What It Takes (134 page)

“John, you cannot imagine what it’d be like.”

“I don’t care.”

“I don’t mean just for me. I mean, for your mother ... for you, and Andrea.”

“We can take it. The family’s strong.”

They were strong, Gary thought. And he would not sacrifice that. He wasn’t confused about the arguments that Casey made—she was right, of course. Billy was right. If Hart raised his head out of the ditch, there’d be a thousand people trying to kick it. They’d hit him with everything they could grab.

He knew that. But how much would he pay for the respect of his son?

That’s why he asked John to meet him in Ireland. Hart had business in Europe that August—John could meet him for a week, before returning to school. They both loved Ireland. Gary would get the time with his son. John would have the chance to make his case.

That’s when it happened, when Gary and John were in Ireland: Bill Dixon, the former Campaign Manager, told
The Washington Post
that Gary would reenter the race within a few weeks, to run a low-budget guerrilla campaign ... because supporters and family were urging him back. “His wife and children want him in.”

Then all hell broke loose. Everybody had to get Hart, but Hart was in Ireland—where, precisely, no one would say. Irish Radio finally tracked him down, but Hart went cute—wouldn’t confirm or deny. “I’m not going to get into a debate here in Ireland.” (In fact, the resumption of the hunt caught Hart flat-footed; he wasn’t even sure what Dixon had said.)

There were hundreds of press calls to the white boys, who were back in D.C. now, or in their home states, in new jobs, new lives. ... If some Hart people tried to knock down the story, all they could say was, they’d heard nothing. Then, they were presumed to be
out of the loop
. Dixon must have the inside track! He hadda be talking to Hart, right?

Lee Hart was besieged anew, and she was furious ... at Gary! He had to be talking to Dixon, right? Bill wouldn’t just
say
such a thing—how
she
wanted Gary back in the race? ... She and Gary hadn’t even talked about it! But she couldn’t say that ... what was she supposed to say?

It was a national fever.

The papers were already moving on to the tactics of reentry. Dixon said Hart would have to apologize, of course, for the conduct that drove him out of the race ... he’d use the free debates to make up for his lack of ads ... and put together a bare-bones national staff—three people instead of three hundred ... he’d pick his states, to maximize his impact, and ...

Whadda story! The sonofabitch was gonna rise from the dead!
... Now the papers were digging out that Gallup Poll, where they left Hart’s name in the mix: the guy was
still
ahead of Jackson, two-to-one, and everybody else at least
four-to-one
.

Did he think he could turn those numbers into votes? ...

Did he think they’d let him get away with that? ...

Did he think all the stories went away in four months? ...

What got into the guy? Why would he do this to himself? ...

Why? Why? ... Why?

On the first day, the
Post
offered a piece of speculation that was just chewy enough for perfect political cud: Hart was still in debt—$1.4 million, from his ’84 campaign. If he got back in, his ’88 contributions would qualify for matching funds from the federal treasury: that would be a million dollars, right there.

Aha! ... The official and well-known secret reason!

After that, it did not matter that Billy Shore got hold of Hart and retailed, at last, a Hart denial. (In fact. Shore offered a Hart
quote
: “Oh, no, no, no.”)

It did not matter that Hart could not (without a legal fight) apply any ’88 funds to clear off his ’84 debt.

It certainly did not matter that Hart was
apparently
not running for anything; was running away, in fact, from the fond attentions of the press in the green and voteless countryside of the Republic of Ireland.

Nobody believed
that
pose!

Hart was gonna have to come back and
say something
. Hart was gonna have to
answer questions
—answer
to them
. It was just a matter of when, a matter of how. ...
Nightline
was calling—how ’bout it?

Hart did
Nightline
on September 8—but not without a struggle. He insisted, for one thing, that ABC break its format and put him in the studio with Ted Koppel. He had to be face-to-face, on equal footing with the host. He had to avoid that frog-on-a-lab-table look that guests get when they cannot see Koppel but only the needle of a camera lens poked at their brains.

The show went on for more than an hour, but as Koppel conceded in his opening tease, there were only two questions everyone wanted to ask: Was Gary Hart running for President? ... And if so (or even if not—what the hell!) ... did he have an affair with Donna Rice?

Koppel asked the second question twenty minutes into the show. Hart nodded, squared himself on his seat, and fiddled with the ring finger of his right hand.

“Mr. Koppel,” Hart said (even now he could not presume to “Ted”), “I was asked a question last spring, which I refused to answer—and your clips showed that. The articles to which you’ve referred have commented not only on Miss Rice, but, I must say, an outrageous number of people with whom I have been linked—a large number of whom I have never met, let alone been involved with. It has also been suggested that I don’t tell the truth because I would not reveal all about my personal life. And I’ve tried to figure out the best way to answer these questions—not only for my sake but for other elected officials’ sake, in the future, other candidates for national office. And so, it seems to me, I have no choice but to answer the question that was asked me last spring, and I will do that. If the question is, in the twenty-nine years of my marriage, including two public separations, have I been absolutely and totally faithful to my wife, I regret to say, the answer is no. But I also am never going to answer any specific questions about any individual. ... It isn’t anyone else’s business.”

At last. Hart’s line was drawn. And despite a half-hour of intelligent follow-up (Tom Shales, the TV critic, remarked that Koppel looked like a
splendid
candidate), Hart held to that line.

He dodged the question about the
Post
’s “other woman.” (It wasn’t just the
Post
’s threat that drove him from the race. It was the fact that any—
every
—other paper would now hound him with other women.)

Hart explained (sort of) the
National Enquirer
photo of him holding Donna Rice on his lap. (“... this attractive lady, whom I had only recently been introduced to, uh ... dropped into my lap, I was embarrassed, I chose not to, ah ... dump her off, and the picture was taken. I shouldn’t have been in that situation.”)

He even responded with patience to the theory (propounded by the Chief Majorette) that Gary Hart didn’t really want to be President. His unstable chemistry made him
act out
in a tacit plea to the Karacter Kops:
Stop me, oh, stop me PLEASE ... before I win.

No, Hart said. He wanted to be President.

So, how ’bout it, Koppel asked, at last: Are you back in the race?

“Mr. Koppel, I am not a candidate for President, and I’m not making any plans to become one. ... I am frankly in a kind of a perplexing situation. We have been talking about sin here, this evening, I guess—that’s what it gets down to, not crime, sin ...”

“And bad judgment,” Koppel offered.

“And bad judgment. Uh ... but the Bible that says that being unfaithful is a sin also says we’re all sinners, and that only those who are without sin can cast the first stone. And it says, further, that one of the greatest sins is to waste God-given talent. I’ve been given some talents, and what I’ve realized in the last three months is that I can’t waste those talents. And I’ve got to figure out a way to contribute. ...

“I’m not going to create a campaign organization. I’m not going to raise money. I’m not going to hire a pollster or a media expert. But I am going to give speeches, and I am going to try to have an impact.”

It was perplexing, indeed.

Hart didn’t reveal any definite scenario for his future, save that he would not go back to hiding in Troublesome Gulch. ... He did reveal the reason, obliquely. He asked Koppel for a clean shot at the last thirty seconds of the broadcast.

“Mr. Koppel,” he said, full face to the camera, “I appreciate the chance to be on this program. I just want to say ... to one very special young woman, and young man—how sorry I am for letting them down ... for many others like them.

“Have courage.

“We are not defeated. And we will not be.

“
I will find some way
—
I promise you
—
to continue on
.”

Of course, it was instantly well known to those in-the-know: Hart was talking to his own kids. On national TV.

C’monn ... talk about weird!

The big-feet lost interest in Hart’s new speaking tour, after the first speech. The news was that Hart had crawled out of his hole. After that, it was a yawn. They never did write much about what he said—New Ideas, and such. The problem was, you couldn’t count on members of the public to ask the right questions, to make him squirm about Donna Rice—they didn’t even try!

Even Hart was surprised by the questions. Maybe people at the campuses, the community halls, were just too nice to ask whom he’d slept with. Or maybe he’d been right
from the start
—they didn’t care! They asked about the candidates who were running. They asked about Gorbachev, arms control, Iran-contra ... they asked about the deficit, taxes, education.

The halls were packed, most of the time. Sometimes, they had to move Hart’s speech to a larger room, or the gym. There were a couple of stops where
nobody
showed—Gary was crestfallen, of course. But he found out (would not rest
until
he found out) that the posters never got printed, or the organizers never put them up ... there was always a reason.

Billy Shore would travel with him, and in most cities, there was some old supporter who’d pick them up at the airport, who’d put together a bunch of people to attend the speech. These weren’t organized like campaign events, but someone was always calling Billy—anything they could do?

Well, maybe check the podium.

Then, two days later, they’d call back: “Can we do a reception? Will he stay for a dinner?”

The point was, it felt like a campaign ... but better—none of the pressure. There were reporters at the speeches—but local reporters, who’d write about the warm reception he got. People waited a half-hour sometimes, just to shake Hart’s hand, or tell him he never should have quit. Hart didn’t have to watch what he said, or temper his positions. If he wanted to blast away at the teachers’ unions ... well, give ’em hell! And the crowds—he played to those crowds like he never would as a candidate. They gave him back a warmth that was ... it was like life again.

Invariably, he’d get back to Denver with some eyebrow-raising fact-on-the-ground:

“They say we can do it in Ohio.”

“They say we could put it together in upstate New York.”

“They say it’s still there in North Carolina.”

“Gary ...” the attending physicians would warn. “They’ll beat your brains out. They’ll burn you alive! Blow torches!”

“I’ve got asbestos feet now ...” And he had a theory. (With Hart, there was always a theory.) If the press turned up the heat too high, reaction would kick in—the backlash would fuel his campaign.

“Gary, you can’t be serious ...”

More and more, as October waned, Hart would say: “Why not?”

He was the one who was out there, with the people—they were begging him: just say the word!

He had the scene in his mind, like a piece of a novel—it would be sensational. He had a speech scheduled at Boston University ... he’d do it there.

Boston was a great town for him. A few weeks before—Boston College, a speech about Bork—Hart drew a mob at the basketball arena, a line around the block ... must have been four thousand people (though the
Globe
nincompoops called it “over a thousand”) ... and that was charging five bucks to get in ... up against a
hockey game
! ... Boston was spectacular.

Anyway, for BU, he wasn’t going to tell anyone. Except John. He called John in Worcester and read him the statement—Why Hart Must Speak Out. Actually, he’d written it while he and John were in Ireland together. John was so excited ... his dad was coming out to fight! He had prevailed!

Gary would read the statement at the end of his speech ... to the hushed hall ... which would break into
cheers
. It really couldn’t be better. The BU student activities group had a rule, no press—which meant they’d be fighting to get in. (The BU group was going to refund the tickets if the press came in.)

The place would be full—Hart knew exactly how he’d construct the speech, idea by idea, the need for reform, the need to speak out, the
emptiness
of the current campaign ... which was
why
... it was so
simple
, so
apparent
to him ... he would reveal:

The next day, they were going—Gary and John, together—to New Hampshire, to the statehouse in Concord. Gary would deliver a check for a thousand dollars ... and file for the primary. Gary Hart would be
back in the race
!

Let the people decide!

It would be
simply explosive
.

When Gary got to Boston, to the hotel, there was John ... in a
suit
. John was so excited, he went out and
bought a suit
. ... Gary said to Billy Shore:

“Give me ten minutes. I’ve got to go to the room.” He had to take John upstairs—to tell him.

“John ... I can’t do it.”

Hart saw his son’s face fall. “John, I’ve told you, this is going to be hard. Everybody’s got to be together, in the family ...”

Gary could see he wasn’t getting through. But he didn’t want to say more. He couldn’t say ...