All Too Human: A Political Education (40 page)

That penultimate sentence was tough. I didn't remember using those words, but it wasn't a wild inference given how angrily I had questioned Josh about how Stephens had been selected and whether anything could be done about it. The last sentence was my legal salvation, corroborating the fact that once I received the details from Josh, I didn't pursue the matter any further. According to Stan, the diary might make for a few unhappy headlines, but as a matter of law, it helped establish that my anger was rooted in a proper concern about whether Stephens had a conflict of interest and that I hadn't pressed for any improper act.

Now all I had to do was convince the grand jury that I hadn't taken steps to force Stephens out. My appearance was scheduled for the afternoon of Thursday, March 24.

A little before noon, I walked to Stan's office for a final review of my testimony. Finding myself on the other side of a crucial prep, I realized why Clinton always seemed so subdued just before a big debate or press conference. You zone out when you're concentrating so intensely. Stan was keyed up. He did exactly what I would do with Clinton, peppering me with tough questions like the college coach who used to push me onto the wrestling mat with a parting whack to my head.

“Remember the ground rules,” Stan said. “Tell the truth, but don't say more than you know. If you don't remember what happened, say so. Don't speculate, don't wonder, don't muse, don't imagine — don't try to be ‘helpful.’”

I was ready for the grand jury, but the court of public opinion still had me worried. Above all, I didn't want to look like a crook. That morning, after considering my options in the shower, I had picked out a suit that was dark but not too funereal, offset by a vibrant blue tie flecked with red and silver. I decided to take a cab to the courthouse instead of a White House sedan because I didn't want anyone to say that I rode in an “official limousine, paid for by the taxpayers.” I also didn't want to look like a mobster being arraigned with a raincoat over his head, so when I arrived, I waded right into the riot of reporters and walked to the front door of the courthouse with my head held high. No perp walk for me. If I looked guilty, I would lose power, it would hurt the president, and I wouldn't be able to do my job.

Inside, the white buzz of the fluorescent lighting was a soothing relief from the clamor on the street. With its institutional green walls, molded plastic chairs, and linoleum floors, the third floor of the Federal Courthouse felt like any other government building, and I tried to act as if this was just another part of my job. As we waited for Bruce Lindsey to complete his testimony, I repressed my anxiety and anger at being in a situation like this by methodically returning phone calls from the lone pay phone down the hall.
I'll show them. Their attacks can't stop us from doing our work
. Stan tried to keep my head in the game. He couldn't join me inside the grand jury, and he didn't want me to get sloppy. “If they throw you a curveball,” he reminded, “ask for a break and come talk to me.”

“Oh, I'll be OK,” I said, as if I knew what I was talking about. But my stomach was churning. Despite my bravado, I just wanted this to be over, to be back in the West Wing, prepping the president for tonight's prime-time press conference. Then one of the prosecutors called me into the room.

It was set up like a small theater. The jurors sat three deep against two walls, looking down on a table in the middle of the room. Two prosecutors sat in front of thick three-ring binders on one end of the table; on the other sat a court reporter with a microphone strapped to her mouth like an oxygen mask. The empty seat in the center was mine. But before I sat, the foreman asked me to raise my right hand, just like I'd seen in the movies a thousand times before. Except it was real — and it was
my
right hand. I hoped it wasn't noticeably shaking.

As the prosecutors organized their papers, I tried to make eye contact with the jurors. The majority were black women; most had probably voted for Clinton, and I could tell when I entered the room that many had seen me before:
“Hey look, it's that guy with the hair
.” Their reaction calmed me down and increased my confidence. My phone call to Josh wouldn't be the only thing they knew about me. Maybe it was an illusion, but I imagined that my celebrity status forged a bond between us, made me part of their world outside this room. They would judge me, I hoped, by more than my worst moment. The prosecutors were still asking the questions, and I still had to answer them. But now I felt better.

The prosecutors began by reviewing my resume and asking what my job entailed. When I described my life in the West Wing — the meetings, the crises, the pressures, and the people, making sure to mention that I routinely spoke to the president anywhere from five to twenty-five times a day — I felt as if I was revealing an exotic and exciting world to a captivated (if captive) audience. Sure, one juror was asleep and another in the back kept shaking his head with a sneer, but most of them seemed to be on my side. Only at the very end did I get rattled. The prosecutors asked if I remembered saying to Josh, “This conversation never happened.” “No,” I said. They asked again; again I said no. Then they told me to leave the room for a minute. “Where did that come from?” I asked Stan. This was the only surprise of the day. “Relax,” he said. “They might be bluffing.” When I returned, they asked me again. After one more no, I was free to go.

Before I left the third floor, Stan and I huddled in the corner so he could take notes while the session was fresh in my mind. There was still a chance that I would be called back to the grand jury or receive a subpoena from Congress, and an accurate record was added protection against a perjury trap. But by the end of the day, we were sure the worst was over. I told the press assembled on the courthouse steps, “It was very good and very refreshing to be before a tribunal that cared about the facts.” Then I walked to the corner encased in a bubble' of cameras and took a taxi back to work. It was time for the president's prep.

FRIDAY, MARCH 25

The morning's news was dominated by reviews of the second prime-time press conference of the Clinton presidency, which was dominated in turn by questions about Whitewater. But we were encouraged by the tone of the coverage (“Often at his best when his back is against a wall,” wrote Ann Devroy, “the president looked at ease and displayed none of the temper or blame placing he has shown in other forums on this issue”) and the hope that we could put the matter behind us. “Cooperation, disclosure, and doing the people's business are the order of the day,” Clinton said. “I and my administration will not be distracted.”

That's what the country loves about him. No matter what happens, he just gets right up and gets back to work
. I did my best to follow his example and was beginning to feel that it might actually be possible. The coverage of my grand jury testimony was minimal and straight, and the accompanying photo of me hailing my own cab added a lighthearted touch. For the first time in a month, I spent an entire morning on health care and other legislative issues — and planned a few days off during the president's upcoming vacation. Then I returned from lunch to a phone message from Ruth Marcus of the
Post
.

“What can you tell me about your conversation with Josh Steiner about Jay Stephens?”

How does she know about that? Grand jury proceedings are supposed to be secret
.

“I'll call you back,” I said. Then I called my lawyer.

I knew the story about my phone calls would get out eventually, but I had hoped it would be after Fiske had concluded that I hadn't broken the law. As a grand jury witness, I was permitted to talk freely about my testimony, but the prosecutors and jurors are sworn to secrecy. Apparently, though, someone with access and an agenda was leaking on me. While Stan and I considered how to handle the
Post
inquiry, Michael Duffy of
Time
called with the same story, slanted in an insidious way. Confronting me with questions I'd faced in the grand jury, he demanded my reaction to the most damaging quotes in Josh's diary. Though Duffy didn't say it directly, I could tell from his tone that
Time
was preparing a major story — perhaps a cover.

Appearing on the cover of
Time
was even more terrifying than facing a federal grand jury. Stan often reminded me that a determined prosecutor could convince a grand jury to indict a ham sandwich, but I also knew that Fiske had a reputation for fairness and was bound by the federal rules of evidence. Ultimately, the grand jury was required to put my conversations in context — to assess all of the facts, examine motive, and address the clincher argument that nothing had come of the phone calls.
Time
, however, wanted to sell magazines and make an impact on the political world. For them, the fact that Fiske was “investigating” the charges was enough justification to raise the most lurid allegations and print the darkest quotes in their most damning light. A full cover package would read like an indictment. If I failed to rebut the charges swiftly and convincingly, I might face Bernie Nussbaum's fate — resignation under a cloud to save the president political trouble.

On Friday afternoon,
Time
had the article they wanted to write. Duffy was just calling to plug in my quotes. Ruth Marcus seemed more reasonable to me. As a lawyer who had covered the Supreme Court, she knew that my phone call wasn't a felony. After reviewing Stan's notes of my grand jury appearance, I called both reporters back with a statement saying that although “I don't remember exactly what was said,” I did have a conversation with Josh Steiner on February 25 in which I asked how Jay Stephens had been hired to investigate Clinton and “blew off steam” over the “unfairness” of the decision.

That statement effectively summarized my grand jury testimony. But now the whole world would read about it, which would humiliate me and harm the president. Although I had been advised not to discuss my grand jury testimony with Clinton, I had to tell him about the press calls and give him the option of asking me to step aside.

He was on
Air Force One
, heading to San Diego for his vacation. I called the White House signal corps from the secure phone console behind my desk, and they patched me through to the
Air Force One
operator. My voice was shaky and the line was scratchy, but the president's message was clear: “George, don't go weak on me,” he yelled into the phone. “You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't do a damn thing wrong!”

The sound of Hillary's voice shouting encouragement strengthened me even more. I was about to take a public hit for my overzealous defense of the Clintons, but with both of them behind me, I felt protected — drawn into the select circle of those who bore a scar for the sake of the cause. Now I was a true Clinton man. Before signing off, the president, aware that I might confront an enemy within, issued a final command: “Don't let anybody in there tell you that you did something wrong,” he demanded. “If anyone in that White House wants to say that you did, you tell them to come to me.”

It was more than I had hoped for and just what I needed to hear. The White House had been asked for an official response, and we'd been discussing what to say all afternoon. I went back to the meeting to make my case, but before we settled on the final wording, I had to leave for my therapist appointment.
I need it more than ever this week
. But driving up Connecticut Avenue, I checked in with Devroy and told her, off the record, that we were considering a statement from the chief of staff expressing his “full confidence” in Harold and me.

“Don't do
that
, George,” she said. “It's going way too far; you'll pop this story out of control.”

Of course she was right. “Full confidence” is often code for “They did something wrong, but we'll stand by them as long as we can, like until tomorrow.” I was so caught up in the controversy that I'd lost my cool, and so had everyone else in our increasingly shell-shocked White House. Ann's spontaneous response crossed a journalistic line, but it was a human reaction — she felt for me, and our ineptitude offended her sense of how a White House should work. It was also sound advice that I wasn't about to ignore. When we finished our conversation, I called back into the meeting I had just left. Harold put me on the speakerphone, but I told him to pick up. “Kill the statement,” I said. “Don't ask me why, just kill it.”

“What are you talking about, George?”

“Just kill it.” Then I whispered. “I talked to Devroy. She says the ‘full confidence’ line will blow this out of control.”

“Fine. Good-bye.” The line was dropped.

Now there was nothing to do but wait for the first edition of the
Post
. So I kept a long-scheduled dinner with old friends, knowing full well that the calls would start as soon as the story hit the wire. Like clockwork, my beeper went off shortly after ten, just in time for dessert. I excused myself to return the first call — to Gwen Ifill of the
Times
, who had to match the
Post
scoop in her second edition.

Gwen had started covering the campaign back in the early days of 1991. If she hadn't been covering us, I'd have considered her a friend. I didn't mind getting yelled at by Gwen, or yelling back; that was part of my job. But there was one emotion I never wanted to hear in her voice, or the voice of any reporter, and that was pity. Pity meant, to borrow a Clintonism, that I was “bleeding like a stuck pig.”

“George,” Gwen said, her voice soft, “you're going to have to tell me about this.”

I did, and returned to my cake after hearing Gwen say, “You hang in there, OK?”

But dinner was over. The wires were calling now; I had work to do. On my way home, I stopped at the 7-Eleven by my house to pick up the
Post
. Above the fold, in the right-hand corner, was Saturday's lead: “RTC Lawyer Drew White House Ire: Clinton Aides Questioned Hiring.”

I sat in my car and scoured the story, thinking it wasn't so bad. The headline was about anger, not illegality; the subhead didn't suggest that Harold and I had demanded that Stephens be fired, just that we “questioned” his “hiring.” The rest followed the same pattern — not fun to read, but fair. It gave my side of the story, with no mention of “full confidence” from the White House. I never imagined that I'd reach a point in my career where my rage would be front-page news, or that I would one day read a story like this and consider it relatively good news. But I went to bed that night thinking things could have been worse.