All Too Human: A Political Education

by George Stephanopoulos

  “That's fine,” Gore shot back, “if all you care about is a news story. We're trying to change our strategy. This is a dynamic process. We've lost the game. The Republicans have called our bluff, and we don't have any cards without a budget.”

  “It isn't nearly over yet,” I said, risking several months of peace with Gore. “All they've done is set goals, not a line-by-line budget. We haven't had enough patience to let the strategy sink in.” Even as I made my case, however, I had my doubts. The vice president had been on board all along, insisting that the Republicans had to have a “rendezvous with reality.” Maybe I am wrong here — and it sure looks like I'm going to lose.

  But when Bob Rubin inveighed against an announcement that couldn't be backed by credible numbers, the president retreated. He started rehearsing each side's best case out loud, and our decision meeting became a discussion group. In his heart he knows we can't go tomorrow. Now he's buying time. The only decision we made before going home that night was to convene again the next day. It turned out to be a rolling session during which cabinet secretaries Bob Reich, Ron Brown, Richard Riley, and Donna Shalala all lobbied against further cuts. When each secretary's policy concerns were taken into account, we were a good $100-150 billion short of reaching balance. But the most important new voice at the table belonged to Hillary. This was her first appearance at a meeting of the economic team since the defeat of health care, and she had a purpose. The health care reforms of the budget still didn't meet the president's condition of reforming Medicare and Medicaid “only in the context of overall health care reform,” and she wanted more time to fix them. But to avoid appearing at odds with the president in this semipublic setting, she made a cagier case for delay.

  “If our administration had any message discipline,” she argued, “the president could give the speech this week. Instead of getting sucked into a debate on the details, everyone could just say, ‘You heard what the president said last night; that's what we're going to do.’ But we don't have that kind of discipline, so we have to wait.”

  Brilliant. She defeated the president's position by playing into his prejudice, echoing his perennial complaints about staff loyalty and our inability to communicate a clear message. As the day wore on, Clinton began to argue the virtues of delay, even asking me to retrieve a newsletter by Republican analyst Kevin Phillips praising our “shrewd” budget tactics. “The spotlight on the GOP's proposals,” Clinton underlined, “will be harsher than voter reaction to the president for not compromising.” By the close of business, he had agreed to put off any announcement for at least a week — a good day's work for our side.

  Of course, if Dick's theory was right, we'd just lost the election. “It has to be next week, or we lose them forever.” Manic at the setback, he struck back — at me this time. The next morning, Erskine showed me an irate fax that Morris had sent to the president disputing the decision. “P.S.,” he had added, “I know who the leak was on the Time story,” referring to an article that week critical of Morris and, by implication, Clinton. “It is a person I have been talking to of late, and I have tacit confirmation from the reporter.”

  “Tacit confirmation from the reporter.” What the hell does that mean? I offered to show Erskine my call sheets to demonstrate that I hadn't even talked to Time, but he told me not to worry. “Just hang in there,” he said. “Keep standing up like you've been doing in these meetings. If the president wants you to leave, you'll be gone. Until then, do your job.” More good advice, but I wasn't taking anything for granted. First I swore my innocence to Evelyn Lieberman, Hillary's deputy chief of staff, who promised to approach the first lady. Then I buttonholed Harold, Leon, and McCurry to do the same. Since Woodward, living under suspicion had become my chronic condition, but I couldn't afford a flare-up. The charge was particularly dangerous right then because we knew that Ann Devroy was working on a big story in which she would label the White House a “portrait of confusion on budget issues.” Somebody would take a hit, so Morris had launched a preemptive strike.

  But when that story appeared, our artificial crisis in the White House was overshadowed by the real one in Bosnia. Captain Scott O'Grady's F-16 had been shot down by a Serb missile, capping a week in which Bosnian Serb forces had taken more than three hundred United Nations peacekeepers hostage because NATO had dared to retaliate for the Serbian shelling of Sarajevo. In a commencement address at the Air Force Academy two days earlier, the president had said he was prepared to send U.S. ground troops to assist in a “reconfiguration” of these UN forces — a shift from our previous policy that ground troops would be used only to evacuate the peacekeeping forces or enforce a peace agreement. Twenty-three thousand U.S. troops were being redeployed to the region, and the prospect that we'd get drawn into a Balkan ground war looked more likely than ever.

  The ensuing uproar on Capitol Hill caused half the National Security Council to run for cover. Secretary of State Christopher and Defense Secretary Perry both complained to the president that Tony Lake hadn't adequately consulted them on the policy change, a charge Tony denied. Morris was apoplectic: “Eighty percent of the country is against sending ground troops to Bosnia!” When he discovered that the president was devoting his Saturday radio address to the subject, Dick faxed in last-minute language that led the president to depart from the approved NSC text and ad-lib twice that the reconfiguration scenario was “highly unlikely.” Not surprisingly, the next day's stories emphasized another Clinton flip-flop.

  For the next week, we continued our behind-the-scenes budget struggle, but the country was focused on the Balkans. Congress debated the wisdom of sending ground troops, criticized our failure to retaliate for the downed pilot, and passed amendments condemning Clinton's policy. Sketchy reports from Bosnia hinted that Captain O'Grady was still alive, hiding in the hills and sending signals to his rescue team. Morris didn't stop pushing for the budget speech, but with so much else going on, it wasn't hard to stall.

  We did, however, make time for Larry King Live. In honor of King's tenth anniversary on the air, he was invited to the White House for the “first ever” joint television interview with a sitting president and vice president. It must have seemed like a good idea at the time, but by the night of the show no one on staff was rushing to own it. You couldn't predict what King or his callers would ask, and the way things were going, who knew how Clinton would answer?

  Once Clinton and Gore were wired up in the old library, Mark Gearan and I settled on the couch in Mike McCurry's office to watch the show. We toasted the opening with drinks from Mike's corner bar, and the first few minutes went so well that Gearan joked about how glad he was to have proposed the interview. After a sluggish section on the Waco debacle, he reconsidered, suddenly recalling that it had been my idea. But Clinton and Gore were having a good time, and it seemed as if we had nothing to worry about. With a minute to go, Mike asked me what I thought.

  “It was pretty good, I guess.”

  “Pretty good? You're crazy, George, it was a home run,” and he proceeded to tease me with a story from election night 1992. As a BBC election-night commentator, McCurry had told the British audience that Clinton's victory speech was the first time during the whole campaign that he'd seen the Clinton people smile.

  Fair shot. I do get too dark. But before I could say anything, King was signing off: “Thanks, guys. You don't want to do a Brando close, do you?” Months before, Marlon Brando had said good night by kissing Larry full on the lips. The scene was still being replayed in promotional shots, and we had actually warned our bosses that Larry might try for a kiss. No problem. Gore deflected the request with a simple “Just a handshake,” a vice president doing his duty. Then came an offscreen grunt.

  We all froze, unsure of our ears. King confirmed it: “Oh, let me — here — President Clinton does Brando. Do it once. …” No, no, don't. He did. As the camera zoomed in for a close-up, the president of the United States cleared his throat, puffed his cheeks, and plugged Larry King Li
ve in the voice of Don Corleone.

  “See, Mike, that's why we looked so worried all the time.”

  We walked back to the residence, cracking up but also saddled with a small dilemma. While the overall interview was OK, the clip on the morning news was sure to be Clinton's Brando impression. Not as bad as discussing his underwear on MTV, but hardly a presidential moment, and it would be replayed again and again in future advertisements for Larry King Live. How could we warn Clinton without insulting him? If we came down too hard, it would only upset him — and there was nothing we could do about it now. But if we ignored it and acted like everything was great, we'd have no credibility in the morning. As the president cheerfully removed his makeup with a Handi Wipe, he asked me how it had gone.

  “Well,” I said. “Strong answers on Bosnia. Made news on terrorism like you wanted. Decent on Waco and movie violence. You avoided any big mistakes, but, umh … you know …”

  “What?”

  “You may get a little too much attention on this Brando thing. It was a good Brando, probably too good. The morning shows won't be able to resist it.”

  Clinton screwed up his face as if I'd just served him sour milk and turned away in search of a second opinion. Don't sell me out, guys. I need some backup here. Mike came through, saving me from the charge that I was just being my usual pessimistic self by affirming that Clinton doing Brando would be the news.

  It could have been worse. To our relief, when King had asked about the budget, the president made no new promises, saying only that he would address the subject at “the proper time.” In the days following the King interview, we arranged for Gephardt and Senate Democratic leader Tom Daschle to make personal pleas for sticking with our strategy. And in their private meetings, Clinton assured them he wouldn't make a solo move. But over the course of the week, our other arguments for delay began to fall away. Another round of policy meetings and some creative accounting had allowed us to hammer our counterbudget into reasonable shape, and it wouldn't get any better with time. The gradual release of UN hostages and the dramatic rescue of Scott O'Grady calmed the sense of crisis in Bosnia — at least for us, at least for now. And the praise Clinton received for the bipartisan spirit of a joint New Hampshire “town meeting” starring him and Newt Gingrich renewed his faith in the promise of “triangulation.”

  Morris finally had his win. At 8:45 on Tuesday morning, June 13, Vice President Gore held a conference call with the heads of the television networks to request a prime-time slot that night for the president to present a balanced-budget proposal to the nation.

  The rest of the day we had the usual struggle over the text. But since the networks had allotted us only five minutes and the thrust of the speech was set, there wasn't much to fight about. I focused on reducing gratuitous insults to Democrats, but Morris was triangulating with a vengeance. It wasn't enough for the president to balance the budget; Dick wanted to make our friends howl. He insisted, for example, that the president contrast his plan to the “congressional” rather than the “Republican” budgets; and his draft praised the civility of Speaker Gingrich — acid words to our allies who were campaigning against the Republican budgets and had been burned for years by Newt's scorched-earth crusade against the “corrupt” congressional Democrats.

  I lost both fights. As the president reviewed the final draft at the small desk in his study, Dick stood in the doorway and stared at him. Clinton didn't look up; Morris didn't shut up. He was back in machine mode, repeating his rationale in the rat-a-tat-tat of an old stock ticker. Whenever the president touched his pen to the text, Dick would fuss — “No … don't … not that” — leaning in until his head was hovering over Clinton's left hand. Only after Clinton swatted the air and barked, “Dick!” did Morris back off.

  Resigned, jealous, a little amused, I watched them work from the high-backed rocking chair in the corner. Is that how I acted when I was Clinton's guy? Probably. Nah, couldn't have been that bad, could I? Shortly before airtime, I left the room to take a call from Lisa Caputo, Hillary's press secretary. “I have an important message to you from Hillary,” she said. “She's depending on you to make sure the speech gives something to the Democrats.”

  A little late for that, isn't it? “I'm doing my best,” I replied, enjoying the slightly adulterous pleasure of conspiring against the president. I explained to her that Morris saw each of my edits as part of some partisan (Democrat) plot and suggested instead that the first lady call the president herself. Knowing full well that Hillary had a longer memory than her husband for Newt's attacks (not to mention that of Newt's mom, who had referred to the first lady as a “bitch” in a television interview earlier that year), I made special mention of the reference to Speaker Gingrich. But by now, even Hillary could do only so much. After her call, the president agreed to beef up the health care sections of the speech, referring specifically to “breast cancer and AIDS research,” but the only other concession he'd make was to drop Newt's surname. The final text praised the “Speaker.”

  The speech was fine. Watching it on the television in my office, I had to concede that the logic of the argument was compelling. I was still concerned about the policy consequences of the cuts, but Morris was absolutely right about the political power of calling for a balanced budget. It preserved our critique of the “extreme” Republican (uh, congressional) budgets, while denying them the same charge against us. Supporting a balanced budget said that Clinton wasn't a “tax and spend” liberal. Senator Dole's haggard and hackneyed response to Clinton relieved me even more. Instead of accepting Clinton's olive branch, declaring victory, and asking for an early summit where the president would be forced to make further concessions, Dole and his fellow Republican leaders stayed on the attack, saving us from ourselves. Because they insisted on all or nothing, we still had a chance to reunify our troops for the ultimate budget showdown later that fall.

  The Democrats, however, were enraged by the speech, which was exactly as Morris intended. A group including Morris, Gene Sperling, and me was with the president in his private dining room when the first reactions came in. Slightly flushed from the stress of speaking to an audience of sixty million, Clinton pulled a chair up to the credenza that concealed a small television. His knees were nearly touching the screen, and his eyes were fixed on CNN's Bill Schneider, who was describing the president's move as a blow to Democrats that left them hurt, angry, and confused.

  “That's right,” Clinton muttered, sipping his Diet Coke, feeling sorry for them and even sorrier for himself because they were mad at him. “No president was ever rewarded for doing deficit reduction.”

  “This is just the pangs of the childbirth of transition,” Morris assured him from across the small room. But Clinton was silent, drifting into the state of “buyer's remorse” he so often observed in others. Morris was losing him. More agitated now, his postvictory euphoria fading fast, Dick bounced on the balls of his feet and tried to lure Clinton back. “Remember the theory. Remember the theory,” he chanted, his voice rising with every syllable. “We have the Perot voters out there, lying in wait. This is the moment to strike — and watch the poll numbers go-o UP!” On that last phrase, Morris threw his hands high above his head while wiggling his fingers and standing on the tips of his toes — a political shaman casting a spell, enraptured by his own ecstatic dance.

  But it wasn't working. The more Dick talked, the angrier Clinton got. His grip tightened, denting the soft metal can in his hand. His jaw muscles pulsed. His flush became a flare. Ashamed at hearing these private incantations invoked in public, surely embarrassed for the rest of us, Clinton lashed out: “I did this because it's the right thing to do, Dick. I did this because it's the right thing to do.”

  I wanted to believe him.

  Our congressional allies sure didn't, especially after they read Dick's background quote in the Post that called the speech Clinton's “declaration of independence” from the Democrats. Pat Griffin and I attended the next day's House Cau
cus to hear them pile on. “This isn't leadership; it's bullshit,” said Black Caucus chairman Donald Payne, summing up the general sentiment. But it wasn't just Clinton's tone and tactics, or even the substance of the budget, that bothered them; in June of 1995, everything we Democrats cared about seemed to be imperiled.

  That summer threatened to be the season that swept away the Great Society. In the historic legislative sessions of 1964 and 1965, self-confident Democrats had created Medicare and Medic-aid, outlawed racial discrimination and segregation, opened America's doors to millions of new immigrants, and declared a war on poverty. In 1995, resurgent Republicans were bent on reversing their thirty-year-old defeats. Medicare would be privatized, Medicaid sent to the states, immigration blocked, and the federal battle against poverty abandoned because, they said, “poverty won.” On top of all this, a Supreme Court dominated by conservative Republicans had already restricted the reach of the Voting Rights Act, and on the day before Clinton's budget speech, the Court's decision in Adarand Constructors, Inc. v. Pena raised the specter that federal affirmative action programs would be found unconstitutional.

  Democrats were scared. They didn't know where their president stood. Would Clinton fold or fight? If he fought in 1995, would he lose in 1996? What then?

  The question was most acute on the issue that rubbed emotions most raw — race. From January on, Republicans had mounted a crusade against affirmative action. In their early appeals for campaign cash and conservative support, all of their leading presidential contenders attacked what they called “racial preferences.” Legislation was drafted in both the House and the Senate to strike down affirmative action programs mandated or managed by the federal government. Activists in California prepared a 1996 ballot initiative that would do the same in their state, including a total rollback of race-conscious admissions in the state university system. Conservative strategists like Bill Kristol (who had mapped out the successful assault on our health care plan) briskly predicted that the “wedge” issue of affirmative action would blow the Democratic coalition “completely apart.”