The Negotiator

by George Mitchell

  It was in that capacity that I served on the welcoming committee that greeted the president when he came to the Capitol to deliver his State of the Union address the following January. In a pleasant but nonsubstantive role, several members of the House and Senate gather to formally welcome the president on that occasion each year. After the president enters the Capitol building he and the members of the welcoming committee are taken to a room just off the House chamber as they wait for the chamber to fill. On this evening I asked the president if there was anything we could get for him. Yes, he replied, he’d like a cup of very hot water, as hot as we could get it. I asked one of the House clerks standing by the door to get it and he did so, returning within a few minutes. As Reagan gingerly sipped from the steaming mug he explained that for years he’d sipped on very hot water before major appearances because it relaxed his throat and lowered his voice a couple of octaves. “Frank Sinatra told me about it. He swore that it helped him get through many long performances. Well, I thought, if it’s good enough for Frank Sinatra’s throat, it’s good enough for me. So I’ve been doing it ever since and I’m telling you, it works.”

  “Well,” I responded, “if it’s good enough for Frank Sinatra and Ronald Reagan, then I’m sure it’ll be good for me, so I’m going to try it.”

  I’ve been drinking hot water before every major speech ever since, including, ironically, the occasions on which I delivered the Democratic response to some of President Reagan’s nationally televised addresses. I don’t know whether it works in a physical sense or just psychologically, but it does seem to relax my throat and put me at ease.

  REELECTION IN 1988

  Just before the debate began I reached out and shook hands with my opponent. Jasper Wyman is tall and erect, handsome and articulate. An ordained minister, he had served for two terms in the state legislature. Now he was running for the U.S. Senate, trying to unseat me. Under other circumstances he would have been a formidable candidate, but his campaign had been slow to gain traction. His principal problem was that while he was now the Republican candidate, he had been a Democrat during his tenure in the legislature. One of the reasons I knew him so well was that in one of his earlier campaigns I had traveled to his hometown to appear with him and campaign in his behalf. I had urged the residents of Pittsfield to vote for him because his character, intelligence, and ability would serve them well. And he did serve them well in the legislature. During that time, however, the role of the Christian Right in American politics grew. The Moral Majority, led by Jerry Falwell, gained adherents and influence. Jack (as Wyman was known) became the director of the Christian Civic League of Maine and increasingly focused on the policies and politics of abortion. He then left the Democratic Party and became a Republican. Unfortunately for him, in his candidacy for the Senate he now had the worst of both worlds: Democrats disliked him for his departure, and many Republicans didn’t fully trust him. Despite his ability, his sincerity, and his effort he was unable to raise much money or garner much public support, and he never seriously threatened me.

  That had not been obvious a few months earlier. On paper, at least, he seemed to be capable of mounting a serious challenge. So I worked hard to conduct an effective campaign. I visited every part of the state, defending my record against his criticism. It helped that in Washington I was in a highly publicized race for Senate majority leader; the prospect of a Maine senator leading the Senate was attractive to many Mainers.I It also helped that I was able to outspend him in advertising by a wide margin. As a result what had been a comfortable margin in the summer grew as the election approached. My goal in the televised debates was not to make a major mistake. I didn’t, and the debates passed with little attention or effect. On election day I received 81.3 percent of the votes cast to Wyman’s 18.7 percent, the largest margin in a contested Senate election in Maine’s history.

  Within days I returned to Washington for more campaigning. Democrats had retained a majority in the Senate. The incumbent majority leader, Senator Byrd, had announced that he would not seek reelection to that position. I was one of the three candidates from which the fifty-five Democratic senators would choose the man who would lead the Senate for the next two years. The election was scheduled for late November, just after Thanksgiving, and, unlike the Maine Senate race, this outcome was very much in doubt.

  * * *

  I. Mainers is the name for those who choose to live in Maine, whether born there or elsewhere. Mainiacs is the name for those who are born in Maine but choose to live elsewhere. At least that’s my understanding of the terms.

  MY FRIEND BILL COHEN

  When Ed Muskie left the Senate Bill Cohen became Maine’s senior senator at the age of thirty-eight. An attractive, moderate Republican, he had risen rapidly in Maine politics. After a few years in the private practice of law he served on the City Council and then as mayor of Bangor. Elected to the House of Representatives in 1972, he distinguished himself in the Watergate hearings. In 1978 he unseated the Democratic incumbent in the Senate, Bill Hathaway. Just two years later he was the senior senator.

  Our early contacts in the Senate were limited, due in large measure to the circumstances in which we found ourselves. Trailing badly in the polls, I had to campaign early and often. Cohen supported my opponent, sending two of his most trusted aides to Maine to take charge of David Emery’s campaign. Inevitably our relationship was somewhat strained. But once I won election in 1982 to a full term, the tension dissolved. As we increasingly worked together on issues important to our state, our friendship blossomed. Although in future races I supported his opponents and he supported mine, we were both careful not to criticize each other, not to make it personal.

  Our friendship deepened in 1987 when we served on the Select Committee on the Iran-Contra affair. The Senate Democrats on the Committee were appointed by Majority Leader Byrd, the Republicans by their leader, Bob Dole. When the appointees were announced, the only state with two senators on the Committee was Maine. After the investigation was over and the Committee’s report was published, Cohen approached me with a proposal: Would I join him in coauthoring a book on the hearings? His agent thought a book written by two senators from the same state but of different political parties would have considerable appeal. I had never written a book; he had written and published several. When I expressed concern about my literary inexperience he was reassuring. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I can help you on that.” And he did. With his agent he devised a chronology with suggested chapter headings and subjects, and he proposed that we divide the writing roughly in half. I then agreed enthusiastically and immediately began the process of research and organization that preceded actual writing. Over the next few months we worked together, at times like teacher and student, to produce what turned out to be a reasonably successful book, Men of Zeal: A Candid Inside Story of the Iran-Contra Hearings.

  When I retired from the Senate I told Bill that one of the things I would miss most was working with him on issues important to Maine and the nation. So I was delighted when, after several years of only occasional contact, we found ourselves working together again. After leaving the Senate Cohen served as secretary of defense in the Clinton administration. When he left that position he established the Cohen Group, a business consulting firm. The law firm in which I now serve, DLA Piper,I works closely with the Cohen Group on international business issues, and as a result Cohen and I regularly appear together at conferences. There, with his consent, even encouragement, I like to tell the story, some of which is true, of how Senator Cohen was responsible for my becoming majority leader of the U.S. Senate.

  How could a Republican senator get a Democratic senator elected majority leader? When I was appointed to the Senate I was, of course, the junior senator. Whenever we appeared jointly, which was often, Bill, as the senior senator, spoke first, usually at great length. He always finished by saying he had to go to an important meeting; then he would hand me the microphone and leave. Since he had talked so l
ong the audience was invariably smaller and exhausted by the time I started speaking. I became more and more frustrated but couldn’t figure out how to change the situation.

  Then one day I was visited by the president of the Bath Iron Works, the largest employer in Maine, a shipyard that builds cruisers and destroyers for the U.S. Navy. Back then there were celebrations a couple of times a year when one of their ships was launched. If the launching was in the summer, tens of thousands of people attended. Senator Cohen invariably was the keynote speaker, and the beneficiary, because these are great events for politicians. Although the crowds were much smaller in the winter, because the launchings are of course outdoor events, it’s still a plus for a politician to appear and speak. So I asked the president of Bath Iron Works how come he always invited Senator Cohen but never me to speak at the launchings. He looked at me as though I was crazy, paused, then replied, “Well, I like you, but you’re the junior senator, not very well known, with no clout. He’s the senior senator, a member of the Armed Services Committee, and the chairman of the Seapower Subcommittee. If you were me, who would you invite?” I replied, “You’ve got a point there.” There was a long and embarrassing silence. Then, obviously feeling sorry for me, he said, “Look, we’ve got a small launching coming up in February. It’ll be cold, there probably won’t be too much of a crowd, how about if you come up and speak at that launching? I don’t think Bill will mind too much.” I thanked him profusely and immediately began planning for my first-ever keynote speech at a ship launching.

  It was a cold and windy day in February as I took my seat in the front row on the platform, nestled up against the large ship. I had prepared a short but, I hoped, effective speech and looked forward to giving it. The launchings at Bath were choreographed to the second because the ship had to hit the waters of the Kennebec River at precisely high tide. At the designated moment a loud whistle would sound and the ship would start its slide down the ways. On this day the designated moment was 1:15 P.M. As I took my seat next to the president, who was scheduled to introduce me, I glanced across the platform. To my astonishment, there, seated at the other end of the front row, was Senator Cohen. “What’s he doing here?” I asked.

  Shrinking in his seat from the cold and the embarrassment, the president spread his hands, palms up, and asked, “What could I do? He just showed up. He’s the chairman of the Seapower Subcommittee. What could I do?”

  “Well, at least he’s not speaking,” I said, trying to sound emphatic.

  He didn’t say anything, but his look, like a puppy who’s just made a mistake on the living-room rug, was answer enough.

  “He’s speaking?” I asked. “How could you do this to me?”

  Again he said, “What could I do?” After a pause he went on, “But he promised me he’d keep it short.”

  “Short?” I yelled. “You’ve heard him speak. What’s short for him is a lifetime for the rest of us.”

  Despite the circumstances I admired Senator Cohen’s speech. Without notes, speaking confidently and with obvious knowledge and authority, his presentation was perfect, right down to the timing. Just seconds before the deadline, he thanked the crowd and basked in their applause. Then the champagne bottle cracked against the hull, the whistle blew, the band started playing, the crowd cheered as the massive ship slid slowly into the cold gray water, and the crowd began to disperse. My name had not been mentioned. I hadn’t said a word.

  After the ceremony we returned to Washington, he by navy jet, I in commercial coach. As I sat in that cold and crowded cabin, gloomily pondering a career of playing second fiddle, a thought struck me. If I were the majority leader of the Senate I would outrank Senator Cohen! I could be introduced first, speak first, and then leave just as he was being introduced. I could be invited to a shipyard launching in the summer and bask in the applause of tens of thousands of grateful constituents! So, thank you, Bill Cohen. It was because of you that I ran for and was elected Senate majority leader.

  I love to tell that story, Bill enjoys hearing it, and the audience usually gets a kick out of it. But what really happened when I ran for majority leader was not funny.

  * * *

  I. When I retired from the Senate in 1995 I joined the Washington law firm of Verner, Liipfert, Bernhard, McPherson and Hand. I did so primarily because I had long-standing friendships with two of the principals: Berl Bernhard and Harry McPherson. It proved to be one of the best decisions I ever made. I admired and respected them and learned a great deal from both. Verner, Liipfert subsequently went through a series of mergers, culminating in the creation in 2005 of what is now DLA Piper, the world’s largest law firm in number of lawyers, 4,200, operating in seventy-nine cities in thirty-three countries. I served as chairman of the firm from 2003 until I reentered government service as U.S. special envoy for Middle East peace in 2009. When I left that position in 2011 I returned to DLA Piper as chairman emeritus; I am very fortunate to still be with the firm, working full time. Its founding leaders—Frank Burch in Baltimore, Lee Miller in Chicago, Terry O’Malley in San Diego, and Nigel Knowles in London—along with current leaders Roger Meltzer in New York, Jay Rains in San Diego, and Tony Angel, who joined Nigel in London, have been extraordinarily helpful to me. They have taught me, each in his own way, so much about the practice and the business of law. A firm of 4,200 lawyers operating worldwide is of course much different from a six-lawyer firm in Portland, Maine.

  MAJORITY LEADER

  On the morning of November 29, 1988, fifty-five Democratic senators entered the Old Senate Chamber to meet in caucus to elect a new leader. I was outwardly calm but inwardly nervous, hopeful but worried. I thought I had the votes needed to win. Twenty-seven senators had personally told me they would vote for me on the first ballot; my vote would make it twenty-eight, precisely the majority needed. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Mo Udall.

  A congressman from Arizona, Udall thought he had the votes to win when he ran for leadership positions in the House of Representatives in 1969 and 1970. But it turned out that he didn’t have the votes and lost. Later he wryly commented, “The difference between a caucus and a cactus is that on a cactus the pricks are on the outside.” Commitments were not to be believed; promises were not kept.

  The U.S. Capitol building has undergone construction, destruction, and reconstruction almost from the very beginning. Its foundation stone was laid in 1793; its north wing required reconstruction by 1806, and it was barely twenty years old when it was burned to the ground in the War of 1812. The Old Senate Chamber likewise has seen its share of demolition and renovation. It was the third chamber used by the Senate, from 1819 to 1859, when it housed just sixty-four senators representing the thirty-two states which then existed. When it was abandoned for the current Senate chamber in 1859, it was taken over by the Supreme Court, for which it served as the principal courtroom for seventy-five years, until the Supreme Court building was constructed in 1935.

  In this chamber occurred the great debates over slavery, states’ rights, the nullification of federal laws, and the admission of new states. Washington society gathered in the two balconies of this room and in the fenced-off visitors’ section on the floor of the chamber itself to see and hear the political life of the growing nation. Debate could be heated, and there was occasional violence. In 1856 the Radical Republican, Senator Charles Sumner of Massachusetts, was severely beaten by Representative Preston Brooks of South Carolina, and it was three years before he was able to return to his Senate seat.

  The Old Chamber was refurbished in anticipation of the nation’s bicentennial in 1976. A Ladies Gallery that had been removed in the nineteenth century was reconstructed, new raised flooring was laid over the old masonry, the ceiling beams were fireproofed, and reproductions were made of the original Senate desks and the vice president’s desk. The crimson-and-gold color scheme reproduces the opulent Victorian atmosphere suggested by the large chandelier and the ornate swagged canopy with its gold fringes that looms above th
e vice president’s seat.

  Standing at the dais, the outgoing majority leader, Senator Byrd, presided. With him were representatives of the three candidates: Senators Daniel Inouye of Hawaii, Bennett Johnston of Louisiana, and I. Our representatives would together count the ballots, small, blank pieces of paper on which each senator would write the name of his or her choice.

  Over a year earlier, before he decided not to seek reelection as majority leader, Byrd had asked me to support him. I agreed, without hesitation. Although we had differences on some issues, I admired and respected Byrd. The word unique is overused, but surely it applied to him. Born into deep poverty, he was raised by an aunt and uncle in West Virginia. Through unremitting hard work, keen intelligence, and a natural sense of oratory and drama, he rose steadily to the peak of his ambition: majority leader of the U.S. Senate. Along the way he acquired a formal education—a high school diploma and a law degree—and an extraordinary passion for and commitment to the Senate. No one ever served longer in the Senate, cast as many votes, knew its rules better, understood its workings better, or more totally devoted his life to the institution. Some of his Senate records may be surpassed, but his love for and contribution to the Senate will forever remain unequaled.