The President Is Missing, the first novel I wrote with Bill Clinton, got a lot of press—some of it a bit painful. (Not the reviews, which were stellar, among the best I’ve ever gotten.)
Here’s what happened. The president and I did a taped interview for the Today show. Craig Melvin “hosted the roast.” NBC had promised it would only deal with the novel, but that isn’t what happened—and to be fair, it’s kind of the way a lot of journalism works. The president and I knew that going in.
Now, my job, I swear, was to keep the president on topic—the topic being our novel The President Is Missing. He wasn’t accustomed to the four-minute clips that novelists typically get on TV. Four minutes goes by like snapping your fingers twice.
Almost before the director called out, “Action,” Craig Melvin launched into the subject of the #MeToo movement. The president and I were prepared—but Melvin took a different tack. He asked President Clinton why he had never apologized to Monica Lewinsky. Well, obviously he had—multiple times. I’d seen it on national TV. The question upset the president—as I thought it should.
He and Melvin were off—and definitely off the topic of The President Is Missing.
Now, since I was the president’s wingman, I was trying to figure out how to stop this in mid-mess.
My first thought—which I instantly vetoed—was to ask Craig Melvin if he wanted to talk about #MeToo using a more recent example, like NBC’s own Matt Lauer’s troubles. I hated that idea and I knew the president would hate it too.
Next, I considered standing up from my chair, saying, “Time for a Coca-Cola break,” and walking directly in front of the cameras. Not only would that stop the melee, but because I used a product name, they probably wouldn’t use the bite anywhere. Finally, I asked Craig Melvin if he wanted to go even farther back in history on the subject of presidents and #MeToo issues. Lyndon Johnson? John Kennedy? FDR? How about Thomas Jefferson? That worked, but the damage had been done.
I will never forget how nasty, how downright cruel it got during that book tour. I felt like I was in the middle of a firefight. Nobody was actually shooting at me—but it was still depressing and terrifying to be there as an unwilling eyewitness.
I’ll do my best to describe the two days of meetings the president and I had in Hollywood trying to decide who would get the screen rights to The President Is Missing.
Seventeen prospective buyers showed up. We met with them in a penthouse suite at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. They ranged from private investors to movie studios to streaming services and even a few top directors. To put that in perspective, what usually happens when I send a new novel to Hollywood is it goes from an assistant to the assistant’s junk e-mail. I wish I was kidding. That’s what happens to most books, though.
So President Clinton and I listened to seventeen feverish pitches over the course of two days. He liked the attention, but I loved it. Of course, nobody had actually read our book. But they’d read a nine-page synopsis and now here they were with their checkbooks out.
And they bid. About half of the seventeen were all in. A few dropped out after one investor group came in with a high-seven-figure bid on day one. These two young cocks told us to take it or leave it—on the spot. We called their bluff—on the spot—and they stayed in the bidding anyway.
At the end of the two days, Showtime made the best bid. A really, really good bid. We took it. On the spot.
There’s one funny story about that trip to LA.
President Clinton and I stayed at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. The Secret Service liked the place and felt it was easier to provide protection there than at other hotels. When I arrived, I went up to the front desk to check in. There was some kind of misunderstanding.
I was asked, very politely, if I would take a seat in the lobby. It would just be a minute. They needed to clear something up.
About five minutes later, two Secret Service agents showed up in the lobby. They were part of President Clinton’s detail and I knew them. They apologized to me for the confusion. Then they assured the front-desk person that I was indeed the writer James Patterson.
I found out later what had happened.
There’s another James Patterson who lives in Palm Beach. We’re friendly. He used to own Long John Silver’s. Sometimes when he travels and checks in at a nice hotel like the Beverly Wilshire, he’s asked if he’s me. And sometimes he says, “Yes, I’m the James Patterson.” Occasionally, that gets him an upgrade or maybe some extra fruit.
It turns out that James Patterson stays at the Beverly Wilshire when he’s in LA. So they knew that James Patterson as the writer James Patterson.
When I arrived—and because President Clinton was staying there—the hotel staff assumed I wasn’t me and that put them on red alert. They called for the Secret Service.
Because of all the confusion and embarrassment at the front desk, I was the James Patterson who got the upgrade this time. And some extra fruit.