He could not ... and that’s how he knew: nothing he tried was going to work ... not against five million dollars on his head.
So he did what he was supposed to, he did his schedule, he did his best: he went to his next event, and his next, till the end, his last event, the day before the vote, and it was ... the Alamo.
There was a huge plaza in front of the old fort, and a grand monument in the center of the plaza, where flags whipped in a gray wind. Dick’s Advance had him standing with the doors of the fort as backdrop—that way, the crowd would only have to fill the pavement between the fort and the monument.
It wasn’t a bad crowd—hell, close to a thousand people! A crowd that big in Iowa, or New Hampshire, puts the smell of a win in the air. But those little states were gone. And this crowd ... he just couldn’t feel the heat coming back from them.
He said the words—same words!
We will take back this country’s economic DESTINY! ...
And he could see, he could feel, they didn’t know what the words meant. They weren’t against him. They just didn’t know anything about him ... all the years he’d been speaking these words, these people had not heard a thing! ... And there was no way now he could echo up to size, the size of that figure in the ads—what ads?
He had to try! He had to believe ... for them! It could not work if he did not believe. He knew ...
We’re gonna WIN in Texas ...
We’re gonna WIN across the SOUTH ...
We’re gonna WIN BACK THE WHITE HOUSE!
But he could not believe ... any more than he could take the words and plant them by will, by his own force, behind the eyes of those staring Texans ... any more than he could fill, with his own breath, his own battered voice, what looked like a thousand miles of empty, gray, Texas sky.
And he was not surprised when he got the word from Reilly, then Carrick in Washington, that the bottom was dropping out ... everywhere. The last states—Texas, Arkansas, Oklahoma—states where he had a chance, till the end ... well, this was the end. His numbers were melting like butter in a pan.
And even then, they meant to fly him on that lousy plane (no bathroom—no one would trust himself to have a beer) ... across four hours of the country ... again ... to Miami, to another motel, middle of the night. ... Florida was only on the schedule for a fund-raiser in West Palm Beach. But the funder was canceled now. ... All he had was breakfast at a senior citizens’ center—seven in the morning on three hours’ sleep, in a state that was lost ... yet the pros scheduled Dick to eat Raisin Bran and chat with his elderly tablemates while an old man in plaid pants and dyed orange hair entertained with his rendition of “New York, New York.”
And even then, on Super Tuesday, the day of his demise, Dick did it.
119
Tough Night
IT WAS THREE DAYS before Super Tuesday when Elizabeth Dole saw where things were headed. She knew how unhappy Bob was, of course ... how New Hampshire hurt ... how people talked about him. Even in her own state, North Carolina, some women would mention to Elizabeth’s face that “their neighbors” wouldn’t vote for Bob, on account of him being so mean ... well, it just made her more determined. She had to show, they were all wrong! ... Somehow, she had to win North Carolina for Bob!
She had to put herself on the line. Her speechwriter, Stan Wellborn, told her: “You have to tell these people, you want your husband in there! You have to tell them, they should want you in the White House!” ... It was risky. If she lost, it would be rejection for her, too. But she prayed for courage, and she did it:
“Let’s put a North Carolinian in the White House!”
Every stop, every two-bit town, eight events a day:
“Ah say it’s tahme for a North Carolinian in the White House! ... What do you say?”
Well, they whooped her name to the skies. If she could just hit enough towns, enough crowds, enough hands, enough hearts ...
The Saturday before the vote, she was hip-hopping in a twin-engine plane (Bob wouldn’t let her fly in single-engine jobs), with two pilots (Bob wouldn’t let her fly with one pilot), and her staff and her cavalcade of stars—Al Haig was along, and Dick Rutan, who was such a celebrity at that moment, for flying his own plane around the world without stopping for gas. ... It was Rutan who saw, or maybe smelled, trouble: a fan in the roof of the plane that was supposed to cool a coil, it quit, or melted, and something in the ceiling got hot during takeoff—the pilots had the engines at full throttle when Rutan jumped off his seat, yelling for the brakes ... and they barely made a stop at the end of the runway ... Rutan kicked out the door—the plane was filled with smoke—another minute, they would have been goners.
Mercy!
Then they were trapped at that flea-circus airport while they tried to find a plane with two engines, and two pilots, for rent, that weekend day, for Elizabeth ... who had to win North Carolina ... and who had two more events that day—two more crowds.
It took hours. They had to call all over the state. ... But the unfair part was the view, for hours ... at the end of the runway ... that gorgeous, gleaming, stainless steel 707, lettered on the side The United States of America ... silent and still, its four jets protected by custom engine-caps, which was standard procedure for the backup Air Force Two, which was always in position, at the ready, in case any hitch should befall the VP’s number-one plane.
That weekend, new Bush ads went on TV in North Carolina: “Bob Dole says that President Reagan calls him to get things done. But under Bob Dole’s leadership, we lost the Bork nomination, and in sixteen of the thirty-four votes Reagan lost in the Senate, Dole couldn’t deliver even half of the Republicans. ... So, when President Reagan wanted a Vice President he could count on, he didn’t call Bob Dole. He called George Bush.”
Elizabeth and her mother and her mother’s friends organized the Prayer Network. The night before Super Tuesday, they would all pray, from six o’clock to six-fifteen.
Monday, in a van rolling toward Winston-Salem, a staff member said: “Mrs. Dole, it’s six o’clock.”
Elizabeth said: “I wonder if we could just be quiet for a few minutes now ...” They drove up the road in absolute silence, while Mrs. Dole prayed.
Super Tuesday, they moved Dole out of the South (no sense lingering) to the next battleground, to Illinois, where he holed up in a Hyatt near O’Hare Airport. There was a ballroom, a small crowd, a black-tie band to play “Chicago, Chicago” ... arranged for his one required appearance.
The walls were festooned with blue and yellow balloons and victory signs ... but Dole hadn’t won a damn thing. There were a few close states—Oklahoma was tight, Missouri was too close to call—but the only color on the TV maps was Bush-red. Dole was getting blown out from Texas to Florida and all the way to Maryland, right up the East Coast.
In the ballroom, a rumor was swirling among the press that Dole was going to call it quits—right there—tonight! Guy’s getting killed! ... But on stage, Lee Daniels, Dole’s chairman, the Republican Leader in the State House of Reps, was vowing to stop the tide in Illinois on March 15. “A hundred and seventy-two thousand phone calls! Every supporter gets a card! Every county is organized! We’re going to turn this thing around!”
The crowd was obliging, yelling: “We want Dole! We want Dole!”
And there was the Bobster, thumbs up, while the strobes lit his smile ... and he said to the crowd:
“Well, I’m available.”
It was clear in an instant, Dole had no intention of quitting. Nor did he mean to satisfy expectations with a snarl of any sort. He seemed oddly at peace.
When the crowd got quiet, he thanked his southern supporters. “Sometimes, in politics, we forget to say thank you. And that’s all some people ever ask ...”
Dole’s tone was reflective, gentle. He talked about what Illinois meant to him. “A lot of great people ... one was a doctor, Hampar Kelikian. ... And I remember, almost forty years to the day, walking out of Wesley Hospital, on the road to
recovery. ... That’s what I’m going to be, next week, in Illinois—on the road to recovery!”
It could have ended there, but Dole wanted to talk. He started on the polls, how they showed he was electable ... he beat every Democrat—better than Bush! He challenged Bush to debate—one-on-one, to have it out—not in a mean or negative way ... but just to show who was who, who was the strong one.
“I’m proud to be a candidate,” he said. “I’m proud to be a Republican. I’m pleased to be in Illinois. I do want to make one final—not a plea, but a statement. I think you’ve got to be strong in this business. It’s not a piece of cake ...”
He got a big cheer when he came down the steps to the floor. He wanted to shake hands, he was trying to thank these people ... but the cameras closed in, and Dole was pinned against the stage, with his thumb up, a frozen grin. “That’s good, that’s good,” Mari murmured.
A radio man stuck a microphone in Dole’s face and said, “Tough night ...”
Hegh-hegh-hegh ... Dole was grinning.
Another mike—a question about Bush’s clean sweep.
“I feel good,” Dole said. “It’s not over yet.” Then he cut himself off. He had to get away from the mikes. On stage, there were a couple of codgers from the Tenth Mountain Division ... so Dole climbed up again, stood with them for photographs.
When he came down to work toward the door, the crowd got him. In the crush, a teenager came at him head first, or skull first. The kid had “Dole ’88” shaved into the stubble on his scalp, along with a silhouette of Illinois. The crowd shoved them together: Dole’s face leapt in an involuntary flicker of horror as he inspected this artwork from a distance of six inches. ... A woman with a voice like a club and makeup like Naugahyde was yelling at Dole—offering lingerie, nylons, shoes for Elizabeth. “Agh, gimme a discount?” Dole said. “YOU GOT IT, HONEY!” the woman roared. “ANYTHING YOU WANT!” Dole’s eyes were twitching for a route of escape. Mike Glassner and Mari were trying to push to the door, trying to shepherd Dole, but they wouldn’t touch him. A lovely young woman had a hold of his left hand, and she was pressing up to him, whispering something. Dole’s eyes faced the floor as he listened. He winced. She was saying, she was going to be a doctor, she understood all that he went through, those thirty-nine months ... she knew his pain! She still had his hand, and he started to shake it, up and down, hoping she’d let go after that. ... Mari was pushing, but with her hands three inches from his back, his shoulder, while her voice was at his ear, murmuring, “Senator, we have to go, Senator ...” Glassner pulled the door; he stood away and held it, both arms stretched out, to keep five and a half feet of crowd at bay. A couple of microphones darted at Dole, bidding him pause: Senator whaddabout the vote tonight? Isn’t it all over? ... But Dole brushed by, muttering: “Gotta gooo. S’posed to be upstairs.”
“G’LUCK, BOB!” a man yelled as Dole hit the door. Dole wheeled, halfway out, tried to wave ... “Keep workin’!” he barked.
He caught a glimpse of the pretty med student as the door was closing. Dole’s voice echoed in the hallway as he disappeared:
“Agghh! Might need a doctor ...”
Elizabeth didn’t make it to Chicago till after ten o’clock. She had to stay in North Carolina, for her victory party ... but there was no victory. North Carolina was lost to her, to Bob, by six percentage points.
When she got to the Oak Brook Hyatt, she swept through the lobby. She stopped for no one. She looked at no one ... straight into the elevator, where she stared ahead, at the door. A couple of reporters ducked on for the ride ... and they tried, gently:
“Mrs. Dole?”
But she didn’t even turn.
“To the suite,” her body man, Mark Romig, said to the Advance man. To the reporters, he said Mrs. Dole was tired.
In the elevator light, she looked pale, not well—like a woman they’d never seen. Her face was a different shape ... no one had ever seen it unaffected by her will to please.
When she was gone, the reporters rode down to report to the pack at large. She looked, they said, like she was going to a hanging.
Someone said: “How would you like to be in that room with him?”
There were grim chuckles ... like everyone knew how Bob would be.
120
That Slow-Motion Horror
FUNNY, HOW IT WORKED OUT, how most of Dick’s killers couldn’t be there—in St. Louis, that dismal Super Tuesday. Carrick was sick with the flu—and Reilly, Doak ... well, what could they do in St. Louis? They’d already done what they could: by noon, they’d had their conference call with Dick, told him he was going to lose ... everywhere.
Dick was calm. He wanted them to know: “You guys did a great job. I’ll always appreciate it.”
Jane was in bed with fevered flu in Virginia, the kids were with her ... so when Dick took cover at a hotel in St. Louis ... there was no one around.
The road crew came with him from Florida, and Shrum was on the plane in those days ... but they all told each other Dick must be awfully tired. They left him to “rest” in his suite.
Dick Moe flew in, Jack Guthman from Chicago, Don and Nancy Gephardt from New York; Joyce Aboussie showed up with her St. Louis crowd; Uncle Bob came to the hotel with his wife, Kay ... but no one had the heart to barge in on Dick. They mostly stayed downstairs, in the bar. If they were talking in the hall, and happened to pass his door, they whispered past the Secret Service man.
The suite was plush, tan and taupe, and empty, dim in the afternoon light. There was Dick, and the TV, and no one ... except Loreen.
“Come sit down,” she told him. She patted the couch. They sat, touching, holding hands, fingers locked—his right hand, her left ... they talked a bit, but mostly sat silent, while the afternoon light gave way to darkness. Dick didn’t want the lights on, no ... thanks. Loreen watched her son in the lurid splashes of TV light while Dick stared at the screen, waiting for the news he hoped would never come.
It came, of course, over and over, in that slow-motion horror ... for hours—maps flashing, check marks studding the screen next to the other guys’ names ... sadness, resentment, the cry in his throat of woulda-been ... and then, he was numb. He had hoped, to the very end, for something—not a state, perhaps, but a few local districts ... a few delegates. But, no. Everything was lost. Florida, Texas—Dukakis picked the two biggest plums. Gore swept the border states. Jackson won the cotton South. The anchors had a hard time picking the “winner” ... in time, they gave up.
“But the big surprise, Peter, on the Democratic side, is the disastrous showing by Congressman Richard Gephardt ...”
“If we’d had the money ...” Dick said, in the suite.
But Loreen was beyond the comfort of earthly explanation. “If it was supposed to be,” she said, “it would have been.”
Dick nodded ... but he could not accept—not that night.
“This is the best for us,” Loreen said. She made Dick look straight at her eyes. “There is a reason ... even if we don’t know the reason. The Lord is doing it.”
Dick said he agreed.
It was late when Gephardt appeared on TV, from the ballroom of his St. Louis hotel. (Why rush? Maybe people would go to bed ...)
But Carrick was still watching, in D.C., and he saw Dick embrace every person on stage. There was a long hug for his brother, Don. Then, Loreen: they stood near the podium, hands on one another’s shoulders, eyes locked. They stayed like that for what seemed like a minute. (Loreen was telling Dick: she was never more proud of him than she was that night.)
On the screen, Dick turned, and the hometown crowd sent up a cheer: Gep-HARDT Gep-HARDT ... Dick laughed aloud, into the mike. “You bet!” He posed there with a double thumbs-up. When they were quiet, he began:
“Well, I never told you it was gonna be easy ...”
Carrick was proud of Dick’s grace. He thought he couldn’t have done it. Not that way. Not that well.
Then, there were interviews with the networ
ks. It was the first time Carrick could remember anyone congratulating his opponents for their victories.
Carrick felt sick at heart. It occurred to him, again—the thought he’d been living with, all day, since that conference call: we have not really served this man ... not as he deserved.
The next day, they all flew to be with Dick. Gephardt was still on his schedule, moving on to South Carolina—another disaster in the making. ... Carrick and Reilly rented a plane, a small King Air. Murphy, Doak, and Tony Coelho came along, as did the money man, Terry McAuliffe, his deputy, Boyd Lewis, and the field director, Donna Brazile. They called ahead to let Dick know: they’d meet at a supporter’s home, outside Columbia, South Carolina. Debra Johns told the traveling press that Dick had a private dinner that night. The last thing they needed was a deathwatch story. Carrick and the killers snuck through the airport. No one could know Gephardt’s future was on the line.
It was a long night, full of talk—argument, as always, but the heat was gone ... no point fighting for the biggest stateroom aboard the Titanic. And they all felt another change: there was the campaign ... and there was Gephardt’s life. In the last days, those had ceased to be the same.
Carrick ran the show: he started with McAuliffe, to run down the money. Dick was a half-million in debt ... maybe a million, once all the bills came in. If Dick chose to fight on in Michigan (Illinois was too expensive, too soon—hopeless) ... well, that would be another half-million. Dick would have to grind it out, retail ... smart money was gone. Dick would have to get his face in the phone, and beg.
Coelho just wanted Dick back in the House. He’d told Carrick, that morning, maybe it was time for Dick to quit. ... But now it came clear: if Dick blew up in Michigan, he’d have so much debt he’d have to come back to Congress. No way to raise the money otherwise. ... So, Coelho said maybe Dick ought to go on.
Shrum said there was no disgrace in getting out. Shrummy could write the speech! A beautiful exit. Shrummy was sure: there would be no lingering negatives on Dick.
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