All Too Human: A Political Education (65 page)

My War Room swan song was a success. Was it necessary? Hard to say. But a cardinal rule of the Clinton culture was, Never take political threats lightly.

On July 31,1996, I feared it was a lesson learned too well. Over the previous year, the president had vetoed two Republican welfare reform bills that would have ended the federal government's guarantee of health and welfare benefits to poor children. Now, after restoring the entitlement to health care but not welfare, Congress was sending it back a third time. With the election only three months away and the final decision meeting only three hours away, Clinton faced a perilous choice.

“If he vetoes, he'll lose,” Morris declared.

I was listening to Dick's desperate rant from the phone booth carved into the back corner of Panetta's office, where the morning staff meeting had just begun. Morris said his polls predicted that a veto of welfare reform would transform our projected fifteen-point November win into a three-point loss, and he begged me to switch sides and support the bill. Taking comfort from his anxiety, I refused. Dick had been bragging for days that Clinton was sure to sign the welfare bill, walking through the halls offering 10-1 odds against a veto to any of us willing to take his bet. The fact that he was this worried on the morning of the final decision gave me hope.

So did Hillary. In my last few phone calls with the first lady, I could tell she preferred a veto. Like her friend Marian Wright Edelman, president of the Children's Defense Fund, she feared the bill would effectively abolish the safety net and jeopardize millions of poor children. But she also kept referring to “the president's decision” — oddly formal, but somehow appropriate. After the failure of health care, and given the persistence of Whitewater, political prudence and the balance of power in their marriage weighed against a decisive Hillary intervention on welfare. She couldn't be positioned — publicly or privately — to take the fall if he vetoed the bill and the race went south. I had the sense that she was pointing out the flaws without being pushy. Maybe the lighter touch was working.

The atmosphere in the cabinet room that morning was self-consciously statesmanlike, as if we were gathered for a council of war. Which was appropriate. The decision to end a cornerstone of the New Deal was historic, and lives hung in the balance. “The objective reality is that people are going to get hurt,” argued Housing and Urban Development Secretary Henry Cisneros, and Health and Human Services Secretary Donna Shalala cited a study that predicted up to eleven million families could suffer severe harm if Clinton signed the bill. Bob Reich, Bob Rubin, Laura Tyson, Harold Ickes, and Leon Panetta all seconded the veto recommendation. A smaller faction that included Rahm Emanuel and Mickey Kantor countered that killing the bill would cause more harm by perpetuating a failed system that trapped families in a cycle of dependency. As each cabinet member and staffer solemnly stated a position, the president took notes and played devil's advocate — challenging the bill's proponents on the cruelty of the cuts and its opponents on the irresponsibility of doing nothing. But he didn't tip his hand.

The strongest argument for signing came from domestic policy adviser Bruce Reed, a New Democrat of integrity and conviction who had developed Clinton's welfare policy since 1992. Calling it “a good welfare bill wrapped in a bad budget bill,” he conceded that the deep cuts in food stamps and emergency benefits to legal immigrants were gratuitous and needed to be fixed. But he also insisted that the core welfare reform provisions — time limits and work requirements—were close to Clinton's original proposals; that changes in child care, child support enforcement, and the school lunch program made this a far better bill than the two Clinton had vetoed; and that we couldn't get a better deal if this one broke down. Finally, he said, a third veto would break faith with voters who took Clinton at his word when he promised in 1992 to “end welfare as we know it.”

Bruce made a good case — and I said so when Clinton called on me. “It's a tough call,” I began. Although I recommended a veto and said that I thought the benefit cuts to legal immigrants were unconscionable and un-American, any temptation I felt to mount a self-righteous soapbox was tempered by my complicity. In 1992, I had been eager to put millions of dollars of television advertising behind the phrase “end welfare as we know it,” even though I knew full well that it sent a message far more powerful than, and somewhat contradictory to, the fine print of our proposal in
Putting People First,
which had promised more assistance to welfare recipients looking for work, not less. The policy arguments had all been made by the cabinet experts, so I used most of my time to answer the adviser not in the room. While conceding that a veto could cause “a quick five-or six-point drop,” I argued that it would never cost us the race and that the president had always pulled through potentially unpopular decisions like Bosnia, the budget, and affirmative action by taking principled stands. The truth is, I wanted Clinton to be a hero — to take a political risk on behalf of people who had nowhere else to turn. Besides, I concluded, “signing the bill will cut the legs out from Democrats running against the extreme Gingrich Congress,” and we needed them for a successful second term.

After more than two hours of discussion, Clinton retreated to the Oval with Panetta and Gore, the only other person in the room who hadn't said what he thought. I walked back to my office with Harold, and we waited for the decision together, still hoping. Neither of us knew what the president would do, or maybe that's just what we needed to believe. The uncertainty — the idea that Clinton was struggling toward a principled decision after reasoned deliberations — was somehow reassuring. To Clinton too. This was a decision he couldn't compartmentalize; before he could act, he had to convince himself he was doing the right thing for the right reasons. His heart urged a veto, while his head calculated the risk. They were reconciled by his will — a will to win that was barely distinguishable and basically inseparable from the conviction that what was best for the poor was for him to be president.
They
would have to trust his decision: Sign it now; fix it later.

Clinton's belief that the bill would end welfare as a political bogeyman and usher in an era of altruism struck me as a rationalization; his hope that a new Congress would restore the cuts seemed like wishful thinking. But a few weeks later at the Democratic convention, I faithfully repeated the talking points to help quell a rumored demonstration by liberal delegates over welfare reform. That was the trade-off. In return for a seat at that cabinet table, in return for the privilege of influencing issues you care about, in return for the rush of power and reflected glory, you defend the boss — fiercely, unapologetically, giving no ground. If you can't do it, you have to go.

But I don't want to resign. Not before we win again. It was a close call. Who am I to judge? And Clinton knows a lot more about welfare than you do, George. Besides, he already came through on the budget and affirmative action, and we can't risk losing the White House again. You can't expect 100 percent. Resigning with an election so close is just self-indulgent.

My own capacity for rationalization wasn't exactly underdeveloped, but most Democrats were making a similar calculation. The floor fight over welfare reform never caught fire. Democrats had to consider the alternative — a Republican president working with a Republican Congress — and they were too content to fight. With a resilient president riding to reelection on the back of a resurgent economy, this was a feel-good convention — a coronation. Nobody wanted to spoil the celebration.

Not even Morris could spoil the fun. The man who at our first dinner had said “I don't want any publicity. Being a man of mystery helps me work better” was holding a coming-out party in Chicago. He was on the cover of that week's
Time,
and he was granting a steady stream of interviews in which he described his brilliant engineering of Clinton's comeback. My natural jealousy was moderated a bit by my belief that he did deserve his share of credit for Clinton's recovery, and by the fact that he was making new internal enemies every day. It wasn't just the media tour; he was going through another manic phase. In his zeal for total control, he tried to replace both Hillary's and Gore's speeches with his own rapidly dictated drafts — speeches so over the top that Harry Thomason quipped, “Dick's gone bad. Someone's gonna have to put him down.”

Little did he know that Morris was taking care of that himself. I got my first inkling that something was up late Monday afternoon, the first full day of the convention. The two of us were at the headquarters hotel, waiting for a speech prep with Hillary to begin. She never arrived, but while we were waiting, Dick confided to me that he might be the subject of a nasty personal story in the
Star
tabloid. “It didn't happen,” he said, “but I think you should know that it's coming.” I'd been around long enough to know that “It didn't happen” wasn't exactly a denial, but I didn't ask what the “it” was. I didn't want to know the details because I didn't want to be blamed if they leaked, and defending Dick against the tabloids wasn't part of my job description. If the story was published, he was on his own.

On Wednesday night at the convention center, Harold pulled me aside near the end of the night to say he'd heard a rumor that the next day's
New York Post
was going to run the
Star's
story on Morris and a prostitute. But he wasn't sure, and I was too tired to wait up for it. The president's acceptance speech was the next night, and I wanted to be fresh for the prep. Thursday morning, I got up at 6:30 and called Dick for our daily conversation about the overnight polls.

“They're fine,” he said. “But I'm resigning.”

He didn't have to explain. The story must have appeared and been every bit as bad as he'd feared. “We started out as enemies,” he said, “but now I really respect you.”

“I'm sorry, Dick.”

I didn't like Dick — hell, I hated him. I wanted him gone. But to face such a public disgrace on a day of such personal triumph seemed too cruel, too unusual, too Greek. No one should have to endure such a mythic turn of fate — even if it was his own fault. The feeling faded over the course of the day. As I learned the details of what he'd done — not just hiring the prostitute, but letting her listen in on his phone calls with the president — I became more angry at him for putting Clinton and our work at risk. But at Hillary's insistence, I tried not to show it. Fearing that Dick was troubled enough to commit suicide, she had issued strict instructions for all of us to avoid any public comment that might set him off.

When I arrived at Clinton's suite for the speech prep, he was already at the dining-room table, scribbling on the speech drafts spread before him. Concentrating on his speech, the president didn't mention Morris. Maybe it was my imagination, but he seemed relieved, almost lighthearted. On top again, he didn't need Dick now; the win would be his alone. We worked through the day as if Morris had never existed, and I had a hint of what I would feel in our first residence meeting after Dick's departure. It was all so simple. Panetta took Dick's chair and gave a perfunctory, thirty-second “Now that Dick is gone …” speech. That was that. I was there. Dick wasn't. I had won. But
Man,
I thought,
this is one cold-blooded business we're in.

Two months later, two nights before Clinton's final presidential debate, a group of us were in the bar of the Albuquerque Holiday Inn reviewing the day's prep session over burgers and beer. Around midnight, an advance man found me to say the president was on the phone.

“You doin' anything?”

“No.”

“Can you come up for a minute?”

The encounter I'd been dreading. That morning,
The New Yorker
had published David Remnick's profile of me, in which I openly discussed moving on before the start of the second term. I had been candid with Remnick, in part because I wanted to lock myself into leaving. But I thought I had been careful enough to avoid creating spin-off news stories. Apparently not. My plans were all over CNN and the AP wire, and I hadn't yet talked to the president. It had seemed presumptuous, and I was chicken. I wanted to put off this conversation as long as I could. Now Clinton was calling me on it.

When I entered the suite, he was sprawled on the bed in T-shirt and jeans, with the contents of his saddlebag briefcase — folders, briefing books, a couple of paperback mysteries, and a new hardcover by Gary Hart — spilled on the bedspread around him. I walked across the room to lean against the radiator on the far wall. CNN
Headline News
filled the awkward silence.

“So, how's this Remnick article?”

“It's not too bad,” I replied. But searching for more comfortable ground, I quickly changed the subject. “The prep went well today,” I said. “We're ahead of schedule. If you have a solid night Wednesday, the election is over.” This was what I knew how to do with Clinton — relate through work, a candidate and his staff. The talk turned to his next cabinet. I advised him to pick at least one Republican, and we discussed his top three picks for secretary of state: George Mitchell, Madeline Albright, and the ever-elusive Colin Powell. But after a few minutes, Clinton stopped me.

“Now let's talk about you,” he said. “Do you really want to leave? Nobody around here can do what you do.”

I had steeled myself for just this moment. Clinton's personal magnetism had less power over me now. Watching it work on others still gave me a kind of clinical thrill, but I liked to think that I had become more a student of his seductive powers than their subject. He foiled that defense by tapping into my need to feel indispensable and saying exactly the right thing:
“Nobody around here can do what you do.”
Then there was the fact that he was president. Early in our term, though I was still captured by Clinton's charisma, I hadn't had sufficient in-your-bones awe for the presidency itself— perhaps in part because we had beaten an incumbent. Over time, as I developed a more realistic view of Clinton the man, my respect for the office increased. My apprehension that night was that I wouldn't be able to say no to a president.