by Crisis of Character- A White House Secret Service Officer Discloses His Firsthand Experience
Copyright © 2016 by Gary J. Byrne
Cover design by Christopher Tobias, cover photograph © New York Daily News Archive
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Title page image: White House Photo
ISBN 978-1-4555-6888-8
In training we always said, “We don’t rise to our expectations; we fall to our level of training.” The same can be said of character.
To Genny…
For reminding me so sincerely to “just do the right thing,” because character is the only thing that matters.
To Elizabeth and Ethan…
For reminding me, even before you were born, that character is the only thing that we can hope to pass on after we’re gone.
INTRODUCTION
I dreamed of becoming an elite White House Secret Service officer, a member of its Uniformed Division.
Nothing more—and certainly nothing less.
My dream came true. I stood guard, a pistol at my hip, outside the Oval Office, the last barrier before anyone saw Bill Clinton.
The last barrier before Monica Lewinsky saw Bill Clinton.
Yes, I’m that Secret Service officer.
I saw Monica, and I saw a lot more.
I saw Hillary, too.
I witnessed her obscenity-laced tirades, her shifting of blame, how she berated Vince Foster until he could stand no more, how minor incidents involving blue gloves and botched invitations sent her into a tizzy. It was like watching Humphrey Bogart in The Caine Mutiny obsessing about a quart of missing strawberries—and losing sight of the world war raging about him. I saw Hillary scheming with Dick Morris to undermine White House Chief of Staff Leon Panetta. FBI agents confided in me about her emerging Filegate scandal; they were just as frustrated with Hillary’s methods as we were.
Life at the Clinton White House careened from crisis (manufactured or not) to even greater crisis, the participants often unable to catch their breath and certainly incapable of learning from them. The Clinton White House atmosphere alternated from hilarity to bitter anger, lurching from nerves-on-end tension to sheer boredom, its most important residents painfully trapped between illusion and reality.
When I joined the Secret Service, I knew my body would be put to the test, that my knees would buckle from rigorous training, and I hoped that the extent of my ethical choices would be “Body armor or no body armor?” (Those damn vests weighed down my gun belt and me.) We were supposed to lay our lives—not our consciences—on the line.
But at the Clinton White House, I soon recognized a disturbing and pervasive crisis of character. Boots on the ground, the men and women at the lowest part of the totem pole—those who faced death head-on—were measured by the highest of ethical requirements. Those at the very pinnacles of power held themselves to the very lowest standards—or to none whatsoever.
I saw how the Clinton Machine’s appalling leadership style endangered law enforcement officers, the military, and the American people in general. And with Hillary Clinton’s latest rise, I realize that her own leadership style—volcanic, impulsive, enabled by sycophants, and disdainful of the rules set for everyone else—hasn’t changed a bit.
What I saw in the 1990s sickened me. I departed first to other White House duties (which didn’t take me far enough away) and then to the Federal Air Marshal Service, still working to protect those who can’t protect themselves.
Over a twenty-nine-year career serving my country in the military and in federal law enforcement, I’ve encountered both heroes and villains. I’ve observed human character at its greatest heights and lowest depths. In any organization, character is defined at the top; it percolates down to the top executives of an organization, to the middle managers, and to the grunts at the front lines. Hillary Clinton is now poised to become the Democratic nominee for president of the United States, but she simply lacks the integrity and temperament to serve in the office. From the bottom of my soul I know this to be true.
So I must speak out.
Though portrayed as the long-suffering spouse of an unfaithful husband, whose infidelities I personally observed or knew to be true, the Hillary Clinton I saw was anything but a sympathetic victim. Those loyal to her kept coming back for her volcanic eruptions.
I witnessed firsthand the Clintons’ personal and professional dysfunction: So consumed were they by scandal, so intent on destroying their real or imagined enemies, that governing became an afterthought. The First Couple wasted days obsessing over how to “kill” a forthcoming book (one alleging that Bill Clinton’s mother ran a brothel) or in squashing yet another tabloid revelation. Their machinations and their constant damage control diverted them from the nation’s real business. Good people like Leon Panetta, Betty Currie, and Evelyn Lieberman had to pick up the slack and bear it for as long as they could.
I have not written a word of this book with a political agenda. Whether the Clintons were Democrats or Republicans, I saw what I saw; I heard what I heard.
Politics do not change unpleasant truths.
Politicians only think they do.
I now close nearly three decades of military and law enforcement service, protecting the citizens of a country I love. My sense of service compels me to share with you the real-world, often harrowing experiences that career law enforcement professionals face every day. At the same time, I’m revealing the unvarnished true story of the Clintons, the real damage they inflicted via the presidency and, in my view, the threat they again pose to the future of our nation.
During the Clinton administration, I swore myself to secrecy but not because government lawyers demanded it (though they later did). I kept silent not just because my superiors insisted on it. My own conscience also demanded it. Duty required it. But it was hard. Sometimes I’d trudge home to my wife, Genny, and just hug her without explanation.
“What’s going on?” she’d ask.
I’d say, “I’m so glad we aren’t like those people.” I didn’t want to live in their crazy world.
I had no animosity toward the Clintons. Out of a sense of loyalty to our First Family I even secretly disposed of sordid physical evidence that might later have been used to convict the president. The blue dress wasn’t the only evidence of h
is misdeeds. But I could not keep from asking myself how our nation’s leaders could be so reckless, so volatile, and so dangerous to themselves and to our nation.
And yes, to me and my family.
Only under federal subpoena—and later a ruling by U.S. Supreme Court Chief Justice William Rehnquist—did I reveal to Ken Starr’s prosecutors the true story of President Bill Clinton’s false testimony and misstatements.
I’ve retired now from public service, from safeguarding the Bush and Clinton families as well as from protecting passengers at the Federal Air Marshal Service.
Maybe I haven’t seen it all, but I’ve seen enough.
I want you to hear my story. It’s about the men and women risking their lives to protect this nation. And more important, it’s about how the Clintons must never again be allowed to put them—or you and your children—at risk.
—Gary J. Byrne
March 2016
1.
THE VASE
Nobody knew everything that was going on at the Clinton White House.
Not even President Clinton’s press guru, George Stephanopoulos. He wasn’t there at night, and some of the best (or worst) moments happened after hours. People like George didn’t hear and see what we did around the Executive Mansion, so my guess is they didn’t know how Hillary battled her husband in the West Wing.
One morning in late summer 1995, I entered the White House to assume my post just outside the Oval Office—officially Secret Service Post E-6.
Things were stirring, and I wanted to know why.
Everyone on post that night, Secret Service agents (SAs), Secret Service Uniformed Division (UD) officers like myself, the houseman, and the ushers couldn’t help but hear the First Couple arguing as sounds from their fracases traveled through the old building. Mrs. Clinton had a booming voice, and their yelling matches easily traversed the living quarters’ private elevator, vents, and staircase. Many housemen eased away, but the SAs and UD couldn’t leave their posts. This was especially a big argument that ended with a crash. SAs were obligated to respond and found its cause, a vase on the other side of the room. A houseman picked up the damage. The First Couple couldn’t just sweep up and toss out the remains because everything in the White House is logged and recorded, befitting its role as a national landmark and a veritable museum.
I peeked into the curator’s small, windowless ground-floor office across from the China Room and the Diplomatic Reception Room. It was cluttered with blueprints and history books on the every detail of the White House: fabrics, furniture, artifacts. Sure enough, there was a box containing a light blue vase smashed to bits. The rumors were true!
“Can I help you?”
The White House’s official curator looked up from what she was reading, clearly annoyed and already tired of people checking out the box. “Can I help you, Officer?” she said again.
“No thanks,” I said.
The president entered around nine. His arrival times fluctuated. I couldn’t believe my eyes: a black eye! I was well accustomed to his allergy-prone, puffy eyes. But this was a shiner, a real, live, put-a-steak-on-it black eye. I was shocked. Minutes later, I popped into the office of Betty Currie, the president’s personal secretary. Nancy Hernreich, his personal scheduler, was already there.
“What’s the black mark on the president’s face?” I asked.
I felt real tension.
“Oh, uh, he’s allergic to coffee,” said Nancy, turning toward her office.
“An allergy to coffee shows in just one eye?”
Betty smiled. She burrowed down into her work, chuckling, but looking busy. As I departed, I added, “I’m also allergic to the back of someone’s hand.”
I wanted to send a message. We knew what the mark was from, and it wasn’t right. Surely the Clintons must realize how close we are to them, I thought, how deeply we feel about our responsibilities for their safety. Didn’t they feel the same? It wasn’t just that we protected them 24/7, but we were extremely loyal. We didn’t do our job for the paychecks. Each man and woman protecting them had their reasons, but the Clintons were the focal point of every reason. What might happen if she had sucker-punched him? Or if that vase had hit its target? If his head hit a countertop corner, my entire life’s work would have been for nothing.
Sure, seeing a president’s black eye is strange but standing at my post I couldn’t escape the sinking feeling that this didn’t make sense. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I loved my job and I believed in it, but I couldn’t make sense of any of it.
It was a circus. Yet I never lost a sense of wonder and excitement. Even when the First Lady hollered and cursed and demanded firing thousands of people who protected her—and we spent more hours ensuring the Clintons’ protection than we spent with our own families—I loved every minute of most every day. Law enforcement—protecting others—is my passion. Protecting a president is an incredible honor. How, I kept asking myself, did a kid from Ridley, Pennsylvania, ever get to the White House? I wanted to stay for the rest of my life.
Reality destroyed my dream—in ways I never imagined.
2.
THE AIR FORCE SECURITY POLICE
I’m from Delco, aka Delaware County, Pennsylvania, born of Irish and Lebanese ancestry, but American through and through. O’Byrne even became Byrne so as to not sound too Irish. The concept of “America first” is in my blood.
My ancestors traveled here for a better life and succeeded in no small part thanks to my father’s ability to shake off the bad times and be the strongest survivor of them all. He was a great soul. He aimed to do right and act morally, to have his children live better than he did. That’s my idea of the American dream.
My father served as an Air Force mechanic in Japan during Korea. He could fix a rock if it was broken. My brother John was born in 1956, then Lynn, then lil’ Gary, and finally Anita. Those were the days! We played, teased, biked, fought, and ran up and down the neighborhood with the rest of the kids playing sports in the streets—never indoors. If you were indoors, you were interrupting Mom, being antisocial, or just plain up to no good. Outside, a whole neighborhood of families looked after each another.
Following the post-Vietnam reduction of forces, we set out for Newport News, Virginia, where the Navy was creating a new class of nuclear-powered aircraft carriers. My father received a fully paid education in nuclear engineering.
The South was a big change for us, yet in typically southern fashion the neighborhood was welcoming and full of all-round good people.
My siblings and I feared that if we did wrong, we’d send a message that we took my parents for granted. When I repeated first grade, I felt as if I was letting my parents down. Most people, my father included, thought I was lazy, though I worked hard at sports and in the garage. In seventh grade I was diagnosed with significant attention deficit disorder and dyslexia. For me, sports were a no-brainer, but academics were a lost cause. Still, my parents set an example of hard work and decent behavior that never left me. A hotshot life never impressed them. They never let anyone look down their noses at us.
There’s something more important, though, than academics or sports. Character is everything. Down the street from us lived an airman. Whenever he came home, his wife and kids ran to him. Confidence, purpose, and respect emanated from his blue uniform.
When high school ended my friends marched off to college, but I knew higher education wasn’t my move. I signed with the Air Force, hoping to see the world and feed my adventurous spirit with girls, guns, and things that go BOOM! I was full of piss and vinegar.
I thought I was immortal.
The Air Force recruiter’s questions got to me. I deeply hated terrorism—it boiled my blood. Air Force Security Police (AFSP) seemed the right fit; I hadn’t been west of Pittsburgh. I wanted to protect others and see the world. If America was going to prioritize air superiority, our airpower needed superior security.
In January 1982 I enlisted for less than $12,000
a year, but I was itching to go. A decade earlier Viet Cong and North Vietnamese forces had targeted America’s air supremacy via brazen sapper missions, assassinations, and bombings. Terrorists kidnapped NATO general James Dozier, torturing him for weeks before Italian SWAT teams rescued him. The Munich Olympic massacre in 1972 proved it was best to stop an attack rather than react to it.
I had an awful habit of laughing and smiling under pressure. When conflict arises, it’s healthy to keep a level head and a light mood, but not during training at Lackland Air Force Base: You get smoked. Laughing equals pain.
Air Force basic training wasn’t like the Army’s or the other branches. Our style was sit-ups, push-ups, and calisthenics so rigorous we couldn’t stand it. We learned that a respect for the chain of command builds confidence. It creates a cohesive unit, like a marriage. That’s what Basic was designed to do. How much it sucked depended on how fast a person adjusted.
I adjusted quickly but called my parents every chance I could. I didn’t mind the physicality or the stress, but the homesickness was awful. I never imagined what loneliness and isolation from my family would bring. My parents sensed it. Every recruit suffers a devastating epiphany: Enlist to fight for the freedom of others and you forfeit your own. You feel a strange guilt, a mourning for your former self.
My father, in his usual blunt style, shaped me up: “Gary, you wanted this, and I told you it was going to be like this.”
He was right. I needed to take his advice to “rub some dirt on it” and move on.
Our technical instructors (TIs—the Air Force’s version of drill instructors) explained that even as untested “slick-sleeve” airmen, we were all leaders. When leaders did their duty, the potential for pain was less. I absorbed the lesson into my soul. If I didn’t ensure my weapon was clear of any rounds or if I neglected its proper handling, a good guy could eat a bullet. Hence the military wisdom: There’s nothing friendly about friendly fire. If rigging wasn’t rigged correctly, it failed and people died. If we didn’t eat correctly, people died. Didn’t drink correctly—people died. Didn’t wear our uniform correctly—people died. That was the military mentality: Don’t make your bed correctly, and pain ensues. Why? Because! If you thought any duty could be shirked, you didn’t see the big or even the little picture, and people were going to die.
