What It Takes (142 page)

What was it for? Why did he get into this thing? Because Sasso and Kitty told him he should. Sasso was gone. Kitty, he never saw—not from one end of the week to the other. She was taut with stress and wear. He wasn’t doing any good for her, not like this, not in this—he was ... well, he didn’t like what he had to do, the way this thing crowded and stole from his life ... work a day in the State House, and then, four-thirty, five o’clock, not home—no trolley, no dinner, no Kitty, no—straight to New Hampshire, or to the airport, a jet, a flight to some funder ... a wise guy waiting at the airport, with a car, in which he’d pick at Michael about Presidential Vision, or National Perspective—“Governor, these people don’t wanna
hear
Massachusetts, ya know? ...”

Well, actually, he didn’t know—he didn’t know what they wanted. They talked about vision, message, national outlook ... he’d say:
Give me the lines
. They’d write him long, eager memos, how he had to develop a Presidential voice. He’d say,
Gimme the speech
—
I’ll take a look
. ... That’s all he wanted—to see what they meant—something he could read. What the hell was Media Strategy?
Gimme the scripts. I’ll tell you what I think.

He could tell in a minute if it fit him.

Most of it didn’t.

Most of it
was junk
.

“Nope ... nope. It’s not me,” he’d say. “What else?”

That meant he wanted to see some more lines.

“Guys, c’mon! What’re we doin’ here? I don’t talk like that. That’s not me.”

Bang ... bang ... back in the briefcase: he could knock down a new speech and three ad scripts in a quarter of an hour on his jet. He’d put them away with neat X’s drawn through whole pages. Then he’d take out his State House papers, spread them on the table in front of his seat, and bury himself in something real—the new draft of his health-care bill—lest someone else essay a pep talk, tell him, again, he had to engage.

He shouldn’t have to
tell them
he was engaged
seven days a week
... doing the plan, back and forth across the country, like a yo-yo ... ninety-nine Iowa counties, for God’s sake! He hadn’t had a day off, home with his bride, to walk in Brookline, cook a soup, write a letter to Kara at school ... he hadn’t taken a day off in what—six
weeks
? It was ridiculous! No wonder he was ... well, Michael wasn’t the kinda guy to wear down—no, steady, strong ... or lonely—nope, he wasn’t the kinda guy who even knew what that meant—that wasn’t him, no, no, sadness, no ... that wasn’t ...

“Look, Governor, I’m Mediterranean, so I can say this ...”

This was Mike Del Giudice, a New Yorker, a graduate of Cuomo’s Capitol, a friend of Sasso’s, a big help with Wall Street money, and the latest to take a shot at Mike in a backseat on a ride to another event.

“Governor, whatever we have in our emotions is all over our goddam face ... and you’ve got to get over this thing with John. Because you’re hurting yourself, and you’re hurting the campaign. A lot of people are investing a lot of time, and money, and energy, and everybody’s going down the tubes together ...

“So, if you want this thing, do it. If you don’t want it, get out. It’s as simple as that. You can’t just drag on. John’s behind you.”

Michael didn’t argue, or shake his head.

“It hurts,” he said. “John was, well, I don’t have to tell you ... it hurts like hell.”

The campaign staff did everything to set the engine puffing down the track again—or at least make it look that way.

On the day that Sasso resigned, Susan Estrich and Farmer’s enforcer, a woman named Kristin Demong, arranged to hold back the checks from the night before, September 29, the million-dollar funder. That way they could announce that the Duke’s megamoney wasn’t disturbed by the shame of the tapes—no. Steady as she goes! October was another million-dollar month!

That ingenuous Hill & Barlow lawyer, Dan Taylor, proved his acumen even after his internal snooping was called off. He found a flaw in the federal campaign law that limited spending in Iowa. He discovered that a simple fund-raising tag (two seconds on the end of a TV ad) would allow the campaign to charge the ad to fund-raising expense—not to the Iowa campaign. Through that tiny loophole, the Dukakis campaign now drove a truck.

They went on the air with a bio ad—the kinda guy Michael was. They followed with a beautiful spot wherein a tarnished, dented silver bowl was hammered and buffed back to glowing grace while an announcer ticked off the facts of the Massachusetts economic revival. The minute the ads went up, Michael’s numbers started climbing—he was back in the hunt—and with the loophole, which only Dukakis had the money to use, he could have put on a lot more ads.

Problem was, he didn’t like any ads. He must have x’d-out twenty-five scripts. ... Meanwhile, the Iowa troops complained bitterly about the new ads—it was a shame to have those ads on the air—they didn’t say anything! ... It was Michael, of course, who didn’t want to say anything.

Well, that wasn’t strictly true. It was just ... whatever they gave him didn’t seem to be the kinda thing he ought to say. It was all so ... political, sour, so negative! Michael was still trying to prove what a
positive
guy he was. He didn’t want to talk about problems. He didn’t want to talk about Reagan and Bush. He surely would not say one word about the other Democrats!

What did that leave?

Good-jobs-at-good-wages ... the thinnest gruel.

Estrich was aware of this problem—issues, message, communication ... these were her specialties. Plus, she was smart as hell. Even Dukakis once remarked she was the kinda gal who probably got better grades in law school than he did! ... Of course, that was on the way to saying, she didn’t know practical politics like he did. Nope ... he’d just have to show her—she’d just have to learn ...
he knew what he was doing
!

So he showed her, in a thousand ways ... he hadn’t brought her in there to tell him how campaigns were run.

“I’ve been doing this for twenty-five years!”

Actually, he seldom brought her into his presence—or into his thoughts—in any way. When he came back to Boston, he’d head for the State House—state business! ... He didn’t want to be interrupted with calls from the campaign, speeches to read, strategy, message ... no! “We said three days, my friend.”

Thursdays, he’d host a handful of campaign staff (which he was careful to balance with a half-dozen government types) to go through his schedule. He’d sit them down at his State House conference table—that’s where he was at his worst. His every action at the head of that table was intended to show them he was—still, in
real life
—the Governor of the Commonwealth. He’d snap down the agenda, dismissing any discussion—they were taking time from things that mattered. Then, too, the campaign ops, and all political concerns, had to wait while he took any call that came in about state roads, the pension bill, a sludge program, the Governor’s Anti-Crime Council. ... There were people from the campaign who wouldn’t even go to the State House. “Why should I?” said the pollster, Tubby Harrison. “I’m just a prop.”

And Estrich, who would stay on, after that meeting, for her private sit-down with the Governor—a half-hour, her only scheduled session with Dukakis, week to week—found herself an unwilling prop in a private drama: his determination to prove he could do without John Sasso, his demonstration of his own correctness, all the more splendid in its, in his, isolation.

She’d bring up some way to broaden the message—a good idea! Dukakis was the only man among the front-runners who could stand outside the Washington miasma ... he could make that distance an advantage—people mistrusted the old federal runaround. What they wanted, what he could show, was
know-how
! Basic American know-how, like they’d shown in Massachusetts! ... It was
perfect
—hands-on government that worked, but with a theme, a set of words, that dovetailed with voters’ preconceptions. She’d have the thing—a
communications strategy
—all set out in memo-prose by her Director of Communications, Leslie Dach.

“I’ll take a look,” Dukakis would say. “What else? Anything else?”

And that would be the last she’d hear. Dukakis hated Dach, and everything Dach touched. What was this—try’na make him
bash Washington
? “That’s not the kinda thinking we want in this campaign.”

This made Estrich very nervous—and more determined to show Dukakis he could repose some trust in her. She had worked in politics plenty long enough to handle this job. By age thirty-five, she had habited the top echelons of three Presidential campaigns—which was precisely two more than Dukakis had seen.

She had known for months: this campaign was never going to get anywhere if it didn’t find something to say. She could confirm now what she’d always suspected: that communication of some vision was the weakest of Sasso’s skills; he did
anything else
first. “This campaign’s got everything ...” she announced at one of her first meetings, “... except a fucking message!” She’d chide the surviving wise guys (they were all guys): “I don’t understand how you ran this thing for six months without a fucking thing to say!”

Of course, they knew she was right. But what she didn’t get—yet—was what it took to move Dukakis ... the way Sasso kept him swaddled in reports of progress, good news, feedback from the field ... the constant weaving of the web of confidence that would keep Dukakis out of his hunch, let him move at his trudge-of-the-wing-tips pace toward some new idea that would, in time, come to seem like his own.

That wasn’t Susan’s style. She wanted Michael to
face his problem
. She took it as a challenge—a personal commitment. The easiest, the cheapest, way would be to let Michael trudge on—to confine her mission to making sure there was someone to meet him at the airport, money in the bank, field staff in the districts—she could have done it well, and saved herself a lot of woe. But she owed him better than that.

So, she pushed harder—and she could push! She could also smoke up a black cloud, swear like a tugboat captain, talk loud and insistently, make her points with vicious humor—all in service of her fierce determination, and all ... alas, like nails on the blackboard to Dukakis, who didn’t like nerves, or pressure from his staff. No. “Calm, steady—that’s us.”

Well, in fact, that wasn’t us ... not at that point. That’s part of what was eating Dukakis. He just wanted to know what he had to do next week, and the week after that, next month, next quarter, first month of next year! Like Sasso used to do in his quarterly memo ... he just wanted to see the plan!

Well, Estrich got that. She set Corrigan to producing a plan—a full battle map, with a strategy for the delegate hunt, a timetable, a budget. ... But, of course, the start of the plan was to put on a move in Iowa. Get tough! Go after the thing! Knock the other bastards out of the box, in a hurry ... and then, start work on the general election.

Michael wouldn’t hear of that. This was a marathon. He’d told them that! No one, for
twenty-five years
, had got very far by pushing him—telling him he had to win this, or do that, or he’d be lost! No. Steady, strong ... we’re going to win because we’re raising more money ... we’re employing more staff ... we’re organizing, one vote at a time. He didn’t need these kids to tell him how to build a campaign, for God’s sake?!

At last—more in desperation than eagerness to share Michael’s spare attentions—Susan asked Dukakis: Who did he
like
to listen to? ... Who did he
want
to help with the message?

Dukakis mentioned Tom Kiley, a noted Boston guru, a pollster, partner to John Marttila. He came from a world that Dukakis knew. And Dukakis knew that Sasso—before he left—was trying to get Kiley into the campaign. (In fact, Kiley turned down the Campaign Manager’s job before Michael and Brountas settled on Estrich.)

So Susan went to work on Kiley. She did her job. She called him, invited him, inveigled him, cajoled him ... Kiley was reluctant. But she landed him—brought him on as the
new message guru
.

Great doings!

Kiley came to a couple of meetings, sat with Dukakis, rode along while Michael worked, then retired to his office, and wrote ... The Memo. Kiley was clear and calm—and smart: he knew Dukakis’s history, he had ideas about the field, the voters, the mood of the nation. ... All of this, he poured into The Memo.

It was a call for National Purpose, a renewal of Real Leadership ... a plan for Michael to establish—by his issues, his speeches, his ads, his every action—
his own voice.
A Presidential Voice! He had to stop running for National Governor ... and engage!

Kiley gave The Memo to Susan, who gave it to Michael. They scheduled a talk. They came to the State House—Kiley and Estrich—sat down with Michael. ... Had he read it? Well? What did he think?

“Okay,” said Michael, “try to be more Presidential. What else?”

T
HING ABOUT IOWA
—no one could call it. The old rules seemed not to apply. The Gephardt campaign poured everything it had into the J-J, the Jefferson-Jackson Day Dinner. For Democrats, that was always the focus of the fall. Jimmy Carter won the straw poll at the J-J in ’75, and that put him
on the map
: he showed he could organize the state, he had the troops—after that, there was no stopping the man.

And after that, of course, no Democrat would ever again ignore the J-J. Mid-November, every fourth year, they’d pack the hall, they’d hire on buses, they’d scheme and bribe for extra tickets, they’d dress their people like
Let’s Make a Deal
—whatever it took to “win” the J-J. ... And that year, the Gephardts went berserk. This was gonna show, the new team in Iowa could kick ass! This was gonna put the lie to their declining polls. This was gonna get them back in the network roundups, make the big-feet
take notice
.

They were running out of dollars all over the country, and they poured
thousands
into extra tickets—they bought the floor. Joyce Aboussie rounded up a herd of St. Louisans and flew with them to Des Moines aboard a chartered jet. (That was the mildest of Joyce’s endeavors—what she wanted was a team of Budweiser Clydesdales to circle the hall, parading Dick’s name.) Carrick brought back Barry Wyatt, the Advance whiz who’d yanked Dick’s announcement into line, to move Dick in and out of the hall and whip the floor demonstration to a proper frenzy. There was a SWAT team of kids to decorate—they sprinted into the hall when the doors opened, climbed into the rafters, stood on each other’s backs to get their signs well up on the walls. (Dick would note no dearth of signs here—there were Gephardt stickers in the bathrooms!) Of course, they had Shrummy on the speech—first team—and Doak actually
came
! That’s how big it was. Doak was strolling the floor, next to
Carrick
... walking together, talking and laughing—proud owners at Grand Opening—smoking big cigars.