All Too Human: A Political Education

by George Stephanopoulos

  On July 21, the park police said that Foster's injury was “not inconsistent with that of a self-inflicted wound.” By August 11, that was their official finding. Subsequent investigations by two independent counsels, congressional committees, and countless investigative reporters may not have convinced ardent conspiracy theorists, but they have confirmed beyond a reasonable doubt that Vince Foster shot himself in Fort Marcy Park, Virginia, on July 20, 1993. Why he did it, we still can't really know.

  “Suicide,” writes A. Alvarez, “is a closed world with its own irresistible logic.” The same can be said of a Washington scandal. When Vince Foster — White House lawyer, president's friend, first lady's confidant — took his own life, the two closed worlds collided like smashing atoms, setting off a chain reaction that Vince would never have wanted and could never have imagined. His suicide raised suspicions; the suspicions spawned scrutiny; the scrutiny sparked resentment and resistance; and the inevitable “cover-up” charge that followed, in the “irresistible logic” of a modern Washington scandal, led to the appointment of an independent counsel. The rest, as they say, is history.

  How history will eventually judge Vince Foster and the president we both served is not yet known. But a few weeks before his death, in an interview with Margaret Carlson of Time, Vince may have revealed what he feared. His achingly laconic lament is a fair warning for those who aspire to high White House service: “Before we came here, we thought of ourselves as good people.”

  The pressures were getting to me too. So much had happened in the two years since I met Clinton. … And now this. A few weeks later, I started to see a therapist. All of the usual reasons — relationships, family, work — motivated me, but they were magnified by the shock of Foster's suicide and the hothouse aspects of my job. Even this most personal decision seemed to have a public component, which made me hesitate. Will it get out? How will it look in the Post? What if my therapist is subpoenaed? Will she talk? In the wake of Foster's suicide, White House staffers were vaguely encouraged to “get help,” but admitting to mental health treatment was still a political taboo. The memory of Reagan's “invalid” smear of Michael Dukakis in 1988 stuck in my mind. I wondered if I might one day be victimized by a similar allegation, and what would happen if I couldn't deny it. Although I wasn't ashamed of seeking treatment, I instinctively calculated the political fallout.

  Then there was Clinton to think about. (“Is there anything at all, anywhere in your background, that could ever come back to embarrass the president?”) I knew he wouldn't veto my decision, but I thought he had a right to know. When I entered the Oval to tell him, he responded perfectly — with a shrug of his shoulders that said it was no big deal for him and a look in his eye that said he was concerned about me.

  So every Friday evening, shortly before seven, I would leave the White House. Early on, even that one hour away at the tail end of the week felt like stolen time. What if the president needs me? What if he discovers he doesn't? But my therapist, a woman who didn't say much but understood that I had to be weaned from my work, had two rules: Failing to show was forbidden except in case of extreme emergency, and I had to say whatever was on my mind — no censoring, no spin.

  I did my best. For all the ups and downs, working in the White House was still the greatest privilege of my life. I wanted to do well at it, and enjoy it, and do some good. I wanted to stay, but I needed some help.

  8 DOING THE JOB

  The night before the most inspiring day of his presidency, Clinton rose at three A.M. to read his Bible — the Book of Joshua, with its tale of Jericho's fall and the Israelites' conquest of Canaan. He was searching for words as meaningful as the impending moment. In a few hours, at eleven A.M. on Monday, September 13, the three thousand folding white chairs on the lawn below his study's window would be filled with witnesses to an unprecedented event. Israeli prime minister Yitzhak Rabin and Chairman Yasir Arafat of the PLO were going to shake hands and pledge to return the ancient lands of Judea and Samaria to a time when “the land had rest from war” (Joshua 11:23).

  The concerns that woke me were less lofty. What time should we open the gates? Will everyone get in? Who did we leave off the list? What if it rains? Did Safire's column screw us or play it straight? What if it falls apart and everyone blames us? The president was doing his job, and I was doing mine — a job I first learned in my father's church. That morning, Clinton would preside at a kind of liturgy on the White House lawn. I was his altar boy, hoping to serve peace by serving my president — sweating the details.

  A few days earlier, the good news had arrived without warning. Tony Lake picked me up on the way to the Oval to tell Clinton that Arafat had signed the mutual recognition agreement between Israel and the PLO. Clinton responded by repeating what Rabin had said to him on the phone in the Israeli's throaty bass monotone — a sneak preview of the resigned resolve Rabin would later show the world: “After all these years of fighting with Arafat, I can't believe I'm doing this. But after all, you don't make peace with your friends. You make peace with your enemies.” That didn't mean he was ready for a celebration. But the president had nudged his new friend privately and publicly, and when Rabin was convinced that a ceremony would cement the agreement, he accepted Clinton's invitation to the White House.

  We had seventy-two hours to make it happen.

  Mack asked me to manage the process with Rahm Emanuel — not the diplomatic negotiations, of course, but the ceremony surrounding them. Starting Friday, we convened two “countdown” meetings a day in the Roosevelt Room with staffers from every White House office: the National Security Council, the social office, press and communications, public liaison, legislative affairs, and the Secret Service. All hands on deck asking every conceivable question: Who's on stage? Who signs? On what? Can we get the table Carter used in Camp David? Who speaks? For how long? Where do the Russians fit in — and the Norwegians? How do we make sure we hit prime time in the Middle East?

  Where should the ceremony be? Rose Garden? Too small? South Lawn? Whom do we invite? Former presidents? Secretaries of state? How about members of Congress — they'll all want to come. At least the Arab and Jewish members? Big contributors? Sure, but how many? How do we screen them all in through security? Do we do a dinner? Too festive? What about the press? Anchors on the lawn? What do we say? How do we encourage the peace process without appearing to take credit for something we didn't really do? How do we seize the opportunity without seeming opportunistic?

  We all knew that a successful ceremony on the White House lawn would be a political boon to Clinton, but we were careful not to say so: Taking credit wouldn't only be crass, it would backfire. I was responsible for judgment calls, asking the right questions and anticipating the appropriate answers, making sure to preface every decision with “If it's going to help the diplomatic effort, we should …” This wasn't just camouflage. All of us were awed a bit by the moment's potential. We didn't know if peace would last, but the possibility that it might made us more conscientious and humbled us. Getting everything right was now a higher obligation; getting the chance to get everything right was a gift.

  The joy of my job often bubbled up in unlikely moments. Like Saturday morning, the first time we practiced the handshake. This was just a dry run: four guys in jeans around my desk, trying to figure out how to make this diplomatic tango flow. First came the signatures, with multiple copies of the treaty, all needing multiple signatures. Then the president would turn to his left, shake Arafat's hand; turn to his right, shake Rabin's hand; take a half step back with his arms slightly lifted from his sides and hope that Arafat and Rabin reached across his belt for the picture of the decade. I had helped plan hundreds of photo ops before, but this time the stagecraft wasn't just spin. The handshake really would happen, and the whole world would be watching. And if we got everything right, and were lucky, the moment might have just enough magic to make a difference.

  Monday morning the sun was shining. The Safire column was per
fect. (“Why am I getting to see the president?” he had asked me. “I'm not going to bullshit you,” I replied. “We don't think you've been fair on Vince [Foster], but we're trying to build support for the agreement in Israel, so we have to build support among American Jews, and a certain segment of American Jews is going to take its cue from you.” ) A phone call from the president pulled me out of the staff meeting. “George, I feel really good about the speech. I've been up since three working on it, and I think I got it down. I'll be down in ten minutes with the changes.”

  Which meant I had at least half an hour. In the final countdown meeting, Rahm and I thanked the team and tried to make sure everyone went out of the way to be deferential. “Imagine that you're ushering the guests into a church or synagogue,” I told them. Rahm, who had served as a volunteer in the Israeli army, went even further: “You have to understand that even if we do this perfectly, there will be a lot of people leaving this ceremony today whose feelings are going to be unfinished. This isn't pure happiness for all of them, and you have to respect that as well.”

  The president entered the Oval in an effervescent mood with an iridescent tie — shiny gold horns against a deep blue background, a nod to the trumpet blasts that felled the walls of Jericho. He joked about how he liked Joshua because the only person he left standing in Jericho was Rahab, the prostitute. We finished editing the speech, adding an excerpt from the Koran suggested by Prince Bandar of Saudi Arabia, and I was happy that my one-line contribution — “Throughout the Middle East, there is a great yearning for the quiet miracle of a normal life” — had survived. Everyone was buoyant, but every few minutes Martin Indyk, our liaison to the Israelis, would walk in with a note signaling another diplomatic snag. (“The Israelis aren't coming if Arafat wears a uniform.” Tony replied on the back: “Tell him to take the medals off, say it's a safari suit, and see if they'll accept that.”)

  By now, almost all of the nits had been picked. Arafat wouldn't wear a gun, or a uniform. Clinton was confident he could coax Rabin and Arafat into a handshake, but there was still the matter of the hug. What if, at the decisive moment, an exuberant Arafat upset the fragile diplomatic equilibrium by embracing the president? We had to show enthusiasm but not exuberance, and Clinton's a hugger by nature. The national security adviser devised a defensive strategy — a modified elbow block augmented by a bicep squeeze. Now for the implementation: Lake played the president; Clinton was Arafat. If Arafat leaned in for a kiss, Clinton would reach his left hand above Arafat's elbow, hook his thumb around his bicep, feel for an artery, and squeeze. If that didn't work, we joked, the president would resort to that time-tested, last best defense against an unwelcome advance — a knee to the groin.

  We all laughed, but nothing was left to chance. The last thing I said to Clinton was, “Think about your face.” He knew enough not to have a big grin at the big moment, but if he overcompensated, it might look glum, and most people's faces in repose look blank, almost dumb. “The one thing you have to be careful of, I'm embarrassed to say it,” I said haltingly, “is your expression when you step back and they shake hands. It will be a permanent picture.” And I was a little embarrassed to bring it up, but I was even more worried that a perfect moment would be marred by a tiny oversight. We practiced a closed-mouth smile.

  During the preceremony reception in the Red Room, I felt as if I were watching an elaborate quadrille in an intrigue-ridden Russian court. Little cliques revolved around the room, eyeing their counterparts, whispering under their breath, waiting to see what would happen when Rabin and Arafat arrived. Shimon Peres, the Israeli foreign minister, was the happiest man in the room, his dark and deeply lined face now brightened by a constant smile. Not Rabin. A warrior, more conservative than his foreign minister, he had the air of a man who wanted to be somewhere, anywhere else. When the Palestinian entourage approached, Rabin's scrum slid silently toward a corner of the room. The rest of us pretended not to notice by discussing Arafat's attire: safari suit or soldier's uniform? “I think it's a safari suit.” Hillary laughed. “Don't you?” But Martin Indyk was still nervous. He ran my way with the latest potential crisis. The single medal Arafat kept on his chest was the Jerusalem Insignia, a subtle reminder of the disputed Palestinian claims to the city. What if the Israelis demanded that he take it off?

  They didn't, but there was one final snafu. Peres had promised the Palestinians that they could sign the document “for the PLO.” But the text said “for the Palestinian delegation,” and they wouldn't sign. Saying, “It doesn't really matter,” Peres offered to pencil in “PLO.” Then they went to clear it with a reluctant Rabin. More delay. But with the clock ticking toward eleven, with three thousand people waiting on the lawn and a billion more watching on television, there was no turning back. “For the PLO” it was. I scurried out to the lawn seconds ahead of the honored guests and took my seat next to Rahm in the back row.

  The ceremony floated by like a dream. Rabin still looked fretful; his improbable partner, Arafat, was ecstatic, and at the climactic moment Clinton seemed more a president than ever — calm, confident, and fully in control as he took his half step back with his half smile in place and gently cleared a path. The crowd took a collective breath. Then Arafat and Rabin grasped each other's hands and pumped them up and down, and the entire lawn exploded — Arabs and Jews, Christians and Muslims, Republicans and Democrats, joined for a moment in joy.

  Soon we were sober again, listening in silence to the eloquent pain of Yitzhak Rabin. “It's not so easy,” he said, almost to himself. But his scarred voice gained strength when he said, “Enough of blood and tears. Enough!” And as he accelerated through the seasons of Ecclesiastes to declare that “the time for peace has come,” I put my arm around my sobbing friend Rahm — and cried too, thinking of those who'd fought by his side and those who might not have to fight again, believing this moment might last. When the prime minister closed with a line from the Hebrew prayer book — “May He who brings peace to His universe bring peace to us and to all Israel” — we all exhaled our hope: Amen.

  After church, my dad was always in a cheerful mood. He would pinch us altar boys on the cheeks as we threw off our robes, and laugh over a lunch of avgolemono soup before taking his nap. Some of it must have rubbed off on me, and I sensed the same mood in Clinton. As he ushered Rabin back to the private dining room by my door, I rushed through hugs on the lawn and worked my way back to peer through the peephole in my office. I almost never invaded the president's privacy like this, but now I couldn't resist. I had to see the two of them sitting there, statesmen at lunch. When they finished, I waited by Betty's desk to walk Clinton home for an hour's rest. He couldn't wait to hear the early reviews and invited me to elaborate: “Do you really think I did OK? I couldn't tell from up there.” He reciprocated with an anecdote from the moment before he was called to the lawn with Rabin and Arafat.

  “You wouldn't believe it,” he said, setting the scene. “It was just the three of us.” Then he slipped into Rabin's voice and uttered a single word: “Outside.” Again, “Outside.” Arafat had reached over for a private handshake, but Rabin shook his head and said, “Outside,” which meant, I imagined, “I know what I have to do, but I'll be damned if I'm going to do it until it's absolutely necessary.” Rabin then softened the rebuke by filling the silence: “You know we have a lot of work to do.” Arafat answered in kind: “I'm willing to do my part.”

  Clinton let me feed the press Rabin's and Arafat's final private words without the part about the refused handshake. It was a delicious detail, but it was too raw to use. Why risk misinterpretation? Not that anything could spoil this day. Official Washington's cynicism was suspended, and everyone was caught up in the spirit of reconciliation. On the way to the residence, we ran into Barbara Walters, who asked for a quick interview with Clinton. It was soft and brief, and when the cameras were off, she approached Clinton with one more request: “Is it proper to ask a president for a hug?”

  Later that aftern
oon, we convened Jewish and Arab American leaders for an unprecedented White House working session. When Clinton finished his brief remarks, the dignitaries stormed the stage like teenyboppers, holding up their programs for autographed mementos. I relished calls from the same reporters who often ruined my day. Bill Safire: “The best speech Clinton's ever given.” Brit Hume: “I have no questions. You did a helluva job, and it's the best thing you've ever done.” Tom Friedman: “Today Clinton made me proud to be an American, and Rabin made me proud to be a Jew.” Ann Devroy: “Even I can't think of anything negative to say; it's just too good to be here.” Yes, it is.

  It seemed like a day when all was forgiven and anything was possible. At the president's private reception on the Truman Balcony, I told former Secretary of State Cyrus Vance, “I hope we can do the same in Bosnia,” before Zbigniew Brzezinski, his Carter administration nemesis, interrupted: “George, why don't you go down and get some library books for me?” At Columbia, I had been his research assistant, an exalted title for someone whose two main duties were delivering library books (Napoleon's memoirs in French) and lunch (pastrami on brown bread with mustard). Now we traded war stories: “It takes two terms to learn how to do these jobs,” he said, reminding me one more time that the last three Democratic presidents hadn't had that chance. Colin Powell walked in. “Hey, superstar,” I said, a teasing reference to the general's cover photo on that day's U.S. News and World Report. “Give me a break.” He laughed. “I've only got sixteen days left in this business.” Sure, until you run against us.