by Crisis of Character- A White House Secret Service Officer Discloses His Firsthand Experience
Since the Secret Service lawyers were from the Justice Department, I had a feeling that some of them were playing double or triple agent. “They’re all fed from the same trough” was the political saying. I wanted a heavyweight loyal to me.
Mark H. may have saved my life.
Yes, I got bogged down in the details and started wringing my hands as my stomach felt as though it would crawl its way out. As much as I liked Mark, I wanted to back out and put my faith in the Service and God. Was it even legal for me to have independent counsel? I’m just a cop. Cops sign up for the action, not the legal aftermath, and it blindsides us every time. This was no Air Force DUI bust, this was an impeachable offense against the president of the United States for perjury, bribery, sexual harassment, paying a mistress, and risking national security intelligence. Then there was trying him in the court of public opinion for being a coward, a scoundrel, a womanizer, sexist, and playing political poker at the entire world’s expense for his personal pleasure.
My emotions reached the bursting point. Mark, seeing me in my wrecked state, had the decency and sense to phone his firm’s constitutional expert in Atlanta. This guy knew his shit front to back—every possible Supreme Court interpretation. His manner reassured me. The Constitution was still my Constitution, the one I’d sworn to protect. I could rely on the protections under the Bill of Rights. I needed to know that I still had my right to be a part of Paula Jones case, to “petition the government for a redress of grievances,” to use my freedom of speech, my right not to incriminate myself, my right to independent legal counsel, my right against unlawful and unreasonable search and seizure of my property—to privacy, to due process, and to all the others. I was a born-again man who’d taken an oath in defending and upholding the Constitution and the country.
Now that Constitution would defend me.
After all, it was the president who took an oath to “faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States,” and “to the best of [his] ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution.” I took a similar oath at the Air Force and the Service to protect and defend the Constitution and follow the orders of the president.
I kept telling myself, “Do the right thing, Gary. They can’t jail you for telling the truth. You are a good man; that means something. You are and will be ‘worthy of trust and confidence.’” In Mark’s office that day I was still choking up. My eyes welled with tears. I clenched my hands, then clenched them again. My face reddened.
I would push on. We’d get through this.
Mark and his constitutional expert did me one better. We were getting fired up. I listened in as Mark arranged a conference call between himself, the constitutional expert, and Gary Grindler, the Justice Department honcho Janet Reno had appointed as the Secret Service’s counterweight to Ken Starr. Mark ordered me to keep silent.
Hell, I couldn’t have spoken even if I had wanted to. Was it legal for me to obtain independent, personal legal counsel? I was going to get the answer right from the horse’s mouth. The Expert and Grindler had known each other from college—small world.
“Hey, Gary [Grindler]. It’s [the Expert]. How are you?”
“Hey, [so-and-so], I’m fine,” says Grindler.
“Good, good. Listen, I’ve got a Secret Service guy here with me who’s involved in your little case and he’s seeking independent counsel. I’m calling you as a courtesy to let you know we’re representing him, but I’m not obligated to say who, and he’s not obligated to say he has independent counsel. But we’re representing him nonetheless. That fine with you?”
“Uh, well enough. Yeah, it’s probably a good idea to get independent counsel. Sure. Why not? I would.”
“You have no issue with it?”
“No. I got no issue with it.”
“Great.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, see you, Gary.”
“Bye-bye.”
And that was it.
I choked up again. This was really happening. Someone had my back. Mark was outside the Clinton sphere of influence, outside of their web. His firm wasn’t the Service. It wasn’t the feds. They weren’t political. They were independent, for-profit, capitalist heavyweights, and I believed that they wanted to do the right thing for a law enforcement officer. They also wanted in on one of the biggest legal cases in history. And I couldn’t blame them for that. People speculated that this case could overthrow the president.
Mark was my protector. It meant the world to me.
The Treasury Department (the Secret Service’s boss) had evoked—hell, it was more like they created it out of thin air—what they called the Presidential Protective Function Privilege. It meant that protectors, specifically Secret Service officers, could not rat on their protectees. It was the extrapolation of case law, a privilege, not even a right under the Constitution, that a protection detail formed a marriage of sorts.
The idea was if the Service ratted on its protectees, the protectees couldn’t trust the Service and would duck them. The Service couldn’t protect an uncooperative protectee, but that doesn’t mean the Service has to collude with misbehavior. Still the Treasury Department evoked the Presidential Protective Function Privilege knowing full well it wouldn’t work. I suspected it was a part of Mrs. Clinton’s “just get it done” leadership style: She didn’t care how, didn’t know if it would even work, and didn’t get personally involved. She prided herself on plausible deniability, which is how she and her husband gained the presidency by ducking their scandals in Arkansas.
But the Service and Clinton’s defense wasn’t remotely plausible—we knew better because we had seen the incidents in question! And somehow Starr discovered who exactly knew what and whom he could squeeze. But deny-deny-deny was turning into drag-drag-drag; eventually those pesky FBI agents and reporters would just be worn down over time—so they thought. Sound familiar? Why change the playbook if it worked?
Therefore, presidential protectors couldn’t be compelled to testify if they chose not to. No one ever asked me if I would—it was assumed I wouldn’t testify—such was the Secret Service way. If the privilege was upheld and I wanted to testify, I would be sticking my neck out and I’d be the only one. One way or another, this side or the other, I’d be a dead man.
The Clintons directed others to lie for them, never in writing (as far as I knew), but I had seen lying firsthand. Their culture of corruption had pushed me out of my post and eventually from the White House. I feared it would push me from the Service as well. Many in the Service just said, “I don’t remember,” “I’m not sure,” “I don’t recall,” or “I can neither confirm nor deny,” or they obstructed justice by constantly standing by privileged information. The spirit was to protect the president and protect the Service. I couldn’t do that, but I still had to tread carefully. “They can’t jail me for telling the truth,” I kept repeating to myself.
In mid-January 1999, prior to my subpoena and unbeknownst to me while I was at JJRTC, Monica Lewinsky had signed an affidavit, a sworn statement, about her affair. In a Pentagon City, VA hotel, Monica also handed Linda Tripp, her Pentagon staffer pen pal, a document (“Points to Make in an Affidavit”) detailing what to say on an affidavit so as to protect Clinton from charges of sexual harassment made by White House volunteer aide Kathleen Willey. Where that document originated is a mystery. But it was amateur hour for Monica, as usual. Monica and President Clinton had been subpoenaed by the Paula Jones lawyers and both swore in a public civil case, under penalty of perjury—an impeachable offense for the president—that they did not have a sexual relationship.
The Clintons and Monica didn’t know it, but Linda Tripp was no Clintonite. She was feeding information on them all to Newsweek and to Ken Starr. Tripp had the affidavit document proving conspiracy, and Starr had his carte blanche. Janet Reno signed off on the Justice Department and FBI expanding their investigations from the Whitewater scandal—in which their main witness, Jim McDougal, mysteriously died—into con
spiracy and perjury in Paula Jones’s sexual harassment case regarding a government employee. Tripp had taped her phone conversations with Monica detailing her affair with the president, how in the Oval Office she gave him oral sex while he was on the phone with ambassadors and with Dick Morris. President Clinton paid for a White House mistress with taxpayer funds and jeopardized national security with her compromisable and corruptible presence in a secure area, all for little more than on-demand oral sex. We thought we knew what was going on. We didn’t know the half of it.
Tripp somehow manipulated Monica into giving her the infamous blue dress. Nel and I hadn’t cleaned up everything. The president had “deposited” somewhere besides White House towels. The biggest security leak in history was the one that Monica wore into the White House and then strutted out with—right past us. There was no way to spin it. Either the president had mysteriously gone around the White House ejaculating on people’s clothing, or he and Monica had a taxpayer-funded affair for which he committed perjury.
It also proved what I damn well knew, that Monica was easily manipulated, either by the likes of a higher-up like President Clinton or a lower-down like Linda Tripp. She had no business playing in a high-stakes environment within arm’s reach of intelligence of the CIA, the FBI, the State Department, and the Department of Defense. I mean, the spook shit that moved and was approved through the White House was the most sensitive intel in existence. Actionable intel is power. How could anyone in the Secret Service be expected to do his or her job if the Americans allowed people like the Clintons to assume national leadership?
People still think the Lewinsky affair was one political party making a big deal over a little extra pie on the side; it wasn’t. What Starr proved was that the president had engaged in inappropriate sexually related workplace conduct with an intern/employee, as he had with other women. Some women, such as Juanita Broaddrick, even alleged he had assaulted them. He had zero integrity in this area, and that made everything he did suspect and untrustworthy. It revealed his real character. The president of the United States believed that he was above the law. He perjured himself and convinced others to perjure themselves to try to save his carefully crafted image. He created a spirit of corruption that infected the White House, the Secret Service, the whole government. Bill Clinton endangered us all by serving himself. He dragged me through the mud for it. He raked a lot of people over the coals for it.
Don’t shit where you eat. Don’t harass and screw interns and staff for the same reason. If someone can’t see how they jeopardize the mission by not being able to see past temptation, they aren’t fit for the job. I heard my old TI’s mottos, “The little mistakes get the wrong people killed!”
At any moment the Clintons could have stopped each scandal; they could have told the truth about his affair with Monica. They didn’t. They kept pushing and peddling. Monica was young, inexperienced, and immature. The Clintons weren’t. They were just immensely arrogant. They told us explicitly that they weren’t used to hearing “no.”
Tripp manipulated Monica, but Monica herself had manipulated her way to the president as much as the president schemed to ensnare her. I’d seen it all—or at least enough. But Monica was a pretty, spoiled girl; the president wasn’t. He knew damn well what he was doing to her emotionally and physically and to her reputation. He couldn’t have cared less.
People like Monica and the entire Clinton Machine should never have had access to classified national security–related intelligence or enjoyed leadership positions. Their irresponsibility had consequences. Good men died from it—both in Mogadishu and Benghazi. We had friends die from exhaustion or from falling asleep at the wheel while ensuring the Secret Service mission of protecting the president. To die for a man of character—I can live with that. Scott Giambattista got shot to protect the president. Everyone watched the Clinton scandal shit show play out in Congress, in the media, and in the Oval Office, and every night in America’s living rooms. All the Clintons’ successes can be credited to men and women of character like Leon Panetta, Nancy Hernreich, and Betty Currie. The Clintons’ failures all point to themselves.
The president and Mrs. Clinton were purely business partners. I believe from their movements and interactions that Mrs. Clinton knew of the affairs. But I do believe she was surprised by her partner’s stooping to romancing someone the age of their daughter and was furious that he besmirched the brand. Politically it was unthinkable. How could anyone excuse his womanizing and workplace conduct?
I was drowning in the BS and couldn’t see clearly. Walking into the Starr investigation’s office for our FBI/UD meetings, I took a deep breath. It was contentious from the outset. They asked the same questions the Secret Service’s attorneys asked. I told them exactly what I legally could. But they wanted all the details. They were certain I knew more and was holding back. They wanted the smoking gun.
It went on for days. Finely dressed suits grilled me and accused me of corruption. After each session I trudged to Mark’s office (his role defending me was strictly hush-hush and he did not accompany me to Starr’s offices), rehashing everything once more. Back home I would just pass out, leaving Genny with little support. The BS wore me down. I didn’t want to put it on her shoulders. She had enough to carry with our first child. It wasn’t right.
Suddenly I realized, This must be what Vince Foster felt like—no escape except one. I never felt as if I had no way out, nor did suicide ever cross my mind. But I was overcome by desperation. It’s painful to remember everything even now. I reminded myself of what I still had, what I believed in. But my paranoia festered. This wasn’t a fair fight. I felt surrounded.
A couple of nights I couldn’t sleep so I placed myself on the couch directly facing the door with my sidearm loaded, a round chambered, ready at the slightest sound to draw and fight. That’s what it took to get to sleep at times. Each day, my feeling of no sanctuary, no reprieve, grew. No husband or father wants to feel as though he’s putting a target on his family or that his job could compromise their well-being. We discussed some security measures, and I told her that if I ever gave her a call to leave, where she was to go—and how I’d meet her there.
If the Clintons had just told the truth, my wife wouldn’t have had to suffer this torture. Why did they have to operate like this?
Each day, the FBI/JD squeezed me between a rock and hard place. I couldn’t reveal any confidential intel but still tried to answer their questions as best I could. In a small, glass-paneled office at the Starr investigation headquarters, things started to get out of hand.
“Read him his rights!” yelled the investigator. I was being arrested.
“Are you f—ing kidding me?” I yelled in disbelief.
“You have the right to remain silent.…”
An FBI agent read me my Miranda rights, but they didn’t care if Gary Byrne lived or died. That was clear. Shouting erupted. More Secret Service lawyers rushed in. One pulled me out of the room as the agent and I got in each other’s faces. Outside, a Secret Service attorney calmed me down as he explained that they weren’t going to let the FBI arrest me—but in the same breath he told me that if the FBI wanted to, the Service couldn’t legally impede them.
Some reassurance.
The issue? Nobody could understand how Monica got past me, the president’s uniformed gatekeeper. Duh! Because the staff kept aiding and abetting her and because the president wanted her there—that last part I couldn’t legally say; it was privileged. And every detail had to be mulled over. “Well, how did you know Monica was paid or unpaid?” Because she had an intern pass, and then after I recommended she be removed she appeared back in the White House with the blue pass indicating she was a sanctioned West Wing staffer. Any mention of the president was illegal.
Days later, the bastards did it again. The same agent yelled in my face, “I will come to your house and arrest you in front of your pregnant wife!”
I bolted up and slammed the table. We leaned in across th
e table separating us, ready to pounce. It was about to tip over—if I didn’t lurch over it first.
“F—you! I don’t have to take this shit from you!” I yelled, and everyone started shouting again.
Each word drew us physically closer. The Service attorney grabbed my arm, pushing me out of the room as others poured in, and the agent and I were still yelling. Every word from that agent destroyed my ability to process. If the attorneys couldn’t keep us apart, we were going across that table and settle it like old-school cops.
Gary Grindler might as well have kicked down each door as he stormed into the office. It was just him, the Starr guys, and that FBI agent. That office was soundproof but I saw it all through the glass. Grindler took a verbal ax to those assholes. He got his point across. They needed to understand that we were all cops. Despite the petty BS, I was no criminal, and they had no right to threaten anyone’s family like that. They did it to my subpoenaed colleagues, too.
But I made myself another promise: If that FBI agent came at me one more time, we were going to go at it—and I was going to strike first. If I was going to go to jail, I was going to make it worth my while. My blood still boils when I think about it.
Grindler came out and sent me home for the night. It was the safe thing to do.
My paranoia was justified. Between the FBI’s keeping close tabs on me (too close for comfort, and apparently even on Genny), their intimations of arrest, the Service’s pressuring me not to remember, and rumors of Clinton intimidations, the stress was mounting. I never called my independent counsel from a White House or Service phone, and I knew all of the Justice Department attorneys “were eating at the same steakhouse,” to use a D.C. term. They were from the same damn office and were excited to throw the book at hardworking cops stuck in the worst situation cops can be in, the kind where we have no g-ddamn clue or chance to defend ourselves. I loved Mark and his boys like they were my family, but man, I loathe all other lawyers.
A well-meaning pal of mine sent a memo to all posts. He was a bit of a computer wiz and thought it was in good taste. The fax read, “Gary J. Byrne is being transferred to Ft. Marcy Park,” the park where Vince Foster was found dead in a supposed suicide. It was even taped to my locker. Everyone laughed, but behind the laughter was a lump in my throat. I saw firsthand how the First Couple had lied, demeaned, and manipulated in such an arrogant and gutless fashion. But could they actually be behind so many of the suspicious—or merely coincidental—deaths surrounding their activities? Had they really killed Vince Foster? Was it even possible? It weighed on me.
