was a phony. Michael said everyone would see Gephardt was a phony. Michael would not have to say one word.
Everyone would see he was right. ... Three days before the caucus, his phone banks rang up thirteen hundred Number Ones—a record! In sixteen hours the following day, they pulled twenty-three hundred Number Ones. ... That was the day, even his wise guys had to admit ... he might be right ... Michael had a chance.
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