Blood Feud: The Clintons vs. the Obamas (32 page)

As the 2014 midterm elections neared, most of the political smoke signals were positive for Hillary. One of her most likely Republican opponents, New Jersey governor Chris Christie, had become embroiled in a possibly fatal political scandal, and no other viable Republican candidate had yet to emerge. In addition, the electoral math and a recent string of Democratic victories in Virginia and New York City all boded well for Hillary.

It still remained to be seen whether Hillary—despite her poll numbers and fund-raising prowess—would win her party’s nomination. Or whether, once nominated, she could overcome the
jinx that made it very difficult for one party to hold on to the White House for three consecutive terms. And then, of course, there were the nagging questions about Hillary’s age, her health, and, yes, her overfamiliarity.

“As Democrats,” said Iowa activist Nate Boulton, “we’re not a party of supporting the person who ran the last time this time. It’s always about what’s next.”

Nonetheless, in his blood feud with Barack Obama, Bill Clinton had won. He had positioned Hillary for victory. Now it was up to her to grasp it.

EPILOGUE

A
pair of black, armor-plated SUVs swung into a suburban cul-de-sac and crunched to a stop in the driveway of the Clintons’ home in Chappaqua, New York. A wall of burly Secret Service agents jumped out and surrounded the man who emerged from the lead vehicle. It was mid-summer 2013, and Bill Clinton looked shrunken and weary. He was returning from a routine visit with his doctors at New York–Presbyterian Hospital, where he had received some grave news.

His cardiologist, Dr. Allan Schwartz, had given the former president a thorough checkup. Afterward, they sat down in the doctor’s office for a man-to-man talk. The tests showed that there had been a further deterioration in the function of Bill’s heart, Schwartz said. In itself, that wasn’t unusual, the doctor explained, since Bill’s heart disease was “progressive,” meaning that it would
get worse over time. The choice of the word “progressive”—with its political overtone—brought an ironic smile to the former president’s face. He and Schwartz chatted some more, and before Bill left, the doctor made the former president promise to cut back on his schedule and get more rest.

Once home, Bill went upstairs to his bedroom and lay down on a daybed. He was exhausted. He used to be a man of many hobbies: he collected old cars and 1950s rock memorabilia, and he loved to watch sports, especially college basketball. These were his lifelong distractions; they helped him unwind during his downtime. But now he was uninterested in anything but the 2016 presidential election. It was all he cared about. He was obsessed with it. That and his health.

The news that his heart was failing—and that he could go any time—did not come altogether as a surprise. He knew his heart was failing him; it was giving out. But he was determined not to give up. He was going to put off the inevitable as long as possible.

“Everybody thinks I’m about to die,” he told a friend. “They’re already trying to bury me. But I’m going to stick around and surprise everyone. I’m not going anywhere until we get back in the White House.”

Bill Clinton didn’t see how he could cut back on his schedule, as Dr. Schwartz had urged him to do. The former president did a lot of his traveling in a $65 million Gulfstream G650, a twin-engine jet that seated eight, had a range of seven thousand miles, and flew very close to Mach 1. When you logged the kind of miles that Bill did, the Gulfstream G650 came in handy and was a comfortable way to travel. But it was also true that Bill’s backbreaking schedule
of travel, meetings, and speeches all over the world had taken its toll, and sometimes the strain became painfully evident.

“Not long after one Christmas,” a friend recalled in an interview for this book, “I visited him at his Harlem office. He looked awful—pale and pasty. I knew there was something terribly wrong. But he waved it off. Then he started sweating profusely. I said, ‘Bill, you need help. I’m calling 911.’ He nodded, and I called and ran out, summoning his people. An ambulance took him to the hospital. It was a scare, some kind of cardiac event. And it was yet another wakeup for him.

“I know he’s consulted the best cardiologists in the world,” this friend continued. “The guy has a very strong desire to live and get back in power. It’s a little frightening. Most of us who have had a level of power and influence are willing to sit back and deliberately turn in a different direction, enjoy family, support the arts, and so on. Bill has no interest in anything other than burnishing his legacy and getting back in power. It bothers him to be on the sidelines. When he talks about it, he grinds his teeth. He had to have dental work for his tooth grinding.”

Bill Clinton’s nap was interrupted when he heard his wife’s high-pitched laugh and other female voices in the house.

He went downstairs, where Hillary and two of her girlfriends were talking in the foyer. He placed a hand, which trembled slightly, on his wife’s shoulder, nuzzled her hair, and whispered something that made her laugh and blush slightly.

“How did the doctor’s visit go?” Hillary asked.

“They haven’t stamped me with an expiration date yet,” Bill replied.

An unspoken question hung in the air between them: What if Bill’s heart didn’t hold out and he should become incapacitated or die?

In the opinion of a number of Hillary’s friends to whom the author spoke, Bill’s disappearance from the scene might mark the end of Hillary’s political ambitions. As they saw it, Hillary would be so staggered by the loss of her husband and political helpmate that she might well retire from politics.

“Bill is the driver behind Hillary’s quest,” said one of these friends. “If he becomes critically ill, I think she might back off. Perhaps the only person who could help Hillary regain her equilibrium in Bill’s absence is Chelsea, who’s become her most powerful adviser and cheerleader after Bill.”

Indeed, Chelsea Clinton had already taken over many of Bill’s responsibilities at the Clinton Foundation, which helped free her father to concentrate on setting up Hillary’s campaign for 2016. According to those who knew her, Chelsea wanted to return to the White House as much as her parents did. She was convinced that the historical moment had arrived for her mother to become the first woman president. Back in 2008, Chelsea had believed her mother
owned
the right to the job, and she believed in that ownership even more now. She wanted her mother to fight on, irrespective of her father’s health.

“If Bill should falter,” said a knowledgeable Clintonista, “I’m absolutely convinced that Chelsea would take her mother aside and tell her, ‘Dad wants us to fight on, to keep the dream alive.’”

Later that day in Chappaqua, Bill, Hillary, and her two friends gathered in the converted red barn that served as Bill’s home office. The women drank Chardonnay; Bill favored a Pinot Noir. It wasn’t long before Bill brought the conversation around to politics.

“We started too damn late last time,” he said, referring to the 2008 campaign. “That’s why I’ve been working on this thing for the past five years, since that one ended. We’re on course to raise the money, well over a billion dollars, and we’re getting our people in place everywhere.”

He said that he was writing what he called “playbooks”—thick notebooks outlining positions for Hillary to take on the major issues of the day—everything from immigration reform to gun control and education. He had also been ordering up opposition research on Hillary’s likely Republican opponents. He felt strongly that Hillary was going to have to distance herself from Barack Obama and his amateurish handling of domestic and foreign policy.

“We’ve got to list all the situations that Obama’s screwed up. Benghazi, the IRS, healthcare, you name it. We’ve got to explain,” he said, looking over at Hillary, “how you would do everything different and better. It has to be made crystal clear that you understand Obama’s mistakes and would never have made them yourself.

“You’ve got to hit hard at the Obama record,” he continued, getting up from his chair and circling the barn while he spoke. “You’ve got to be very specific. Your administration would be a third Clinton term, not a third Obama term. We have to be very
harsh, because the voters are turning on him like a bad dog, and we have to do the same.”

Hillary laughed her trademark nervous cackle. Then she, too, got up and started walking around the barn. They paced and talked, sometimes talking over each other.

“The minute we do what you say and attack Obama, we’ve severed all ties with him,” Hillary said. “It’ll make Obama furious, and he’ll throw his support to Biden or God knows who. He would never forgive me.”

“Who cares!” Bill said. “In a few months, he’ll have no more goddamn political capital left. I don’t give a shit who he supports. We’re going to steamroll over the son of a bitch and whoever he supports. Your campaign is going to be a blitz like nobody’s ever seen. I’ve learned my lesson about how it needs to be done. It’s not enough to knock your opponent down. You have to crush him.”

The conversation continued in that vein for some time, and then, quite unexpectedly, Bill changed the subject and began talking about his health.

“I’m worried how my health will affect your campaign,” he said. “I have to do all I can to prepare the campaign playbooks, but I also have to accept the fact that if I fall by the wayside, you have to continue without me and make a positive thing out of it.”

“A
positive
thing?” Hillary said. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Obviously, you have to have a big state funeral for me, with as much pomp and circumstance as possible,” he said. “I’m thinking maybe I should be buried at Arlington [National Cemetery] rather than at my library in Little Rock. After all, I was commander in chief for eight years and have every right to be buried at Arlington.”

“Bill!” Hillary said, trying to interrupt his train of thought.

“I’m going to plan this thing out in detail,” he said.

“I don’t want to hear this!” Hillary said.

“Wear your widow’s weeds, so people will feel sympathy for you. Wear black for a decent mourning period and make my death an asset. The images on television of the funeral and the grieving widow in black will be priceless. When I’m gone, people will think only of my good points and forgive, if not forget, the bad. I’ll be remembered in a positive light more in death than I was in life. That always happens. Everybody knows that. So you’ll have to take maximum advantage of my death.”

“Bill. . . .” Hillary said.

“It should be worth a couple of million votes,” he said.