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Authors: George Stephanopoulos
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campaign. The only strategy that would work in 1992 was tough love. Clinton had to treat Jackson with the respect Jackson had earned and craved, but he couldn't kowtow to him or enter a no-win public negotiation for his endorsement that would only add to Jackson's power and cost us some white votes. Clinton's leverage was increased by his independent relationship with a new generation of black leaders, such as Congressmen Bill Jefferson, John Lewis, Mike Espy, and Bobby Rush.
Clinton struck the right balance that night. Over baked chicken and sweet potato pie, he talked policy and politics: statehood, civil rights, justice, and jobs — both in the country and within the campaign. Jackson didn't say much at first, just took it all in. Then he weighed in with expectations expressed as opinions. I was impressed not so much by what they were saying as by how they said it, circling each other with their words, half showing off, half holding back. This was not the time for promises or threats, although both were palpably in the room, like a pair of bodyguards at the door.
So this is it. This is how the big guys talk to each other
. I'd been behind my share of closed doors on Capitol Hill, but this was different — more self-conscious, almost cinematic, as if everyone was aware of playing a part in a drama that was being written as they spoke. This was the classic smoke-filled room, minus the smoke. I watched and listened and tried to look cool, too dumbstruck to say a sensible word and half convinced that somebody would look up any minute and say, “Hey, what are
you
doing here?”
Clinton and Jackson could have talked all night, but we had to leave for the last meeting of the day — a late-night rendezvous with James Carville and Paul Begala at the Grand Hotel on M Street.
Theodore H. White's
The Making of the President, 1960
described the major political advisers of the day as a few dozen Washington lawyers, “who in their dark-paneled chambers nurse an amateur's love for politics and dabble in it whenever their practice permits.” By 1991, that description had the dated feel of a sepia-toned photograph, harking back to an era when political consultants, like tennis players in long pants, were not paid for their work. There were still amateurs who loved the game in 1991, but campaigns were now run by professionals.
The professionals with the hot hands that fall were Carville and Begala. Earlier that month they had guided former JFK aide Harris Wofford to an upset landslide victory in his Pennsylvania Senate race against Bush attorney general Richard Thornburgh. Every Democrat in the country hoped the race was a harbinger for 1992, and most of the candidates wanted to hire the men who had helped make it happen.
Paul Begala and I were friends from our days together on Gephardt's staff. I spent most of my day on the House floor, but whenever I got back to the office, there he was, at the desk across from me, having more fun in front of a word processor than I thought was humanly possible. Watching him write a speech was like watching Ray Charles play the piano. He would rock back and forth and talk to the screen, groaning one minute, laughing the next. The speeches he produced had perfect populist pitch: pithy, funny, aimed straight at the lazy Susans of middle-class kitchen tables. With his lizardlike looks and colorful patois, Carville was the better-known partner, but James wouldn't have been James without Paul.
James had his own gift — a sixth sense about politics, a down-home genius that can't be taught. He was the first person I heard say that President Bush could be beat. It was in May 1991, at Paul's thirtieth birthday party. We met by the bar, where James was pouring himself a bourbon. He filled my glass too, while assuring me that Bush was going to lose if we had the right candidate. I remembered the prediction because I wanted it to be right but was sure it was wrong.
We went to the bar, where Clinton
Clinton struck the right balance that night. Over baked chicken and sweet potato pie, he talked policy and politics: statehood, civil rights, justice, and jobs — both in the country and within the campaign. Jackson didn't say much at first, just took it all in. Then he weighed in with expectations expressed as opinions. I was impressed not so much by what they were saying as by how they said it, circling each other with their words, half showing off, half holding back. This was not the time for promises or threats, although both were palpably in the room, like a pair of bodyguards at the door.
So this is it. This is how the big guys talk to each other
. I'd been behind my share of closed doors on Capitol Hill, but this was different — more self-conscious, almost cinematic, as if everyone was aware of playing a part in a drama that was being written as they spoke. This was the classic smoke-filled room, minus the smoke. I watched and listened and tried to look cool, too dumbstruck to say a sensible word and half convinced that somebody would look up any minute and say, “Hey, what are
you
doing here?”
Clinton and Jackson could have talked all night, but we had to leave for the last meeting of the day — a late-night rendezvous with James Carville and Paul Begala at the Grand Hotel on M Street.
Theodore H. White's
The Making of the President, 1960
described the major political advisers of the day as a few dozen Washington lawyers, “who in their dark-paneled chambers nurse an amateur's love for politics and dabble in it whenever their practice permits.” By 1991, that description had the dated feel of a sepia-toned photograph, harking back to an era when political consultants, like tennis players in long pants, were not paid for their work. There were still amateurs who loved the game in 1991, but campaigns were now run by professionals.
The professionals with the hot hands that fall were Carville and Begala. Earlier that month they had guided former JFK aide Harris Wofford to an upset landslide victory in his Pennsylvania Senate race against Bush attorney general Richard Thornburgh. Every Democrat in the country hoped the race was a harbinger for 1992, and most of the candidates wanted to hire the men who had helped make it happen.
Paul Begala and I were friends from our days together on Gephardt's staff. I spent most of my day on the House floor, but whenever I got back to the office, there he was, at the desk across from me, having more fun in front of a word processor than I thought was humanly possible. Watching him write a speech was like watching Ray Charles play the piano. He would rock back and forth and talk to the screen, groaning one minute, laughing the next. The speeches he produced had perfect populist pitch: pithy, funny, aimed straight at the lazy Susans of middle-class kitchen tables. With his lizardlike looks and colorful patois, Carville was the better-known partner, but James wouldn't have been James without Paul.
James had his own gift — a sixth sense about politics, a down-home genius that can't be taught. He was the first person I heard say that President Bush could be beat. It was in May 1991, at Paul's thirtieth birthday party. We met by the bar, where James was pouring himself a bourbon. He filled my glass too, while assuring me that Bush was going to lose if we had the right candidate. I remembered the prediction because I wanted it to be right but was sure it was wrong.
We went to the bar, where Clinton
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