Crisis of Character: A White House Secret Service Officer Discloses His Firsthand Experience with Hillary, Bill, and How They Operate

by Crisis of Character- A White House Secret Service Officer Discloses His Firsthand Experience

  I couldn’t continue without providing details—“privileged information”—that I should neither have possessed knowledge of nor disclosed to others. It was government gossip, only the kind that could end my career, maybe even land me in jail. Trying to protect the president, I was professionally torn. The irony of my doing my government job and worrying if I might end up in jail was never lost on me. I think Evelyn realized this. I emphasized to her that I didn’t care about how she did it (she could fire Monica, transfer her, or whatever), just that she safeguarded the president. I emphasized protecting the administration.

  Lieberman was smart. She could read people. She read me enough to know that I knew what I was about talking. She trusted what I said because professional career women like Nancy, Betty, and Evelyn could read President Clinton, too.

  The next day Monica was gone—transferred to the East Executive Building as a Social Office intern under the First Lady. She now had no way of getting near the West Wing. I had protected the president from himself and wanted the whole mess dead and buried.

  Once the gossip died down, I felt I’d made the right decision, but I never told anyone that I had talked with Evelyn. I’m sure the president was perturbed by Monica’s removal, but he wasn’t supposed to interact with interns anyway, whether mentoring them or not. He should have honored the mission he had sworn to protect.

  And where was the First Lady in all of this? I wasn’t yet sure. What if she ran into the president with Monica or with another mistress? Would I have to protect the president from his irate wife—or even from a mistress?

  It was nerve-racking. If FLOTUS came by while he was “with company,” was I supposed to refuse her entry? But the Clintons didn’t care for us, making that abundantly clear by placing us in such precarious positions. I do believe that Mrs. Clinton knew of the affairs, but how did she feel about an affair with someone of her own daughter’s age? And in the Oval Office? In plain sight of us? Still, I don’t think she knew of Monica.

  The First Couple had blowout arguments when alone and while at work. The blue-glove scandal told me that. She would berate anyone, whether her personal attaché, lawyer, brand management people, all the way to regular White House Residence Staff and ushers or security like me. I had been reamed out before by her over mere protocol, which begged the question, what if she walked in on the president with a mistress? Would she finally become unglued? What the hell am I supposed to do during a FLOTUS-POTUS domestic dispute?

  Ask any police officer and they’ll tell you that next to shootings or stabbings, domestic disturbances pose the most danger for police. Previously normal people suddenly turn rabid and recklessly impassioned. Responding to a domestic dispute, I nearly had my skull split open when an angry Air Force captain’s wife flung a giant cast-iron skillet down the steps at me. That wasn’t unique. You have to get bad-breath close in those disputes. You try holding two fighting exes or a crazed parent trying to kill their own kids. Somebody retrieves a knife, a bat, a screwdriver, a lamp, a paperweight, or the phone on the mantel in the Oval Office, and the next thing shots are fired at point blank, a box cutter slices off your thumb, or someone gets blindsided by a piece of furniture. Things get really nasty. The Clintons were our top protectees. Thank God the president didn’t fall or hit his head on a mantel or countertop in the course of a yelling match or when she had thrown a vase at him.

  11.

  WILD BILL

  I wanted to block Monica’s path but couldn’t. “Look, I have a blue one now,” she said, mocking me. Her pass was faceup this time; she finally got that right. She was now a paid presidential staffer. I was stunned.

  “Sure is blue,” I said.

  She wanted to send me an unspoken message. She was heading for the Oval Office—her ultimate goal.

  I was sunk. Evelyn Lieberman and I had stuck our necks out to short-circuit an insanely dangerous marital affair. And now the situation was even worse. It was completely on the government dime. The president had pulled strings to get Monica back. I’m sure she must’ve made a show of it when they talked on WHCA’s top-secret line. How they got in touch with each other in other instances, only they know. But paying a mistress with taxpayer funds and giving her a security clearance? These were new lows.

  “I told you so,” said a PPD agent. It wasn’t the first or the last time I heard that.

  Did this agent suspect—or somehow even know—that I had dropped a dime on Monica to Lieberman? I just prayed no one would ever point the finger at me. I was a federal officer, not a babysitter, and no one’s left-hand man. But if FLOTUS surprised the Blue Pass Princess at an awkward moment, I might not be a federal officer much longer. We all worried about the danger.

  And we had more to worry about than even Monica. I worked the evening shift during a Christmas season. The president was in the Map Room. I’d grabbed some food in the East Wing and was headed back to the West Wing. A PPD friend and I shot the breeze. A Navy steward pushed the Map Room door open with his butt. In retrospect, we might have advised him to knock first. We didn’t.

  There before us was E! Network host Eleanor Mondale—former vice president Walter Mondale’s daughter—and President Clinton in a compromising position, that is, making out on the Map Room table. The steward hurriedly put his head down and departed. The doors closed.

  “Am I the only one who saw that?” I asked.

  I wasn’t. I clearly wasn’t.

  We tried laughing it off, returning as nonchalantly as we could under the circumstances to our posts as if to say, “Nothing to see here.” The steward, however, went off in a mad dash. I’m not sure how he took it. The Secret Service has a work-hard, play-hard mentality. The commander in chief took it to the next level. A PPD agent shared some stories of the road and how agents dealt with “Clinton time,” the president’s habit of being late for everyone—except his mistresses. To him schedules were recommendations.

  Nel, short for Nelvis, came to me damn near in tears, distraught, and that was not his style. He was a Filipino-American, and more important a Navy steward, a senior chief petty officer, the equivalent to an Army sergeant major. He was, by the way, not the Eleanor Mondale–Map Room incident steward.

  We had become work friends. He knew that by serving the president even a simple cup of tea to ease his mind, he served his nation. Whatever the president needed, whenever he needed it, Nel was up to task. He wrapped gifts and ironed his shirts. Stewards remained on call 24/7 and were expected to respond 24/7.

  Nel was kind to everyone. On hot days, he’d bring us water and in true White House fashion, in a tall, stunning crystal glass with a lime—and atop a silver platter. We’d have been content with a crinkly old plastic water bottle, but a steward like Nel wasn’t just bringing water; he brought with him the dignity of his job and that of the whole White House.

  But let’s back up a bit. Monica was again straphanging in the hallway. Again, I moved to shoo her back to where she was allowed.

  “I’m just here to talk to Nel,” she said defensively.

  That’s when I heard him say, “Be careful, you don’t want to end up like that Paula Jones girl.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I’m smarter than that.”

  Feeling very awkward, I retreated to my post, not wanting to hear any more and giving Monica a stern glare, maybe even grabbing her by the arm and giving her some office-friendly yet choice words to make her go away.

  Weeks passed. Nel was now distraught. In late 1996 or early 1997 he informed me that despite all his years of service and all the presidents he had such pride in serving, he wasn’t sure what to do next or who to turn to. He couldn’t get his words out.

  He nervously showed me a towel, asking, “Does that look like semen to you?” I could not imagine dealing with that as a UD officer. But I was. Any boy lucky enough to live past his high school years could identify the stains, translucent and white, half gooey, and already absorbing into the fabric.

  “Yeah, that sure looks like i
t,” I replied. “What the f—and who would?”

  Nel explained that he’d been finding—and cleaning—semen-and lipstick-stained towels for weeks. I was shocked. If the stains didn’t rinse out, he’d carefully remove them by hand. He was terrified that if he passed them on to other Navy laundry personnel downstairs he’d not only reveal Bill Clinton’s affairs, he’d embarrass the presidency itself. Sure, they might have missed the semen stains—but not the lipstick.

  A Navy senior chief petty officer was washing those towels by hand: that’s how much Nel cared for protecting the office of the president.

  Upon seeing the fluid, I instantly thought, “F—ing Monica!” But that lipstick… no.

  Among White House women, fashion and especially lipstick were like trademarks. This wasn’t Monica’s lipstick. Someone else was entertaining the president late at night. As I testified in the Ken Starr investigation, I believed that this particular lipstick belonged to the current West Wing receptionist. I just knew it. I sighed. But I kept it to myself and didn’t tell Nel or anyone else. I mentally filed that piece of knowledge under “Please forget.”

  You might ask why the lipstick was so significant. That receptionist wasn’t using those towels to clean smudges off her mouth. She hadn’t used the towels. The president wiped the lipstick that wasn’t just on his lips but that remained on his own skin near the semen. That’s why Nel and I were freaking out. That was the key to the towels.

  The White House engages in a lot of pageantry. Those towels, if not silk, were something like the softest materials I’ve ever come across. The towels were emblazoned with the White House seal. I’d think twice about even just drying my hands on them—but for anyone with any sense of decorum, they were for nothing else. Many, like President Reagan, and like myself, never even walked across the Presidential Seal on the Oval Office carpet (the same seal is on the ceiling). It just didn’t feel right. The White House was where kings and queens, sheikhs and ambassadors met the world’s most powerful leader. Pageantry was a business expense and SOP, Standard Operating Procedure.

  I understood why Nel felt belittled. He was well respected by many previous administrations, yet here he was confiding in me, reduced to picking up after the president’s affairs, literally dealing with his dirty linen. Nel asked if he should just throw them out, maybe even dispose of them in burn bags. Neither of us wanted another scandal to keep the president and FLOTUS from their real work.

  I knew what I had to do. But I had to get it right. The president was priority number one. If this scandal leaked, his presidency would be at stake.

  I calmed Nel, reassuring him that I’d take care of this myself. He wouldn’t have to worry about it. He brought me the rest of the linens. From a nearby trash can, under the liner, I knew there was a roll of more trash can liners. I grabbed a new one as I scanned the hallway, already preparing an excuse should another officer ask what I was doing. I placed the offending linens in the trash bag and hid them in a furniture drawer near my post. I didn’t let that drawer of my sight until my very long day was done.

  Getting the trash bag to my gym bag to my car involved some risky moments, but I made it. In D.C. traffic I worried, Have I just illegally destroyed evidence? Can you dispose of evidence if there’s no investigation yet? Ken Starr was investigating Whitewater, and the Paula Jones case proceeded. Starr never went away, never stopped. Had I done the right thing? I’d protected the president, but why? And had I just jeopardized my entire career, my pension, my future, or even my kid’s future? Our first child was on the way! There was no protocol for this! I was improvising, big-time.

  I now felt things I never conceived that I’d feel: a sense of betrayal, and a real disdain for the man I protected.

  I pulled into the driveway and tried greeting my wife as if this day were just another normal crazy day at the White House. I now realized that if I could exit the premises with such a sensitive item, so could others. And someone would.

  Yes, the big shots could shut everyone up, but they couldn’t stop someone from strolling out with the little blue pass and worse, the same damn blue dress she walked in with.

  But that hadn’t happened—yet.

  12.

  USSS WORK ENVIRONMENT

  While I remained intensely loyal to the institution of the presidency of the United States, by 1994 I no longer felt that allegiance to the man who now occupied that office. As if that were not bad enough, I felt that I was developing the same attitude toward the U.S. Secret Service (USSS). It seemed I was starting to experience a war on two fronts.

  For me, the USSS was nothing but family. I never had an issue with the men and women who served within the UD. To this day, they remain my closest friends. What disturbed me the most was that the Clintons were trying to change the very structure of the Secret Service. The Clintons mandated change upon their arrival in 1993 that exacerbated the defects within the SS and in particular accelerated the friction between the special agents (the suits) and the UD. Hillary’s ambition—given her deep-seated dislike of the uniformed military and of uniformed law enforcement—was to get rid of the UD that she so loathed.

  Diversity initiatives drew mixed feelings within the UD. This affected me personally when I was told that a job for which I qualified had to go to a woman because of her gender. Under this administration, the Diversity Club was created. The hypocrisy of the weekly meetings was that they were limited to nonwhite males. I informed my superior that I was a minority and wanted in.

  “Gary, c’mon,” he said flatly.

  I asked him to find me another Irish-Lebanese person of Arabic descent in the White House—just one. Just before I put my signature to an official grievance, they allowed me to attend Diversity Club meetings.

  When I walked in the door I felt the stares—no surprise there. Most of that meeting was ridiculous. One guy wanted to speak Spanish over the secure radio and thought it was discriminatory that he couldn’t. Management squashed that one. Two black officers explained that someone had changed their work evaluation scores to obstruct their anticipated promotions and pay increases. They lacked proof. The Diversity Club leaders, the deputy chief of the White House and inspector, quashed that one, too.

  “Anything else? Anyone have anything else they want to bring up?” they said, trying to end the meeting.

  I raised my hand.

  “Yes. Gary. What can we do for you?” they asked dismissively, still bent on leaving.

  I took a deep breath but didn’t miss a beat. “I would just like to add that I believe these two officers are telling the truth—I saw a lieutenant change their scores.”

  You could hear a pin drop. Now three officers had challenged another officer’s integrity. The Diversity Club leaders asked me if I saw it on such-and-such a date. I pulled out my notepad, one of the greatest pieces of equipment an LEO has.

  “No. It was actually the day before.”

  I had witnessed the two black officers’ interactions with this bitter lieutenant. From my years of reading people, I knew he was passive-aggressive and had a chip on his shoulder. But I didn’t make anything of it at the time.

  “Well, that doesn’t prove anything, Gary,” said one supervisor.

  “Let me finish. A buddy of mine is in the radio room. I visited to chat with him while I ate lunch. In the radio room were the evaluations. They’re kept in two file bins.”

  “We know where they’re kept, Gary.”

  “Well, I saw the lieutenant come in. He looked around, and the lieutenant said, ‘Are those the evaluations?’ My buddy responded, ‘Yeah, but those are marked “Sergeant’s Eyes Only.”’ The lieutenant said, ‘It’s fine’ and took the evaluations and erased where the scores were and wrote in something else. I’m telling you, that’s what I saw. I was sitting right there eating my lunch.”

  All eyes were on the Diversity Club supervisors. The two black officers swelled with vindication. The deputy chief of the White House and the inspector knew they had a pile of s
hit to deal with. Even though the incident in the radio room had felt mundane and outside my ballpark, I still noted it. It just hadn’t felt right.

  “Well, did you see exactly what the lieutenant did on those forms?” a superior asked, implying he could have changed something innocuous.

  “Was it the scores?” the other reiterated.

  “Here’s what I saw: I didn’t specifically see what the lieutenant changed—I saw him walk in, ask if those were the forms, say it was fine; then he took out a pencil, erased something, and wrote in something else. He’s not supposed to have access to those forms at all.”

  I knew those two officers were telling the truth; I had seen it firsthand. They didn’t have the evidence, but as it turned out, unbeknownst to me, I did. I could mind my own business, but silence would have been absolutely wrong, and I couldn’t have lived with myself. These two black officers were good men, and some A-hole lieutenant had a bone to pick with them for a reason beyond me. Was it racism? I don’t know, but I couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of my predicament. Initially I objected to the diversity meetings, and now I realized how it enabled me to vindicate two great officers and question their superior, a guy no longer “worthy of trust and confidence.”

  The Clinton administration had major problems… and, I was sad to say, so did my own Secret Service.

  13.

  TOURS AND JJRTC

  The Tours division, a part of Secret Service Special Operations Section, allows everyone from American tourists to Arab potentates to see and experience the White House and to inhale its storied history. I wanted in. Even if it wasn’t my original career goal, it was the next best thing and a promotion and honor in itself. Most important, it would get me away from the Oval Office.

  Absorbing the incredible amount of history necessary to become a competent tour officer is daunting—and it seemed impossible as far as my capabilities went. The UD officers who ran Tours knew every factual smidgen about the White House. They could tell you fascinating stories of great leaders and world wars or get into details as seemingly minute as who made the floors, where the wood came from, why it was chosen from other kinds of woods, and more. They could go for hours about a specific set of drapes (and each window has drapes!), how they were chosen by which FLOTUS, and how some important decision was made “right there on that spot.” They were walking encyclopedias of our presidents, First Ladies, First Families, First Dogs, the whole sweep of American history, and how it flowed through those hallowed grounds.