by Crisis of Character- A White House Secret Service Officer Discloses His Firsthand Experience
For a campaign event, they had purchased a very large banner with the new slogan. We vetoed it—it blocked one of our countersnipers. Later when Clinton was president, they had scheduled a classic photo op descending Air Force One’s staircase. Its pilots nearly panicked to see some staffer had placed a set of audience bleachers near the taxiway. Air Force One jet engine exhaust would have blown people right off them!
I feared I’d have to helplessly witness a presidential assassination. Some events resembled a Black Friday sale opening, with Clinton’s enthusiastic fans mobbing him. The Clintons embodied their fans’ wants, dreams, and political desires. At Clinton events, it was hard to separate fanatics from lunatics—really, what’s the difference? I passed it off as being my first Secret Service election cycle. I thought I’d get used to it.
We at the Secret Service UD had plenty of redundancies on our end to ensure safety. If a metal detector malfunctioned, we funneled people over to the next one or used our wands. But if for whatever reason—and it had happened—the generators failed from overload or ran out of gas, what then? The Service didn’t want to let in unscanned people. The campaign staff insisted on it, ordering us to “speed it up.” We placated them, but I was thinking, Can you speed up stitching a wound? Sometimes they ordered us to “just let everyone through” because we looked too authoritative and intimidating. They had no clue that was how behavioral screening worked.
On some events, we had campaign staff run up to us archway by archway, yelling, “The event is about to start, shut it down now! Just do it!”
Those were awkward and dangerous moments. With gritted teeth, we would explain that we took our orders only from Secret Service hierarchy. Unless my superior gave the order directly, I wouldn’t change course. Once, the other UD officers gave in, turning off the metal detectors and “just letting ’em through.” I was so angry I chose to keep my post on and screened each person. The people already in my line were not happy, and the staffer insisted, “What do you not understand? Shut it down!”
“Are you Secret Service?” I asked.
“No, but I’m working this event.”
“I don’t take orders from you. I take orders from the Secret Service. You want me to stop doing my job, go get someone I take orders from.”
Sometimes I’d get backing from a superior. Sometimes not.
“Just like she said, shut it down, Byrne.”
If I really wanted to push it further I’d say, “Then give me a name.”
“What do you mean, ‘Give me a name’?”
“I want to know where this order is coming from,” I said as I flipped open my notepad.
They didn’t like it, but I needed a name to fall back on if I was ever charged with dereliction.
Once I was working a White House metal detector and a nondescript, middle-aged guy halted before the table, eyeing the detectors. His hands entered his pockets—such a simple gesture—but such a red flag.
Also on duty was a UD officer whom I’ll call Yolanda. We had incredibly different backgrounds. I grew up in Pennsylvania and Virginia. She was from the “real” D.C., the “ghetto,” as she said. She was very crass, and like me never had advanced education. I wasn’t sure what to make of her.
Anyway, back to that guy at the metal detector.
“Um, I have a gun,” he said quietly, “in my pockets,” he said, his face white, his body rigid.
I grabbed his hands, keeping them (and his gun) in his coat pockets. “Do not take your hands out of your pockets!”
Yolanda’s arm flashed over my hunched shoulder, her SIG pistol so close to his eyeballs, he probably saw the bullet inside its barrel. He certainly saw dark nail polish.
“I got you, Byrney!”
Everybody froze.
“Listen!” Yolanda barked. “You move, and I will kill you, motherf—er.”
Mission accomplished. People didn’t complain about screeners after that! A million things could have gone south at that checkpoint, but she had my back, and our training kicked in. Yolanda was great—a top draft pick for any partner. She read people like a human polygraph machine and wouldn’t freeze up in the clutch.
And that incident occurred at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Just consider the risk at campaign events.
6.
THE BOY FROM HOPE, ARKANSAS
The new presidential staff was in, and the old was out. I found myself saying, “Good morning, Mr. President,” to a new person, President Clinton. The transition was exciting. I spent much of those shifts answering questions like where the coffee machines were, how the White House AT&T telephone system and the fax machines worked, how to navigate the offices, and of course, the location of the nearest bathroom. Electrical outlets were in short supply in an old building, so I was often asked where to find one.
Most often, I’d pester presidential staff to wear their passes visibly. New staff arrived by the day. We code-named the First Family: Eagle (Bill), Evergreen (Hillary), and Energy (Chelsea). They moved into the Executive Mansion. Mrs. Clinton’s office near the Oval Office made her the first First Lady on the West Wing. The media buzzed over her semi-cabinet position, that she could never be fired, how she’d always be first to the president’s ear. Should a First Lady to be a social role model or an unfireable, unofficial chief of staff? We were eager to learn that ourselves.
George Stephanopoulos (we nicknamed him Stuffing Envelopes, among other things) and Dee Dee Myers, both key Clinton media people, stood outside the Oval Office, discussing who would get each office. Some had windows or direct access to the president, while some were more secluded and isolated from the annoying buzz of busybodies. They were choosing offices before they knew their exact job positions! I injected myself into their conversation.
“Typically the press secretary’s office is over there by the Press Lobby so reporters can have better access.”
George turned pale. I wasn’t sure how to gauge his reaction.
“Oh, I don’t want my office by those people.”
George owed reporters for his campaign successes, but I suppose even he wanted a break from the spin cycle. George ended up next to the president’s study, granting him coveted open access to the president. Nancy Hernreich, the president’s scheduler, had wanted that same office but ended up next to Betty Currie, the president’s personal secretary. Dee Dee Myers, who became the press secretary, ended up with that far office by the Press Lobby.
Many staffers were stalwart professionals. Some sprouted massive egos upon stepping through the White House door. I was on break when I heard a call over the radio.
“Bandbox to any available West Wing officer.”
“Byrne here.”
“Byrne, proceed to the pool and check on an unidentified male in the pool. Someone needs to go check this guy out immediately.”
“Byrne: copy,” I said as I jogged over.
The First Family has its own private pool. Once when First Lady Bush swam there, a rat—the White House has all sorts of wildlife—dove into the pool. President Bush rushed over, beat the rat with a pool net, scooped it up, and flung it onto the walkway nearby. Their English springer spaniel Millie finished the job.
No rats swam today. But an unknown man in a suit and tie had his feet in the pool, his pants rolled up as if he were on vacation. He was looking around, la-di-da, and kicking his bare feet, leaning back and gawking at the sky.
“Hey, how you doing?” I asked, sincerely curious.
He looked at me bright-eyed. “Isn’t this great?”
“Sure is,” I humored him.
“We made it. We did it,” he said, astonished by his own success. “We’re going to change everything.” He talked and talked. Some of these new Clinton hires were really something.
“Mind if I see your pass?” I interrupted.
It was in his desk, he told me. I asked his name and he told me we could be friends, but when I radioed Bandbox to check his name the man’s tone changed. He waved me off saying he did
n’t need a pass. I informed him he did.
He responded, “We run the place now. You’re going to have to get used to that.”
I responded with a flat “Yeah, no.”
My colleagues arrived, and his feet left the pool. He blustered that we had it in for him, launching into a “Do you know who I am?” routine.
He never got his White House pass back. Good riddance.
Another day, I was outside the Oval Office. A portly gentleman strutted in with another gentleman as if they were a two-man marching band. The plump conductor and a tall, hovering young guy marched in lockstep, scrutinizing the West Wing. I assessed them as nonthreats, but they had my curiosity. The conductor was brightly dressed, tieless, but wearing multiple brightly colored Mardi Gras beaded necklaces. He got right up in my face.
“You see this?” he said, presenting his necklaces the way I’d hold up a badge.
“Yes, sir, I do,” I said, smiling, being as professional as I could. Inside, I was cracking up.
“This is my gay pride necklace! You got a problem with that?” he steamed, eyes locked on mine.
“No problem, sir,” I replied. He seemed stunned.
He trundled off, almost disappointed that I didn’t have more to say. I didn’t have a problem; he had his pass and wasn’t posing a risk, so what did I care? The guy seemed to want to lock horns just because I was a law enforcement officer. He must have figured that anyone wearing a badge must be homophobic.
He couldn’t be more wrong.
My Air Force roommate was a bit of a shut-in. Only when I stopped in a dive bar far off base for a rest stop and heard, “Gary?” did I grasp why. It was he, and only then did I realize where we were. The joint had a motorcycle theme but in a Village People sort of way. A gay bar! My roommate! I waved good-bye and speechlessly peeled out of there. This was before “Don’t ask, don’t tell”; active homosexuality could result in a dishonorable discharge. Even the suspicion of homosexuality could destroy your career.
Suddenly, his awkwardness in the showers, why he never chased women, joked about porn, or made crude military talk made sense. He must’ve chewed his fingernails worrying whether I would spread the word or inform a superior. Gut-wrenching fear must have weighed on him from the start.
I drew the big picture. His sexuality had no impact on his competence, honor, or integrity. I respected him more for his committing to the military. Back home, I gave him a slap on the shoulder and never mentioned it again.
Back to 1992 and seeing this oaf saunter down the White House hallway with his beaded necklace. Mr. Mardi Gras had only just begun having his tall, young sidekick slap Gay Pride stickers on the walls and furniture, yes, the priceless historical furniture and walls of the White House.
“Sir! Sir!”
Careers were on the line, so I needed backup. The duo pivoted toward me and got the fracas they wanted, a pointless quarrel with those whose job it was to protect them.
“I don’t care what’s on the stickers! Do not disrespect, disregard, or vandalize the White House! This isn’t your dorm room. It’s a living monument to the greatest leaders this country’s ever had!”
“Oh no, this is our house now!” they squawked.
They accused us of homophobia. We focused on decorum, protocol—and vandalism. I never expected such behavior from anyone capable of even potentially being appointed to work in the White House. Imagine that after clearing every background check they’d demonstrate such willful, unthinkable incompetence, unprofessionalism, and contempt. The West Wing cleaning staff painstakingly removed the offending stickers from the walls, straining not to leave marks. They were angrier than we were. We escorted those clowns out as if we were club bouncers. They never got their passes back, and we never saw them again.
Staffers entered through the Old Executive Office Building (the Eisenhower Building), and it was a magnet for various and sundry weirdos. A polite, well-dressed, and impeccably groomed guy got in line. No problem. Secret Service checked his bag. A-okay. He chitchatted with the officers. All was normal. Yet the staffer was sockless on one foot. For some reason, he handed an officer the missing sock.
“Oh, and I guess I give you this,” he said, shrugging and smiling as if he was hot shit, as if nothing were wrong.
“Sure, do,” the officer said, taking the sock.
The other officer instinctively drew his sidearm and issued orders: “Keep your hands where I can see them! Hands up!”
Next I heard over the radio: “Officers have just apprehended a staffer trying to enter with a pistol!”
That sock had a Glock pistol in it. The District of Columbia ranks among the nation’s most anti-gun locations in the country, and this new staffer was blatantly committing dozens of gun-related felonies just by possessing a handgun. He was fired, arrested, and prosecuted. He basically told UD that the rules didn’t apply to him. Idiot! But it takes one to hire one, I was learning. The incident was especially incredible knowing the Clintons’ anti–Second Amendment sentiment.
“Beware the Glock in a sock,” we’d say to remind each other to keep an eye on staffers as much as anyone else.
The word was out on the new staff and the Clinton way of doing things. The hippie generation was anti-authority and disdained us. But now they were the authority! The UD quickly grew wary of being in the sights of the Clintons and, later, especially of Mrs. Clinton.
One time when the president stayed at a West Coast hotel, a group was scheduled to meet with him. It’s no secret that Mrs. Clinton and their staff created very tight schedules to enable President Clinton to meet a multitude of groups. But President Clinton was a schmoozer, wanting to give each group due time. Schedules got pushed back and squeezed. Staffers made up time where they could.
Downstairs in the lobby, the staffer swore to the agent that she knew each person, but he insisted on verifying each visitor. She pressured him, and he trusted her. Upstairs, people entered completely unscreened: no metal detection, no ID checking—nothing.
One guy rushed right up to President Clinton, gave him a hearty handshake, and exclaimed that he was his biggest fan. Clinton asked who he was, but nobody knew. The agents rushed him out. The staffer responsible for this fiasco turned to the agent and to her credit surrendered her radio, ID, and credentials, resigning immediately. Wrapped up in the president’s schedule, she had left his life completely in God’s hands, taking it out of the Service’s.
Our mystery man informed agents that he didn’t even know the president was staying in the hotel, was simply inquisitive about the group gathering in the lobby, and joined in on a whim. A guy curious about a crowd pierced the most protective security blanket in the world because of a frazzled, overzealous, power-tripping staffer. John Hinckley did pretty much same damn thing with the press corps.
Secret Service leadership reminded us not to trust staffers when it came to presidential security. Many, including myself, maintained detailed notes of every staff encounter in our post logbooks: Cover Your Ass notes to guard against possible mishaps or claims of libel, sexual harassment, unprofessionalism, or partisanship.
Unlike their predecessors, this administration didn’t focus, pace themselves, or even delegate. Staff wore jeans and T-shirts and faced each problem with grand ideological bull sessions. Rival foreign powers could influence the situation and change it before the Clinton administration could mold a plan and implement it. Their helter-skelter approach had deadly consequences abroad.
Somehow the administration selected Somalia as a scene for international engagements. There were plenty of wars and genocides around the world. They ignored the Rwandan genocide and let the situation in Bosnia-Herzegovina escalate. I guess Somalia seemed more marketable than the others—better for the Clinton brand.
The incident at Mogadishu resulted from their dithering and from their constant insistence that we (LEOs, military, and so on) had to look like their perception of good guys. The administration never got over the idea that the Uniform
ed Division, the agents, and the military didn’t look like what they had envisioned. What was that vision? I don’t know. The administration was constantly trying to get uniformed UD officers to resemble plainclothes special agents while on the road. They wanted us to be “user friendly,” which translated into, “Do what we tell you, when we tell you to do it.” They wanted us to look unintimidating. Appearances really came to a head on Mrs. Clinton’s detail. Eventually, personnel assigned to it regarded the “honor” as a punishment. It was a transfer no one wanted because of its constant stress and negativity.
I vividly remember Secretary of Defense Les Aspin, George Stephanopoulos, advisor Rahm Emanuel, and others convening about an operation in Mogadishu, the Somali capital. Though all of this was way over my pay grade, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The three walked outside the Roosevelt Room into the hallway in front of me at my Oval Office post to reiterate what they had just discussed.
“They don’t need tanks,” Stephanopoulos insisted, as if the request was absurd and excessive.
“Yeah, they don’t need…” they agreed, listing the military’s supposedly excessive requests for AC-130 gunships, armored personnel carriers (APCs), and other equipment.
“We don’t want to look too militant,” someone said.
I was stunned.
How does a military look too militant? It was bizarre. Somewhere in the chain of command the decision was purely political, they agreed based on “branding,” and they were meddling heavily with the military. I knew from my Air Force days that no one would even see an AC-130 gunship in the sky—it’d be too high. I had no idea what caused their resistance to armored personnel carriers or if some even knew the difference between an APC and a tank. Their nonchalance in disregarding a military request made me very uneasy.
