Three days later, Tuesday, December 6, Colin Powell, the retired chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, was waiting at his new home, a large chateaulike structure, in McLean, Virginia. An intense, nearly hysterical surge of speculation and drama was building about whether Powell would capitalize on his status as the most popular and respected figure in the country and run for president. Was he a Republican or a Democrat or an independent? What was his precise stand on the issues of the day?
Powell, 57, had been largely sheltered from partisan politics in his 35 years in the Army, and he was carefully testing the waters. What was really going on in the country? At the same time he was trying to dig deeply into himself and take his own pulse. What did he want?
People were declaring themselves supporters for his possible candidacy, calling, writing—new friends, old friends. Powell was listening hard and welcoming those who might have useful advice.
At 8:30 A.M. that day Powell’s visitor was Thomas Griscom, who had been White House communications director during much of 1987, the next-to-last year of the Reagan administration. During that year Powell had been the deputy national security adviser to Reagan. Working together on speeches and Moscow summits, Powell and Griscom had become very close.
He and Griscom sat in the formal study that was filled with Powell’s medals and pictures with the presidents he had directly served—Reagan, Bush and Clinton. Powell explained that Alma, his wife, was truly enjoying the freedom of private life. Being out of the Army was liberating, and he was enjoying watching her enjoy it. Despite the constant drumbeat of political speculation, Powell said he had been focusing on writing his memoirs, which would be out in less than a year.
“The book is close to being finished,” Powell said, “and I’ll start this book tour in September. So it clearly doesn’t hurt anything to have a lot of speculation going on, because it will dovetail behind the book tour.” At the same time, people were giving him plans and drafts of plans, and ideas and issues for his political future.
“You’ve got an aura,” Griscom said. “A very strong aura.”
Powell laughed and said when he went out to give speeches, sometimes at places a black man would not have been allowed as recently as 20 years ago, people came up promising him their undying support. He would come home with a handful of business cards from people who had pledged to help.
Griscom said that many people were self-promoters and others wanted to be kingmakers. Too many people were probably blowing in his ear out of their own self-interest, not his.
Powell agreed fully.
Politics would make Powell’s life an open book, Griscom added. “Everything becomes fair game. There are a lot of things, right or wrong—sometimes unfortunately it doesn’t matter—that somebody may dredge up here or there. I’m not saying there’s anything out there. There doesn’t necessarily have to be anything.”
Powell felt he had been scrutinized completely, but agreed that a presidential campaign would be more intense.
Griscom also said that any black person would have problems running for president, especially in the South. “You are black, and at some point that will kick in,” Griscom said, “and it may kick in in a very unseemly way because if it ever really took off—and this is the seedy side of politics—there will be some things that are said, implied or whatever, that will clearly play up that issue.”
Powell had no illusions about race.
“Colin, I can’t think of anybody that I would rather see break down the racial barriers than you. At the same time, I don’t want to see you broken down in that process.”
“There are a lot of these people out there who really don’t know me,” Powell said, “don’t know who I am.”
Griscom reminded Powell that he would be on everybody’s short list for vice president.
“I understand that,” Powell said. “It doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m going to do that.”
“Right,” Griscom said half-facetiously. “You never want to sit here and say, ‘I’m glad I’m being considered for vice president.’”
They both laughed.
After Griscom left, Powell realized it was a clear warning. Lots of friends were waving him off. Richard Armitage, a former Assistant Secretary of Defense who was probably Powell’s best friend, had been telling Powell not to run. “It’s not worth it,” Armitage had said. “Don’t do it.”
And Alma very strongly opposed a run.
Around this time, I called Powell and spoke with him by phone. I had come to know him well when I worked on The Commanders, my 1991 book on the Gulf War and the Pentagon. Over several years we had talked and sparred dozens of times in interviews on the phone and in person. Powell could be hard and tough if he didn’t want to talk, but when I had specific information he generally would respond. Most significantly, I found that on important matters he had not misled me. This time I explained that I was writing a book about the 1996 race for president and I wanted to discuss what he was doing.
“Your book can be complete without me,” he said emphatically. The strong suggestion was that he would not be running, but I couldn’t be sure.
Warren Rudman, 64, a turbulent, confident attorney and former senator from the key primary state of New Hampshire, was one of Dole’s closest friends. He had been deeply involved in Dole’s crucial 1988 New Hampshire primary campaign, which Dole had lost, eventually sending him out of the race. Rudman saw that after losing, Dole was a haunted man. He repeatedly found Dole sitting around his Senate office after that, not doing much of importance. Rudman would come down to sit with him over coffee and try to boost his spirits.
If Dole were going to run in 1996, Rudman believed he had to face up to and forthrightly address his largest handicap: his age. Dole was probably too old to run. He had been described as last generation’s candidate in 1988, and he was 23 years older than President Clinton. So Rudman decided he would try to find Dole a young running mate who was fully qualified to govern the country—someone with a proven record, someone distinguished, someone who immediately would be considered presidential. He wanted someone who could run with Dole and not leave the country worried about the guy next in line, someone with almost instant moral authority.
In the spring of 1994, Rudman had arranged to have lunch with Colin Powell. Rudman, a former Army infantry officer during the Korean War, had known Powell since Powell had been a junior Army general who attended Senate hearings with Secretary of Defense Caspar Weinberger some ten years earlier.
“Colin,” Rudman said over lunch on the patio at Powell’s home; “I want nothing from you and I’m not trying to sell you anything. I’m your friend.” Then Rudman proceeded to both ask and sell. “There are two ways for you to become president.” First, Powell could run in either party—the Republican, Rudman hoped—or as an independent, which would be difficult, almost impossible. Second, there was an easier way. Become Dole’s running mate, and Dole would pledge to run only for one term.
Rudman described Dole’s dilemma. “What are you, 14 years younger than Bob?” If the Dole-Powell ticket won, the presidency would likely be Powell’s then for two full terms. If something happened to Dole, it would be Powell’s sooner. Rudman said he had done some research. As vice president, Powell could also serve as Secretary of State. He just couldn’t receive two salaries.
Powell didn’t respond directly. He was used to offers, people making soundings, speaking without authority, promoting themselves. Why didn’t Rudman run? Powell asked. Then the two of them could run together.
“A black and a Jew on the Republican ticket?” Rudman asked.
“Who said anything about the Republican ticket?” Powell shot back, ending the discussion with a big laugh. Powell had never stated his membership in either political party, a subject of mounting speculation.
In Rudman’s eyes, Powell certainly had not said yes. But he also had not said no.
On a Saturday soon after, Dole and Rudman met for breakfast at the Palladin restaurant in the Watergate. Rudman reported on his discussion with Powell.
Dole said he hadn’t made a final decision about running himself, so a discussion of a possible running mate was premature.
Do you want straight talk? Rudman asked.
Yes, of course, Dole replied.
“Bob, it’s hard to be the last of anything,” Rudman said, noting that Dole was the last political leader of the World War II generation. But because Clinton didn’t serve in the military and had clearly worked to dodge the draft during Vietnam, the contrast could all be used to Dole’s advantage. “I don’t think we have to be defensive about the age issue,” Rudman said, believing it was Dole’s chief hesitation and doubt.
“It’s interesting, Bob,” Rudman said, “that you have the reputation of a hard-bitten son of a bitch. I’ve known you for 15 years and I’ve not seen it.” Rudman said that the view of Dole came largely from the two famous public outbursts: Dole’s declaration in the 1976 vice-presidential debates about “Democrat wars” causing millions of deaths, and in 1988 when Dole told then Vice President Bush via national television, “Stop lying about my record.” Rudman said, “You said it in a very threatening way.” So there could be no more public outbursts, he warned.
The rise of Newt Gingrich to Speaker of the House was helping Dole. “To be honest with you, Bob, Newt has a way of making you look warm and fuzzy.” But Dole had to keep his cool.
“You’re right,” Dole said. “I think I’m going to run, but I don’t have to be president. It’s different this year. I want to win, but I don’t have to.”
“I’m going to be a constant pain in the ass, Bob, reminding you of these things. Is that what you want?”
“Yes,” Dole said, “that’s fine.”
Dole hadn’t decided yet, but the Powell idea was worth pursuing. He wanted to talk directly to Powell. Not to get Powell as vice president specifically, not to make a deal. That would be impossible. He wanted to see who Powell was. Sit down, get it out of the way. Dole liked to clear the clutter before moving to the next thing. He and Powell, just the two of them, had not really ever sat down to talk. In 1993 when Powell was about to leave the chairmanship of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, he was to have come by for breakfast with Dole and some other Senate Republicans. But Powell had called to cancel. “Can I beg off?” he had said. “I’ve got so many of these things.”
“Sure,” Dole replied, “forget it. Just owe me one, owe me a cup of coffee.” So whenever they’d run into each other, they’d renew the promise, banter back and forth. But it never happened. When you sat with a man eye-to-eye, coffee, alone, relaxed, you might get the measure of him, or at least get started. Dole had promised himself he would do it. Appointments were set but Dole had to have a hernia operation, and then he had a tooth that needed work, causing postponements.
On Saturday morning, December 10, Dole had most of his prospective campaign team back in his Hart office. They had a six-pager of names from the top down. National chairmen, staff, Iowa and New Hampshire names. It was important in New Hampshire, they all knew, to have as many people play as possible so no one would feel left out.
Dole was pretty active, commenting on who would likely be with them.
California Governor Pete Wilson would be someone good to have at the top as a national chair of the Dole for President organization. There had been some communications with Wilson’s staff. Though speculation was high, they all felt Wilson wouldn’t run, and believed they would have a good chance of getting his endorsement.
The wish list of possible supporters was big. Honorary chairs on the list were the Reagans, the Bushes, the Fords—the former presidents and first ladies. Governor after governor, all the important names, seven regional chairs across the nation. Lock it up.
Dole held back. “I don’t want people to think I just got elected leader,” he said, “and I’m already running for president.”
Tom Synhorst had a plane to catch. “I’m going to have to leave,” he said, “but this is what I’d like to do in Iowa.” He knew the thousands of precincts, the 99 counties. He flashed his list of names and responsibilities. “I’d like to ask these guys to do these things.”
“No,” Dole said, “I want you to wait.”
What?
“No,” Dole said again, “I want to wait a week or two, but then I’ll let you know.”
What? A week or two, still indecision? Lacy worried about the old Dole. Synhorst was dejected.
As Clinton continued to thrash around in the weeks after the 1994 November elections, he told Dick Morris he wanted to give a speech that would begin the repositioning process, and, without telling the White House staff, he asked Morris and Bill Curry to work on a draft. Clinton wanted to raise the flag about his renewed concern for what the voters were saying. Morris had conducted polling that showed that people wanted tax cuts, economic recovery, more education and programs that addressed the real needs of families.
The White House speechwriters also received instructions to begin drafting a speech. One speechwriter was asked to draft an assessment of the American spirit, an attempt to take the public temperature, define it and embrace the uncertainty and anxiety. This was later rejected as dangerously close to President Jimmy Carter’s celebrated speech diagnosing a kind of public malaise. Another idea given serious consideration was that Clinton deliver a speech from the library in the White House and at the end of his remarks, get up and put a Christmas tree ornament on the tree to celebrate the season. Also proposed was a speech that would be a statement of Clinton’s beliefs and convictions, because there had been some public confusion about what they were. Clinton hated this idea because he said he knew the answer. Still another plan called for a speech on “New Democrat” themes rejecting standard liberalism, helping business, reducing government and cutting taxes. The wandering and aimlessness in this project were apparent.
The television networks had agreed to give Clinton time at 9 P.M. December 15, 1994. Early that day there was still no text ready, and no one in the White House knew exactly what was happening.
Part of the explanation was that Clinton was working on a speech by himself, and secretly had been exchanging ideas over the phone for several days with Morris, who was vacationing in Paris with his wife. They had agreed that the theme would be built around tax cuts to expand educational opportunity, help the economy and assist families.
Curry also weighed in, suggesting that the proposed tax cut be about one third the amount of the Republican proposal. He felt it was important that Clinton not present something extravagant. Clinton agreed.
Working over the transatlantic phone, the president and Morris devised what they called a “middle-class bill of rights.” Gore saw the idea as an attempt to redeem the 1992 Clinton-Gore campaign pledge to give a tax cut to the middle class. In several more calls back and forth they put together a draft.
The morning of the speech, Clinton called in the speechwriters and dictated a draft. He did not indicate where the ideas had come from, and he spoke as if the text were coming to him from some other universe. He said that he would propose the new Congress pass a “middle-class bill of rights.” Using some policy ideas that had been worked over by the White House staff, he decided to propose a $500-a-child tax cut for families; making college tuition tax-deductible; and allowing tax-free Individual Retirement Accounts to be used for medical expenses, education or the purchase of a first home.
“This holiday season,” he began at 9 P.M. from the Oval Office, “everybody knows that all is not well with America, that millions of Americans are hurting, frustrated, disappointed, even angry.” The question, he asked, was what could be done about what matters to most people? “Tonight, I propose a middle class bill of rights.” The president laid out his plan and explained how he was cutting federal spending and the payroll. “I want a leaner, not a meaner Government, that’s back on the side of hardworking Americans, a new Government for the new economy—creative, flexible, high quality, low cost, service oriented—just like our most innovative private companies.”
Clinton spoke for ten minutes. The proposals drew a good deal of criticism. “Gingrich lite,” one commentator called it. Republicans charged Clinton with flip-flopping, pointing out that Clinton had promised a middle-class tax cut in the 1992 campaign, abandoned it in his first two years as president, and had now returned to it. In contrast, Gingrich and the Republicans claimed they were going to do something unusual in American politics. They were going to do exactly what they had promised in their Contract With America the first time, and pass their own larger tax cut.
Clinton was furious in private when it was suggested that he was pandering to the right and trying to upstage the Republican revolution. It drove him crazy that his public political persona was that of a waffler. “I find it amazing that anybody could question whether I have core beliefs,” he declared in an interview with Newsweek. “This idea that there’s some battle for my soul is the biggest bunch of hooey I ever saw. I know who I am. I know what I believe!”
After the December 15 speech, Bill Curry, one of its unacknowledged authors, went to see White House chief of staff Leon Panetta about the job in domestic policy and communications that Curry had discussed with the president.
Panetta, outgoing and even mirthful, was welcoming. He and Curry laughed together and had a wonderful time. Curry explained that he wanted a staff position advising the president on domestic policy and communications strategy on a daily basis.
“Great!” Panetta said.
Curry left convinced that Morris was absolutely right, that Panetta and the White House team were mired in daily events and had failed to formulate an overall long-term issue and communications strategy for the president.
Several days later, one of Panetta’s deputies called and offered Curry a job as one of the assistant secretaries in the Department of Housing and Urban Development.
Curry called Nancy Henreich, the director of Oval Office operations for Clinton, to explain that the president’s wishes weren’t getting through. Curry then spoke with Clinton. Soon Panetta’s deputy called with a new offer: presidential counselor for domestic affairs. Curry would formally take the position early in 1995 and in the meantime work with Morris outside the White House.
In the following weeks, the president watched with frustration as the media and the attention increasingly, even obsessively it seemed to him, focused on Newt Gingrich and the Republicans. Clinton’s middle-class tax proposals were very nearly brushed off, while each statement by Gingrich was charted in great detail. It was as if an empire were being built, a revolution under way, and Clinton was the old regime. The Republicans were calling the shots and occupying much of the national political stage. The president himself would have to find a way to work himself onto that stage.
Clinton’s most important discussions about what to do were with Gore. In the intense competition of politics a form of adult sibling rivalry still marked their relationship. Clinton frequently joked to his staff about the good press that Gore received. But the president and vice president, only 20 months apart in age, had grown increasingly close and trusting of each other. Both tried not to make a major move without consulting the other. The weekly private lunches were their primary opportunity. They opened up to each other about personnel, legislation, family, even rumors, and the expectations they had for themselves.
One topic, however, had never come up between them. They had not discussed whether Gore would remain on the ticket. His remaining was just assumed and incorporated into their discussions. Gore had fleetingly entertained some private doubts about whether he wanted to be vice president for another four years—to stay as the understudy and in the shadows. But his doubts were not serious, and they had receded. Most modern sitting vice presidents had at one time or another been subjected to the often cruel political debate and speculation about whether they should be ejected from the ticket. But “Dump Gore” was a phrase that could not be found in the most thorough computer search of articles or columns in print.
Clinton and Gore agreed the administration was adrift. What had they wrought? They needed an edge, and they would have to begin a formal reelection campaign for 1996.
Gore, frequently an advocate of bold action, said that the administration and Clinton himself too often tried to please too many people or groups instead of taking a firm direction and sticking to it. The question, he said, had to be what Clinton wanted—not what other staffers or cabinet members or interest groups were seeking. What direction did Clinton want to take? That was the proper question. What did Clinton want?
Clinton said he wanted his presidency back.
Before Christmas, Secretary of State Warren Christopher came to see Clinton in private to say he wanted to quit. He was tired, foreign policy had not gone particularly well, his wife was not entirely happy in Washington, and he missed the rest of his family who lived in California. “I’m going to think over the holiday,” Christopher told the president. He offered a list of possible replacements.
Instead of urging or even requesting that Christopher reconsider, Clinton accepted his senior cabinet officer’s wishes.
“Jesus Christ,” he said afterwards in a rage, “with all I got to worry about, and now I’ve got to pick a new goddamn Secretary of State!”
Clinton met secretly with Colin Powell to see if Powell was interested in the job. Clinton was aware of Powell’s soaring popularity. Bringing him into the administration could serve two purposes—fill State with a proven leader and eliminate a possible opponent in 1996. Powell said he had to honor the contract to finish his memoirs and could not consider the appointment. He didn’t say how uncomfortable he was with the way Clinton made foreign policy. Clinton also sounded out Senator Sam Nunn, the Georgia Democrat, who was going to lose his position as chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee in the Republican takeover of Congress. Nunn too declined.
After the holidays, Christopher returned and announced he would stay if the president wanted. Foreign policy was steadying out, the problems could be fixed, and they would do better, Christopher said.
Clinton was deeply relieved because he hadn’t found anyone to take the job.