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 long 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.