All Too Human: A Political Education (48 page)

Especially since the president would be ordering military action later that week. Shortly after I left the Oval, John Deutsch, the deputy secretary of defense, dropped by my office and mentioned his misgivings over the impending invasion of Haiti. “The first few days may be easy,” he said, “but I'm afraid we might get three or four boys hacked up in a few months.”

In the year following the humiliating retreat of the
Harlan County
from the docks of Port-au-Prince, the situation in Haiti had steadily deteriorated. The troika of military dictators, led by Lieutenant General Raoul Cedras, refused to reinstate President Aristide and intensified its reign of terror. Back in May, Clinton had resisted calls for American military intervention, preferring to ratchet up the pressure on the dictators with tightened economic sanctions and a final diplomatic push. But as Haiti's decline threatened to create a new wave of boat people heading for Florida, he felt more pressure to act. In July, after international human rights observers were expelled from Haiti, the U.S. pushed a resolution authorizing force to remove the Cedras junta from power through the UN Security Council. By September, there was no turning back.

The president believed military intervention was morally justified, but he fretted privately that he was being forced to act at the worst possible moment: “I can't believe they got me into this. … How did this happen? We should have waited until after the elections.” But I knew by then that his scapegoating and second-guessing were just nervous tics, his way of steeling himself for what he knew he had to do. In the broader meetings with his national security team, Clinton was markedly more self-assured than in his early encounters with the military.

On September 7, the national security brass assembled to review the proposed battle plan. At first I wasn't sure they'd let me in. Now that Leon was reorganizing the White House staff, I no longer had automatic walk-in privileges to any policy meeting, especially on military matters, and I was still suspected of being a leaker. But Tony Lake invited me both because he was my friend and because the success of the effort would depend, in part, on how we handled Congress and the public — my areas of expertise. I walked into the cabinet room that afternoon aware that I needed to make a real contribution to justify my presence.

General John Shalikashvili, Colin Powell's replacement as chairman of the Joint Chiefs, opened the meeting. With his straight back, square shoulders, and short haircut, Shali was the epitome of an American military man — an identity reinforced for my ethnic ears by his clipped Polish accent. Listening to the general detail the pathetic state of the Haitian military, I was struck by his supreme confidence — and slightly apprehensive.
Isn't this what they always think before the fighting actually starts?
But his certainty wasn't hubris. The Haitian forces were fierce when facing unarmed women, orphans, and priests, but they'd cut and run at the sight of twenty thousand American troops.

“Thank you for the briefing, General,” Clinton replied briskly. Then, without hedging or hesitation, he gave the command: “It's a good plan; let's go.”

That was that. The rest of the meeting, however, dealt with the aspect of the invasion he
was
worried about: convincing the Congress and the country that invading Haiti was the right thing to do. First, we had to decide whether to secure a congressional vote authorizing military action. Secretary of State Christopher framed the argument against seeking a resolution in terms of presidential power, saying that if Clinton insisted on going to Congress he would be constraining his successors. Colored by my years in the House, I believed that a president shouldn't send soldiers into combat without congressional support. But that principle was now being tested by hard reality: We didn't have the votes, not even close. Congress wasn't about to give President Clinton political cover for an unpopular invasion, so restoring democracy to Haiti required sacrificing a bit of it here at home. I thought the cost was justified, but Congress would howl, and partisan tensions were so high that a few members might even argue for impeachment if American casualties mounted. To cover our flank, I suggested that the State Department draft a public “white paper” making the case for unilateral presidential action. Like me, Clinton had just read in Doris Kearns Goodwin's new book that FDR had used this tactic when he circumvented Congress on lend-lease. He took the suggestion.

Quit while you're ahead, George.
I kept quiet as Clinton discussed marketing the mission to our various audiences: Congress, elite opinion leaders, the Haitian people, and the American public. With two-thirds of the country against military action in Haiti, it wouldn't be easy. And with two dozen people in the cabinet room, it would be just as difficult to maintain military secrecy. All through the session, the president grumbled about leaks coming from so large a group. When we adjourned, General Shali was nose to nose with Tony Lake, heatedly warning that if “one American soldier dies because of some leak, it will be on your head!” As one of the “extras” ringing the cabinet table, I hoped my presence hadn't put Tony in an untenable position. But any guilt I felt was balanced by indignation and anxiety: Those of us on the political team couldn't build public support without the basic facts. Besides, the most damaging national security leaks almost always came from dissenters in the bowels of the Pentagon or Foggy Bottom.

No real secrets leaked, thank goodness, but our political situation didn't improve either. Led by two war heroes, Senators Bob Dole and John McCain, the Republicans pounded Clinton, arguing that returning Aristide to Haiti wasn't worth a single American life and that Clinton was ordering the invasion not to protect national security, but to appease a political constituency. That was the argument that drove us most crazy. Aside from Harry Belafonte and a few members of the Black Caucus, no one was clamoring for an invasion of Haiti. This was our most unpopular act since gays in the military. But although the invasion was not politically motivated, and full of political risk, it could be a political plus. Clinton was constantly being called “spineless” and “wishy-washy” —
Doonesbury
was depicting him as a talking waffle. Paradoxically, the more the Republicans screamed, the more they helped the president. Taking a lonely stand on a tough issue like Haiti was the best way for Clinton to demonstrate presidential character. It was also one of the times that I was most proud to work for him. Defending human rights and democracy was what Democrats like us were supposed to do, and despite his private doubts about the timing, the president didn't flinch.

Which is not to say that he was always pretty to watch. On Tuesday morning, September 13, Clinton was riled up from a night of phone calls from complaining members of Congress. As Pat Griffin, Leon Panetta, and I filed into the Oval Office to brief Clinton for a meeting with other Hill Democrats, the president greeted us with a blast of shared pain: “After those fucking phone calls, I guess we'll have something to show those people who say I never do anything unpopular.” I kind of liked Clinton's defiance, but the members we met with feared it would cost them the election. The discussion was dominated by talk of delaying any action until after November. Clinton just brushed the suggestion aside. “We're damned if we do, damned if we don't,” he explained. “We get hit for politics by going in now, but the downside dangers of slow-walking until after the election are higher. More people will be killed.”

Because the members knew they couldn't dissuade Clinton from going into Haiti, the congressional meeting had a resigned, desultory feel. But as our troops began to mobilize and the president prepared to address the nation from the Oval Office, the White House air was charged. Missile strikes were one thing, but this was the first time in our twenty months in office that the United States was planning a military invasion. OK, the Haitian armed forces weren't exactly a fearsome adversary. But restoring democracy to Haiti was a good cause, and something about watching grim-faced officers with medals on their chests and spy photos under their arms hustle through hushed corridors helped me imagine what it must have been like to be Ted Sorensen during the Cuban missile crisis, or Bill Moyers when LBJ dispatched troops to the Dominican Republic. I never presumed to question the military plans, but on Tuesday night, the mission commander, Admiral Paul Miller, called me to talk politics. “We need to get a couple of people flying wing on the Hill for us,” he said in the can-do cadence of a career military man. As for the speech, “that democracy argument is right on the bull's-eye. People want to hear value and cost. But you have to hit them where they live. Tell them there are nine million Haitians off our shores — and they
all
want to be your neighbor.”

Actually, our polling showed that the American people were more moved by altruism than naked self-interest. Since August, we'd been quietly testing various arguments for the invasion. Unlike foreign-policy elites who insisted that the United States should deploy troops only when “vital” economic or military interests were at stake, the general public was more willing to use our power to protect innocent civilians from torture and terror. This was all relative, of course; risking even one American life was unpopular, but a humanitarian argument softened the opposition. How to use the evidence we had — graphic photos of maimed children and mothers with slashed faces — was dicey, and it revealed a subtle shift in the world of spin between the Reagan and Clinton administrations. David Gergen argued that when the president met with wire-service reporters on Wednesday, he should have the photos spread on the table before him for the reporters to see. “That would have worked for Reagan,” I argued, “but they'll kill us for it. Just have the photos in a folder. If he hands them out, he hands them out.” The Reagan team's success at spin control had conditioned the White House press corps. Elaborate staging only increased the tendency of skeptical reporters to focus on the process rather than the substance of what we were trying to say. The benefits of spin were being canceled out by the press's resistance to it. Often we reacted by spinning even harder, but I was beginning to see the virtue in just letting stories go — Zen spin.

But I still wanted to influence our coverage, which presented me with a dilemma that afternoon. We needed the public to know that our mission in Haiti would be “limited,” that the U.S. military wasn't going to become an occupying force, and that we didn't consider America “the world's policeman.” But as his wire-service interview wound down, the president still hadn't said it. How could I get Clinton to make that point without its looking as if he was being coached? That's all
I
needed — a line in some story noting that the president's spin doctor was telling him what to say as he sent American troops into harm's way. Sitting across from the president, directly in his line of sight, I worked to get his attention without being noticed by anyone else. First, I simply stared at him, a trick that had worked in the past. He'd see my wide-open, worried eyes and his mind would click back to the points I had emphasized in the prebrief. When that failed, I mouthed the word
limit
while moving my hands in front of me as if I were squeezing a small accordion. That only made him think I had a stomach flu, but now that I had his attention I wrote “
LIMIT MISSION
” in block letters on my notepad and flashed it fast. No luck; his squint told me that he couldn't read it without his glasses. Finally, I took the risk of making myself part of the story. Before Dee Dee announced last question, I wrote out a note, folded it up, and walked across the room to hand it to Clinton. Nodding his head, he ended his next answer with a segue into a soliloquy on our “exit strategy,” starting with “I do want to emphasize this. …” Even though I thought I had done the right thing, I apologized to Clinton after the reporters left. “No, no,” the president assured me. “It's a good thing you did.”

The next day, I wasn't so lucky. Stan Greenberg had conducted a final poll to fine-tune our arguments before the president's speech. I had cautioned Clinton against calling Stan himself, because while I thought it was appropriate to use a poll to help sell a decision that was already made, I didn't think it would look great to have the president's pollster on his call sheet the day he was telling the nation we were going to war. On Thursday morning, Stan faxed me the results, and I gave Leon an oral briefing. The Haiti arguments hadn't changed, but the president's overall approval rating was the lowest it had ever been. Several times that morning Clinton asked for the results, which put me in a bind. I didn't want to distract him with bad news, but if I tore out the offensive pages, he would notice and accuse me, rightfully, of manipulating him. What I
should
have done was simply give Leon the poll and let
him
deal with it; after all, he was the boss. Instead, I dropped it on the president's desk.

Twenty minutes later, I was facing Leon Panetta in full patriarchal fury. The president had ripped into him about his approval ratings, and now Leon was ripping into me. “Damnit, George, what happened here?” I didn't know, but I did apologize — fast. “I'm sorry, Leon. I told you about the poll but didn't think to give you a copy, and the president kept asking for it. I just didn't think I'm sorry.” One of the knocks against me was that I had a tendency to upset the president with bad news; and although I believed it was an unfair rap (
What am I supposed to do, Leon? Tell the president, “No, you can't have your poll, it'll make you too mad”?
), I knew this incident would hurt me with Leon.

By that evening, however, it was like old times with Clinton. His hair still wet from the shower, he and I stood in the hallway outside his bathroom in the residence, making the final edits on the advance text of his Oval Office address, which would be released to the press. When we got to the central sound bite of the speech —”The message of the United States to the Haitian dictators is clear: Your time is up. Leave now, on your own, or we will force you from power” — Clinton ran his felt tip through the words “on your own.” The president didn't say a word; neither did I — sometimes you just know not to ask. But the two phone calls that Clinton had received from President Carter earlier that afternoon suddenly made sense to me.