One Car Caravan - On the Road with the 2004 Democrats Before America Tunes In

by Walter Shapiro

  The yogurt hit the fan for Dean in late April. Time magazine's Karen Tumulty wrote a brief item mentioning that Dean, while visiting the Stonyfield yogurt factory in New Hampshire, said, "We have to take a different approach [to diplomacy]. We won t always have the strongest military." Objectively, Dean was right: America's military prowess is unprecedented and—unless we have entered into what will be known as the Rumsfeld Century—probably cannot be sustained forever. But politically, Joe Trippi had seen the potential danger back in January when he objected to Dean's oft-repeated refrain that another half century of mega-deficits could transform America into a "second-rate nation."

  Now that the war was over—and Kerry no longer felt as defen­sive about his hard-to-explain vote in favor of the Iraq resolu­tion—the senator's camp could finally hit back. Under the signature of communications director Chris Lehane, the Kerry team rushed out an intemperate press release charging that Dean's comments about America's military power raised "serious questions about his capacity to serve as Commander-in Chief." This wasn't the normal jousting of the Invisible Primary; this was the kind of go-for-the-jugular attack that campaigns launch on the eve of the New Hampshire vote. The Kerry thermonuclear re­sponse signaled that the Democratic race had already entered its mean season. Hard to believe that just three months earlier in January, Dean had been joyously describing his newfound ability to hurl press releases into the maw of the twenty-four-hour politi­cal news cycle.

  Chapter 8

  The Reverend Al

  Al Sharpton is forcing me to confront my prejudices. As a New Yorker, I am prejudiced against him because I keenly recall the vitriol and vituperation of this agitator in clerical garb as he echoed the false rape charges leveled by Tawana Brawley. As a political columnist, I am prejudiced against vanity-driven candi­dates like Sharpton, Carol Moseley Braun and Dennis Kucinich, who deliberately clutter up a presidential race that they have no chance of winning. So I have been following a personal policy of malign neglect, stubbornly ignoring Sharpton and the rest of this no-hope, all-hype contingent on the off chance that someone, anyone, might offer them a TV cable show as an inducement to drop this ridiculous pretense of running for president.

  But now in early February in Des Moines, my interview with state Democratic chairman Gordon Fischer ends just minutes before a scheduled Sharpton press conference at party headquar­ters. It feels ludicrous to drive off in a fit of pique. Jettisoning principle (a familiar occupational hazard), I add another warm body to the Sharpton welcoming party of a dozen local reporters and three television cameras. A pre-press-conference conversation with Des Moines Register columnist Rob Borsellino leads to the agreement that our joint membership in the opinion-mongering trade demands that we pose a few Tawana Brawley questions.

  Borsellino goes first and immediately finds himself in a no-win argument with Sharpton over the simple statement "You came to national notice during the Tawana Brawley case." Sharpton angrily, and accurately, insists that his initial star turn on Action News came a year earlier during the 1986 protests over a racially motivated murder in the Howard Beach section of Brook­lyn. Moments later, I follow up with a softer-worded question premised on the $65,000 civil judgment assessed against Sharpton (and belatedly paid by the reverend's supporters) for defam­ing a prosecutor as a rapist. Trying to make my point without triggering a second shouting match, I ask in a soothing tone, "Why can't you simply say that you're really sorry that you were wrong in the Tawana Brawley case?"

  As I quickly discover, Sharpton is a living rebuke to the adage that you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar. He comes right back at me by declaring, "I don't have the right to say to a young lady that she's lying if she says that's what happened and a hospital says that something happened to her." Then Sharpton irrelevantly veers off into a replay of the Central Park jogger case in which the rape convictions were overturned because of DNA evidence. "What if I told those young men in the Central Park case to apologize," he says, "and now we find out that maybe they were right when they said they didn't do it." Standing there with what I hope is a skeptical expression, I momentarily debate re-entering the fray. But this is Iowa, a place not known for its rambunctious press conferences. So I hold my tongue as a perky TV reporter asks Sharpton—a political figure whose involvement with the soil has hitherto been limited to picketing Korean green­grocers in black neighborhoods—to give his views on farm policy.

  Two weeks later, Sharpton won repeated standing ovations at the mid-winter meeting of the Democratic National Committee With clever jibes like claiming that Bush was "the ultimate bene­ficiary of a set-aside program—the Supreme Court set aside a whole election." Unlike his early mentor Jesse Jackson, whose inspirational cadences reflect the moral fervor of the pulpit, Sharpton excels at breathing new life into the nearly moribund tradition of political humor—suggesting to the DNC that anyone but Bush could find Osama bin Laden since "he has made more videos than any rock star in Hollywood." It was easy to grasp why the Democrats could not resist the temptation to cheer Sharpton's lines, such as his dismissal of trickle-down Republi­can economics: "We never get the trickle, we just get the down." But whether they knew it or not, the 443 members of the DNC were empowering Sharpton by legitimizing him as a leading Democratic orator. The more credibility that party leaders award to this self-created preacher-politician, the more difficult it will be to deal with inevitable demands for, at minimum, a prime-time speaking role at the Democratic Convention.

  The logic behind the party leaders' embrace of Sharpton seemed obvious, albeit misguided. They devoutly pray that he will respond to these goodwill offerings by behaving like a good trouper when it is time to coalesce around the de facto nominee. Party chairman Terry McAuliffe told me in early May—underlin­ing the message that he delivered to all the presidential con­tenders—"I've said to Sharpton that you run and you energize the base and then on March 10, if you're not the nominee, you get out."

  The choice of that precise departure date was not accidental. The relentless front-loading of the primary calendar suggests that the presidential race will probably be over after March 2, when a mind-numbing twelve states (including California, New York and Ohio) hold delegate contests. If there is any lingering doubt, it should be dispelled on March 9, when Democrats in Florida and Texas weigh in at the polls. McAuliffe's legitimate fear is that a no-chance candidate like Sharpton will end up behaving like those Japanese soldiers on isolated Pacific atolls who held out for years because they didn't get the message that the war was over. (Neither Kucinich nor Moseley Braun is likely to pose a similarly disruptive threat. For all his strident posturing, Kucinich exists within the traditional political universe as an Ohio congressman. Moseley Braun, the other African American nominally in the race, appears to be doing virtually nothing beyond gracing the dais at multi-candidate forums.)

  Although it seems bizarre, now that he has graced the covers of Time and Newsweek, Howard Dean originally was the presi­dential contender who went out of his way explicitly to warn McAuliffe that he planned to scrap for the nomination until the Boston convention, heedless of the delegate count or the senti­ments of party leaders. That was Dean's blunt message when he met with the party chairman in Vermont in late July 2002. At the time, McAuliffe said to him, "You will get out, Howard. This isn't about you. It's about beating George Bush." Dean, back in September 2002, explained to me the theory behind his planned bitter-end strategy: "Sometimes you nominate somebody because he's the favorite and has lots of money and then you have buyer's remorse." Dean cited the 1976 examples of Senator Frank Church and California Governor Jerry Brown who won a series of late primaries because of Democratic discomfort with presump­tive nominee Jimmy Carter. "If I don't win," Dean said, "I'm likely to be the Frank Church and the Jerry Brown of 2004. I just wanted to give Terry fair notice that this was what was going to happen."

  How Quickly They Forget Department: Dean was asked by Larry King in August 2003 about a report in U.S. News
of an unspecified I'll-never-drop-out conversation with McAuliffe. Even though Dean himself first told me the story in a tape-recorded interview—and McAuliffe later confirmed the details—the former Vermont governor denied everything on CNN. "Terry McAuliffe has certainly never had a conversation like that with me," Dean flatly declared. "I checked with my campaign, and I never heard of anybody he had that conversation with in my campaign." Maybe it was temporary amnesia under the TV lights, maybe it was Dean dissembling, but this tiny episode left me feeling unsettled about the candidate I probably agree with the most on the issues.

  ******

  By the time of the Democrats' first televised debate in South Car­olina in early May, I was beginning to feel uncomfortable with my stiff-necked refusal to acknowledge Sharpton in other than cursory fashion. As boycotts go, this was not exactly up there with Save the Whales. So I arranged an interview following Sharpton's pre-debate appearance before the South Carolina Democratic convention. Despite the cavernous hall at the state fairgrounds and erratic acoustics, Sharpton roused that midafternoon crowd out of its torpor with a speech that encapsulated his challenge to the Democrats: "The way to move a donkey is to slap the donkey. I'm going to slap the donkey 'til the donkey kicks and we kick George Bush out of the White House. I'm going to slap the donkey!"

  Minutes later, we were in the candidate's car heading for what a local supporter promised was the best soul food restaurant in Columbia. I asked Sharpton to explain his provocative slap-the-donkey rhetoric. "To motivate people you have to have sound policy," he said, "but you also have to have phrases they can relate to. And all the way up the aisle today after I spoke, every other person said to me, 'Slap the donkey.'" Crushed in the back­seat with Sharpton's aides, I obligingly nodded as this self-appointed donkey slapper launched into his routine rap about the need to mobilize "new voters, disaffected voters, young vot­ers." As Sharpton put it, "The hip-hop generation, a lot of them don't even know these guys [the other candidates] and they don't trust career politicians."

  Reflecting my new suck-up style, I mockingly suggested that the hip-hop generation—with which I was so familiar—had been eagerly following everything in Dick Gephardt's career. It got the desired laugh as Sharpton responded, "You said it, I didn't." At this point, our local guide discovered his favorite soul food restaurant was closed and suggested a detour to another eatery with a less memorable menu. "I ain't eating anyway," Sharpton announced, "so it doesn't have to be good."

  Curious how the candidate would respond, I passed on McAuliffe's expectation that Sharpton would obligingly with­draw from the race after the early March primaries anointed a nominee. "I appreciate Terry wanting to strong-arm people to support me on March 2 or March 9," Sharpton responded, savor­ing his own joke. "But we should let democracy run its course. Clearly, at the end of the convention, we should all support the nominee, but I don't think we should try to infer bossism before that. A lot of people want to go to the convention for the person they voted for. And I don't think we should turn them off as we try to turn them on." His use of the word "bossism"—a New York City political epithet dating back to the days of Tammany Hall—signaled that the dewy-eyed Democratic dreamers who assume that the new mainstream-model Sharpton would settle for a con­fetti-drenched hug from the nominee at the end of the Boston convention were in for a rude awakening.

  As I discovered, Sharpton is more than just a poseur with James Brown hair and custom-tailored suits. Confounding my one-dimensional image of his candidacy, Sharpton out of no­where offered me a gift-wrapped set of insights about the other Democratic contenders. Calling on his backstage observations from a half dozen multi-candidate forums, he observed, "The ones who are the most comfortable have been Lieberman, Gephardt and I. Probably because Lieberman and Gephardt have run nationally and are used to it. Me, because I've always been in the middle of some kind of give-and-take and controversy. The others seem a little nervous and trying to find their way."

  Smiling broadly, Sharpton went on to describe watching the anxious first-time candidates rehearse by "trying to cram down that last leather-bound looseleaf binder." In contrast, he said, "Joe Lieberman kind of laughs and chuckles. He and I probably disagree more on policy stuff than anybody in the race, but he has a congeniality, a comfort level, because he has done this before. And he's a nice person. Gephardt is the same way." After Dean put out an over-the-top press release attacking Gephardt's health­care plan, Sharpton whispered to the congressman at a candi­dates forum a few days later, "And you thought that I'd be the disruptive one."

  About then, we arrived at Bert's Grill, a pretty good soul food restaurant with a great slogan: "When You Can't Get Home to Mama Come to Bert's." No-food-for-me Sharpton and aides Frank Watkins and Marjorie Harris loaded their plates with fried chicken before beginning a relaxed session of debate preparation. Watkins, who was Jesse Jackson's top adviser during his 1984 and 1988 presidential races, began instructing Sharpton—"There will be one and a half million retiring teachers in the next two years"—when a restaurant patron wandered over to their table and introduced himself as Daryle Lucas. For the next five min­utes, Lucas delivered a passionate, fact-laden defense of the con­spiracy theories of former Georgia Congresswoman Cynthia McKinney, who lost a 2002 re-election primary, in part, because she suggested that the Bush administration failed to prevent the September 11 attacks because it stood to profit financially from the war on terrorism. After Lucas finally excused himself to head for the men's room, Sharpton said to his luncheon companions, "People underestimate these folks."

  I had been hovering on the periphery of the conversation as I waited for a taxi, mostly to get a sense of how Sharpton readied himself for a debate. Spying my notebook, Lucas on his return decided that I was a prime target for a reprise of his pro-McKinney rant. Trapped in a corner with an African American conspiracy theorist who had the intensity of the Ancient Mariner, I attempted to change the subject by asking about his views on the presidential race. "I assume you're for Sharpton," I suggested, aware of the reverend's presumed appeal to black voters in South Carolina. After making sure that Sharpton wasn't watching-Lucas shook his head no. "You know the guy who I want to see on the Democratic ticket?" he asked in a tone designed to elicit surprise. "It's John Edwards. You know he'd beat Bush. He's a trial lawyer, the stage is his home, he knows theatrics and dra­matics. John Edwards is the white Jesse Jackson of politics. He's that fluent in his speech."

  Sharpton was right: People underestimate the mainstream political loyalties of these folks.

  ******

  Okay, I will admit it, I was reluctantly softening toward Sharpton, just as I have in the past toward other talented humbug artists dabbling on the fringes of politics. (Modesty and a keen sense of retrospective embarrassment prevent me from quoting a few columns I wrote about Pat Buchanan around the time he was winning the 1996 New Hampshire primary.) So journalistic mar­tyr that I am, I set up a second interview with Sharpton in Des Moines in late June. This time our meeting place lacked the local color of Bert's Grill; we were at a cluttered breakfast table in the coffee shop at the Renaissance Savery Hotel, a few hours before Sharpton was scheduled to participate in yet another multi-candidate Democratic cattle show in nearby Newton.

  The day before, at a meeting of Democratic state party leaders in St. Paul, Minnesota, there was talk of trying to arrange a few presidential debates that would exclude the minor candidates. I was dubious that any Democrat boasts the courage to stand between Sharpton and a microphone, but I felt compelled to ask him about this putative effort to consign him to oblivion. "If you look at the most recent CNN poll," he said, "I'm ahead of Edwards, I'm ahead of Graham, I'm ahead of Dean." (A late May USA Today/CNN/Gallup Poll indeed showed Sharpton at 7 per­cent, even with Edwards, and ahead of Dean and Graham.) "So one of the interesting things to me in this campaign is how do you decide first-tier candidates," Sharpton said, relishing the sta­tistical quandary for the Democrats. "Because, according to the polls,
I'm a first-tier candidate. Now they say, 'We don't think Sharpton can be elected.' But the question becomes, if I can't be elected, and these guys are lower than me in the polls, then what makes them electable?"

  Maybe it's a symptom of (campaign) trail fever, maybe it's a narcotic reaction triggered by overdosing on applause, but even candidates like Sharpton concoct private victory strategies. So I had to listen to his loving rendition of the primary schedule with an emphasis on that period in early February when lily-white Iowa and New Hampshire give way to states with large minority populations such as South Carolina, Missouri and Michigan. "If the polls are in any way correct," he said, "we can be, if not the nominee, a very serious deciding factor." All I could think about was a Superman comic book from my childhood in which a cos­mic trickster from another dimension gets elected mayor of Metropolis by magically making the hands of all the voters slip as they were pulling the ballot-box levers. That's the only way we will ever hear Sharpton's acceptance speech at a Democratic Con­vention. Sensing my skepticism, Sharpton added, "Let me say in answer to your real question, I will be at the Boston convention and I will be in every primary all the way through." I made a mental note to send McAuliffe a box of antacids and a container of headache powder.

  My fascination with Sharpton was beginning to flag, so I moved in a different artistic direction and asked him whether the campaign was fun. "I always have fun," he said with uncharac­teristic brevity. Well, in the hierarchy of your fun life, how does this rate? "It's tedious work," he said. "I don't want to downplay that. But when you say are you having fun, it's up there." Then, to underscore how far he has come from his days as a street cor­ner rabble-rouser mouthing off to a lone TV camera, Sharpton said it twice more, savoring every syllable, "It's up there. Yes, it s up there."