They revealed that Barczak had served time for tax fraud, in ’53.
They found out Barczak was carrying King bumper stickers at the time of his arrest.
They found out Barczak had visited King, in the State House.
They examined King and Coady’s friendship.
They found out King had been told that Coady was a target. Was it King who let his pal know the grand jury was after him?
It was altogether a riveting scandal ... altogether a godsend for Dukakis. But it wasn’t an act of God. Most of those juicy news stories had come from sources in the office of the Attorney General—and the AG was Frank Bellotti, Dukakis’s old ally.
Coady was barely cold when Dukakis attacked with a new TV ad:
“Corruption and cronyism in the State House! ...
“How much does the Ed King Corruption Tax cost you?”
Dukakis beat Ed King by 83,000 votes, almost seven percent. Of all the campaigns in the state’s living memory, The Rematch was the most brutal and fascinating. There was no one in the state who did not know King and Dukakis—and no one was neutral. Turnout was up thirty-six percent.
On the primary night of his resurrection, September 14, 1982, Michael was humble and touched by wonder. “You’ve given me,” he told his supporters, “something that one rarely gets in American politics—a second chance. ... And I’m very grateful.”
He would go on to beat his Republican opponent two-to-one in November ... and then, without pause (and with Sasso at his side), on to the triumphal politics of his second term. That’s when the papers started to write about Duke II ... this new, more flexible, more humane politician.
In time, of course, they ceased to compare Dukakis with King, or even Duke II with Duke I ... the scars of his loss and The Rematch healed. Memory faded. But even years later, Michael hugged around himself the lessons he’d educed.
“I’m a guy who does a lotta listening, these days, so...”
“I think we need the kinda leadership that builds strong consensus, real partnerships ...”
“I want to be the kinda President who can work with the Congress. There’s some terrific people in the Congress! ...”
So, surely, he must have taken, too, the scrappy political lessons of his comeback—the way he’d fought, kicked, and clawed ... to make his miracle happen.
“No!” Michael would snap. “Get your facts straight!”
That wasn’t how he saw it, at all.
The story line he favored came from the ancient Greeks—the story of Aristides the Just.
In the version Dukakis told, Aristides was a wise and upright ruler in Athens—fifth century B.C.—who was so honest he would not do favors for anyone. So, of course, he made enemies. His integrity got to be grating—they threw him out, exiled him. ... Until, six years later, Athens was in a total mess, corrupt and floundering, and the people went to Aristides, and they begged him to come back. “Aristides, we’ve got to have you!”
They had thought anew, see ...
They had seen the kinda guy he was ...
And after that ... they loved him!
125
The Big Enchilada
IT DIDN’T LOOK LIKE a triumphal march—more like a walk through a minefield. New York was the ugliest primary, a roiling suspend of particulate fears and hatreds that could not be dissolved, or even altered, by a week of rallies. Blacks and Jews hated each other (and Jews felt bad about that), the blacks hated Mayor Koch (who thought he spoke for the Jews), the Latins resented Koreans, Koreans feared the blacks, the Irish and Italians thought the city had long since gone to Junkie-Mugger-AIDS-and-Homeless Hell, the Williamsburg Bridge was falling down, and the Japanese were buying midtown. ... Three candidates landed in this bubbling mess, and responded, each in his own way:
Jesse Jackson spoke brilliantly for peace, love, and hope for every minority group—except the Jews. (He even marched for the ailing bridge.)
Al Gore tried to be Jew for a Week. Gore attacked the PLO. Then he attacked his fellow Senators for “wavering” on Israel. Gore signed up the obstreperous Mayor, who promptly attacked Jesse Jackson. Gore attacked Jackson, and then he attacked Dukakis (for not attacking Jackson). Gore attacked everyone but Yitzhak Shamir.
And Michael Dukakis hunched his shoulders and insisted that everything was fine. ... Divisive? He didn’t notice anything, uh, divisive ... he was a positive kinda guy ... steady as she goes!
It wasn’t easy. For one thing, the press was on him like an enraged beast. It wasn’t just the New York stations, New York papers, diddybops, and big-feet-to-be. Every network, station, paper, wire in the world seemed to have someone in New York: financial-beat writers came uptown for this spectacle ... UN correspondents from Jugoslavia, Indonesia ... not to mention all the camera agencies, free-lance video-ops ... and Super-8 documentary auteurs who emerged, blinking, from basements in Brooklyn. Wherever Michael stopped, the press would engulf him—then reengulf itself ... until there was a mindless, sightless mob backed up into some city street that was immediately awail with car horns and curses, while the people in front shoved cassette recorders closer and closer to Michael’s mouth, and the people in back bruised his head with boom mikes, and the New York cops (Michael still refused Secret Service—he didn’t want a fuss) tried to keep the mob from crushing him and meanwhile hissed at Michael: “Move, Governor! Keep movin’!”
Michael kept moving.
He went upstate, and the herd followed. Michael had to rent his first big plane, an aged commercial airliner that smelled inside like the stuff men spray in their gym shoes. The six-legged men became ten-legged men as they brought along their aluminum ladders, which they’d snap open, slap down on the pavement, and ascend, to espy Michael’s head in the crush. Rochester, Buffalo, Syracuse ... big crowds, big cheers ... Michael did good-jobs-at-good-wages. No one even suggested that he try to say anything more. Why should he? He was winning. Gore was nowhere—he’d pandered his last. Jackson was a threat—but too unsettling. Michael was the acceptable vote, the comfortable choice. He was the Jackson-stopper. He would be ... the Last White Man standing.
All he had to do was keep moving. No mistakes!
He had a meeting with the Daily News editorial board, where they tried to knock him off his pins with foreign policy: NATO, the Soviets, first use of nuclear weapons. ... But he had answers! He answered like the briefing book said, about the use of nuclear weapons to stop the Soviets if they were overrunning Europe. He knew that stuff, he’d read all that!
He made a speech to the Conference of Presidents of Major Jewish Organizations, and he knew they wanted him to rule out a homeland for the Palestinians, declare that Jerusalem was now and evermore a Jewish city. But he would not! He was the nominee-to-be! That was all right for Gore ... but Michael had to think about governing!
He had to sit through a debate in the Felt Forum, with Gore snapping at his shins like a nasty Pekingese. Al had the nerve to bring up Michael’s problem with prison furloughs—murderers who left the pen on furlough and never came back. Gore claimed two of them had murdered again. Michael had been back and forth with that crap for months with a newspaper up in Lawrence, Massachusetts. ... Finally, the legislature changed the furlough law, and he went along ... ancient history. “Al, the difference between you and me,” Dukakis snapped in the New York debate, “is that I have to run a criminal justice system. You never have.”
End of discussion. Michael pulled out his old executive-versus-legislator war club ... and Gore shut up, for the moment. Michael said no more.
Why would he? He was winning. He was going to win New York. He was going to be the nominee for President of the United States! So, he went back to his State House.
It should have been one of the great days of his life. His health-care bill—universal health insurance, for every citizen in Massachusetts—had finally passed both houses. Michael was about to sign the bill. He called a press conference.
“This is the culmination of m
onths of work—years of work, by a great people, in the state and across the country ...”
Michael looked over the crowd of press in room 157, his room, his homey little conference chamber, with its pale blue walls and the portraits of his predecessors in the best job in the world, the Governorship of the Commonwealth. ... He smiled to his right, to his partners in progress, who had crowded in near the door.
“... And it was one of the best examples of teamwork I’ve ever seen in this building—couldn’t possibly have been done without the leadership of the Senate President and the Speaker, Chairman McGovern, Chairman Voke, and countless, countless others in the legislature, of a broad, very strong coalition among the health-care community, among working people, business people, who care very deeply about our fellow citizens ...
“Any questions about that? ...”
The press had no questions about that. They wanted to know about Michael’s statement to the New York Daily News that he would nuke the Russkies if they overran Europe. “Governor ... did you advocate a first strike against the Soviet Union?”
“No. No.”
“So they got the story wrong?”
Annoyance concentrated Michael’s features in the middle of his face. For God’s sake, he’d used the words out of his briefing book! They’d told him that was the policy, for years!
“The policy I advocated, and the policy that governs the United States for many, many years, is the policy of the NATO alliance.” Michael looked to another corner of the room.
“So what did you say to them?”
Michael went silent on the platform. There were four or five seconds of silence in the room.
“To whom?”
“To the Daily News editorial board! ... Whaddidya say? ... Because they reported this morning that you advocated a first strike against the Soviet Union.”
“I did not!” Dukakis responded. “Look at the transcripts of what I said, and what I advocated—the policy of no-early-first-use!” (No one was going to challenge Michael’s answers to this quiz.) “A very, very different thing, which has been the policy of our government and the policy of the NATO alliance for many, many years.”
“Yeah, but under ...”
“But ...”
“... what circumstances ...” This reporter did not want the answer to the quiz. He wanted to know when Michael thought he would or should use nuclear weapons.
“... fortunately ...”
“... under what ...”
“... the challenge of the next President, I expect, will be not that ...” Michael was in segue to another of his sound-bites. “... but also a series of negotiations to limit the conventional forces in Europe, on the ground ...”
Michael turned to his left, seeking safe haven. But there was no haven ... no questions on health insurance.
“The Daily News also says this morning that you would advocate letting American hostages die, rather than making concessions to terrorists. Is that true?”
“What I’ve said repeatedly ...”
“Would that include letting American hostages die?”
“... never, ever make concessions to terrorists ... what we did in Iran-contra ...”
“So the Daily News is correct when they say that you would allow American hostages to die?”
“Senator Gore has responded to your statement in the Daily News today, saying that, uh, you are unwise and irresponsible in both those statements ...”
“Governor, if Soviet troops did overwhelm Western conventional forces, on the ground in Europe ...”
“Sir, did the Daily News misquote you? Because they said you advocated using ...”
On the platform, Michael looked like a man who’d suddenly remembered his dentist appointment. He stopped pointing to this one and that one, and took the question from the loudest voice.
One reporter had the temerity to ask him what any government could do about good-jobs-at-good-wages.
Another question actually began: “Governor, now that you’ve equivocated on the issue of a Palestinian homeland ...”
Fifteen minutes in, the Governor rediscovered his watch. Thereafter, he checked it every minute or so.
Finally, a reporter asked: Wasn’t it racist for white voters to vote for a white candidate just because he’s white?
Dukakis snapped: “Of course.” Then he marched out of his own press conference.
How could he have known, he would never have another press conference in that room—in any room—that was uncolored by the leap of faith he was making in New York? When Michael Dukakis finally said to himself, and to the world, he was going to win, he was going to be the nominee, he meant to be President of the United States ... well, that didn’t mean he was different—did it?
He didn’t think so.
But everything was different.
He went back to New York for the big Salute to Israel Parade. Jesse Jackson wouldn’t march—that was the news of the day. But the news to Michael was the day itself, a splendid spring morning of fresh sunshine and a breeze that held promise of warmth, of restoration, growing things. It seemed to Michael, he’d spent the last six months in the perpetual twilight of airplanes and cars, the dead fluorescence of meeting rooms, or wincing into wake-the-dead television lights. But here he was in God’s good sunshine, marching the wing tips down the center line of Fifth Avenue, with thirty feet of glorious open space on either side, between him and the crowds—cheering him: “Mike! Go get ’em, Mike! ...” He waved. They loved him. All he had to do was keep marching, straight down the center line: “WE LIKE MIKE! ...” Sometimes they screamed for a smile and a wave from “KITTY” ... “KITTEEEEE!” ... which made him happier still. Because there were times, in the last six months, he worried—had to worry: Had he done the right thing? Could she take it? Those nights in Iowa she couldn’t sleep ... so serious in New Hampshire ... the way she felt that Florida rested on her shoulders—his bride! The way she suffered—sinuses that hurt every time she flew. He told her! See a doctor! What d’ya do when you have a problem? How long since you’ve seen an ear-nose-and-throat man? “KITTEEEE!” ... His Katharine! She didn’t have quite the same steady stamina as, ahh, her husband ... no. But they came through, together, to this day, to this wonderful ... street and straight line, just as far as he could see, open all the way, for him! This win ... for him, for them! ... A miracle! A wonder. “MIKE! ... MIKE! ... MIKE!” He turned to Kitty, and she looked beautiful, waving to the crowds. “Remember when I first brought you to this town, twenty-six years ago?” She turned her smile to him in the sunshine. Good as new. ... How could he have known, his bride would never be the same?
Michael always thought, somehow, if they could just get this thing locked up, get past this ... crazy time—somehow ... well, things would settle down. Not all the way—he knew ... but somehow, back to his life. He had to hold on to his life. That’s why he wouldn’t take the Secret Service. He didn’t want to take that last step (he thought it must be the last) into the bubble, where he would just ... his life would disappear. He told Estrich he was going home—the night of the primary: he was going to win New York, he was going home. End of discussion. Susan wouldn’t fight anymore. She’d lost too many—spent her last on Wisconsin. Well, they won that, and his prize was ... home. He thought, maybe, he could plant ... well, a little early, but he could start, turn the soil. ... If they could just get by this—how could he lose? He wasn’t afraid of the White House. The job was governing. They’d be together. He’d be home for dinner, six o’clock. You live over the shop! ... And if not—well, thank God, he could go back to a job, a life, that he loved. If he could just keep marching. This was ... terrific. ... How could he have known, he would never have his life back?
He went to a shelter for AIDS patients—Bailey House. He finally made the Advance team pick a small pool of reporters. He didn’t want to crash in with a halogen circus—he wanted to show concern. This wasn’t easy for Michael. He didn’t approve of homosexual—well, any of t
hat kinda strange (he could only imagine!), that kinda ... but he went. He talked to the patients, they asked him questions. But it never turned into a conversation. Michael was uneasy. There was a patient named Petrillis (a Greek?) who asked Michael if he’d invite AIDS patients to the White House. Michael shrugged. “I might ... I’ve been inviting everyone else.” So when the pool report got to the bus, everybody wanted to know: What the hell did that mean? What it meant was: there was work, and there was home. What did they mean, “to the White House”—to his home! ... But how could he explain that to a hundred and fifty reporters? For that matter, how could they ask, in a mob on the street? They could only shout their questions into the knot of tape machines around his head. So they screamed: WHAT ABOUT AIDS? ... WHAT ABOUT AIDS? ... Michael didn’t know why they were screaming at him. What had he done wrong? Just an offhand remark! He’d gone to show his concern—tried to be correct! ... How could he have known, there would be no more offhand remarks?
The day before the primary, he was flying upstate. Overnight, the U.S. Navy had shot up an Iranian oil platform—retaliation for mines sown in the Persian Gulf. The press wanted to know: What did Dukakis think of the action in the Gulf? Michael was careful. He said he’d have to study the reports. He was seeking full information. ... Then he walked down the aisle of his big new plane, to the bathroom in the rear—one thing about these events: if you’re the star, you never get a minute to pee. So he was trying to edge into the can, and the Reuters guy asked him again: “How ’bout the Gulf?” Dukakis just wanted to get by—for God’s sake, he had to pee! “Well, it, ahh, seemed like a measured response.” So, of course, next stop, the Reuters guy filed ... and everybody else went bullshit! Their desks wanted to know: “Why no Duke-react? Reuters has Duke-react!” ... So on the plane, they were screaming: WHADDABOUT IRAN? And in front, Michael’s wise guys were bawling him out: “Don’t do that! Don’t go back there.”
“I was going to the bathroom!”
They told him not to go to the bathroom.
What It Takes Page 136
