What It Takes (143 page)

But by that time, alas, the cream was off the milk—skimmed by cruel circumstance, and a bit of heads-up politics.

The circumstance: Judge Ginsburg, Reagan’s post-Bork nominee for the Supreme Court, was discovered to have smoked a bit of dope while at Harvard. By the time Gephardt got to the hall, all the Kops wanted to know was: Had he ever smoked marijuana? (Gephardt answered as he always answered character-queries: he looked them in the eye, and said, “No.” At which point, someone yelled the best—unanswered—question of the night: “Well ... why not?”)

The politics: the Simon campaign convinced the state Party to
cancel the straw poll
... there would be no vote, no clear winner in the papers the next day. So when the Gephardt faithful leapt up at their man’s introduction, when they made the whole place ache with noise, when they conga-danced in the aisles and poked their pole signs heavenward, when they stood on their chairs and bayed their man’s name at the roof, when they stomped on the floor till it seemed the balcony must come down, when they exceeded their time limit for “crowd response” by a factor of three, when, in short, they
took over the goddam J-J
... well, there was no one to notice.

Anyway, no one who could be trusted to notice. E.J. Dionne, in the next day’s
Times
, made no mention of Dick’s demonstration ... though Dick did get his own subhead in the story:

HIT A BRICK WALL

Mr. Gephardt, who has spent more time here than any other Democrat, and has built a substantial following, was seeking to reverse the perception that his campaign, as one prominent Iowa Democrat put it, “has hit a brick wall.”

And E.J. noted, higher in the story:

One candidate who likes the way things are going just fine is Mr. Simon, of Illinois. ... Mr. Simon seems especially strong among precisely the sorts of Democratic activists who attend the caucus.

Simon! ... Gephardt couldn’t understand it. Paul Simon was a nice man—a friend of Dick’s, matter of fact: they had served together in the House, sometimes took the same plane home to their districts (Simon’s home was southern Illinois, closer to St. Louis than Chicago).

Back in ’80, Dick even put Paul’s name up for Chairman of the House Budget Committee ... of course, Simon got slaughtered. Dick could have told him. But Paul said he
had
it. Jesus—just ’cause people told him they were for him! At least Dick could count votes! Paul might have a good idea, a lot of good ideas ... and was sincere, sure, good-hearted, independent ... but that was different from getting things done. Paul was off in left field (playing deep!) ... you’d see a vote: 364 to one ... that one was Simon.

President Simon?

But sure enough, after Dick had shrugged off all the bad press and installed his new kick-ass Iowa squad ... after he’d finally got the Biden monkey off his back ... and schemed and spent to take over the J-J ... after he was ready to make those polls
jump up and say Hi!
... Who got the bump? Whose numbers shot up?

Paul Simon.

There he was—a Senator now, but same guy, exactly—saying the same airy nonsense, in the same honey-graham baritone: “
Weee wanta guvvverment that caaares!
” ... In fact, that’s what he wanted you to see: that he hadn’t changed a lick. He had the same pendulous ears, same folds in his face, same glasses, same stentorian Our-Friend-the-Government promises he had in 1956! ... And the same bow ties.

That was his trademark, see ... and it was beautiful, Dick had to admit: all his supporters with lapel pins in the shape of bow ties ...
instant identification
, like the pictures of cows and chickens they use for the different parties in India. In other words, you didn’t have to know nothin’ ... that’s why Dick admired it so.

“It’s a
visual
, see ...” That’s how Dick explained it, because that’s how his killers explained it to him. He’d ask:

Why is Simon going up?

Why is Dukakis going up?

(While Gephardt’s falling below ten percent—the second tier!)

Carrick and his button men would tell him those other guys were on TV with ads. It gave people a visual to hold on to ... and Dick’s ads were still a month away.

So Dick was trying to think visually—think ahead to his ads. (It’s always the next hope in campaigns—the next thing, surely, will fix all the ills.) He had a legal pad on his knee while his small plane bounced over Iowa. He was sitting between the new members of his road crew: Debra Johns, who did press on the plane, and Ethel Klein, who did ... well, no one knew what Ethel did, but she was smart and she talked to Dick.

Dick drew a box on his pad—big and neat, like Dick always drew—and on the left, he wrote “RAG” ... him. In the middle, he wrote “Duke,” and on the right, “Simon.” Then he wrote words for each. Under “RAG,” he wrote: “Midwestern, Honest, Young, Cleancut ...” Under “Duke”: “Leader, Massachusetts Miracle, Eyebrows ...” And under “Simon”: “Honesty, Caring, Bow Tie, Glasses ...” Then he sat and stared at the page, till he said:

“See, after what happened to Hart, and Biden, and now Dukakis, people are fed up. Simon’s the symbol, antipolitics—the bow tie, the glasses, you add that voice: ‘I-I-I-I ... C-A-A-A-R-E.’ ... It doesn’t matter what Paul Simon says—everywhere he goes, he carries that
visual
in front of him.

“See, people look at Dick Gephardt, they don’t have a connection. ... ‘Young,’ okay, ‘Honest’ ... but then, they think, ‘Protectionist.’ They’re confused. They don’t know. See, what the image has to be is Energetic, Leadership, Doer, Fighter—that’s the visual we need.”

Ethel finally broke in: “Yeah, but that visual is not passive, like the bow tie, or the eyebrows. If you want that image, you’ve got to be energetic, fighting all the time. You can do it—I’ve seen you enough to know you can do it—but you’ve got to BE it.”

(
That’s
why Ethel was on the plane. As Brad Harris, the body man, catered to Dick’s body, so Ms. Klein ministered to the head.)

Dick said: “Right. I understand ...
be
it.”

But he was still trying to think of something like a bow tie. Had to have it! ... That, and he had to hit Simon—hard—at the next debate, the big one December 1, a network show, prime time, NBC! Brokaw! ... Democrats
and
Republicans. Everybody would watch. Dick had to go in and
kill
. ... That’s the other thing Carrick and the fellas had told him.

Here is the official button-man analysis, from Joe Trippi (ex-Mondale, ex-Hart), Gephardt’s message-doctor, heading into the NBC debate:

“It’s simple. ... Dick would never hit Simon. Why go after Paul? Paul is just out there, caring. You hit Paul, you look like a monster. Paul is Bambi, skipping through the woods, eating leaves. No one wants to kill Bambi.

“But then we get out from under the Biden tape—it’s Duke, after all, and he looks like shit ... so Dick figures: ‘Jeez, all
right
! Finally, we’re gonna
do
something!’

“And next time he turns around, here’s Bambi, running by in the woods, eating leaves, and Bambi is getting big!

“Still, you don’t kill Bambi, right? Dick says to Carrick: ‘That’s not gonna last, is it?’

“And Carrick says, ‘No. Can’t last. Don’t worry.’

“And there goes Bambi, munching leaves.

“So we’re into November, and Dick is slipping. The Biden thing left a sour taste. People in Iowa are looking for someone, anyone, without the smell of blood:

“Gephardt, somehow, he was involved, right?

“Duke, he had to
fire
his guys.

“Jackson, he’s black—can’t win.

“Babbitt is a wonk.

“Gore won’t even come to the state.

“Who’s left?

“Ah, Bambi!

“Bambi is getting bigger. Dick says: ‘When’s this gonna stop?’

“Carrick tells him: It’s gotta stop. Don’t worry.’

“Dick says: ‘The guy’s got thirty percent! I got ten, going south.’

“Now, everybody admits: Simon is rolling. He’s gonna win Iowa big.

“So who’s gonna kill him?

“Babbitt? He’s the Son of Bambi. Babbitt is gonna kill no one.

“Jackson is all peace and love. Gotta be. He’s a scary black man.

“Duke doesn’t wanna kill Bambi. Duke thinks: ‘If Bambi wins Iowa and I win New Hampshire, then it’s just me and Bambi. ... I’m it!’

“Gore? He’s not gonna touch him. If Bambi wins Iowa, Duke wins New Hampshire, then these two
martians
have to come south, to Gore. One talks about making better ‘cahs,’ and the other one says: ‘I want to spend a lot of money on poor people.’ Let ’em come!

“Meanwhile, Gephardt, the one guy who might get to white, middle-class people in the South, will be dead meat.

“So, in the NBC debate, Gephardt takes out a .357 Magnum, and blows Bambi’s head off.”

That simple. That’s why the killers were leaning on Dick so hard to go in and
kill
. ... They were sinking so fast, they were panicky. There must have been twenty debates that year, but they were nothing compared to this NBC thing ... that’s what they wanted Dick to know. This was
it
!

That’s why they tried so many lines, wrote them on cards for him to memorize:

“You know, Paul, I’ve heard you promise more aid to education, more grants for higher ed, a guaranteed jobs program, long-term health care for seniors ... so, there’s plenty of beef. What I want to know is—where’s the dough?”

(That’s how they were going to hit Simon, see: Paul had no idea how to pay for Our-Friend-the-Government.)

Then, the staff speechwriter, Paul Begala, wrote out on a briefing sheet: “
Simonomics
is just the flip side of
Reaganomics
.”

Then, in a mock debate, Trippi blurted out: “
Reaganomics with a bow tie!
” ... They all had a giggle about that.

But they should have known: you couldn’t toss four different lines at Gephardt—he was
listening
. The Washington staff used to call him Memorex. (Lately, it was RoboCandidate.)

This time, the practice was harder, because Carrick and the boys brought in hotshot lawyers to play the other candidates. Their instructions: beat the shit out of Dick—make him hit back, make him kill. ... Of course, that, too, sent the message to Dick that this was the
big one
: suddenly, he was looking at $2,000-an-hour worth of Washington smart guys.

But the thing was, he
knew
this was it. For God’s sake, it was
December
... the caucus was nine weeks away ... it was network! All those
millions
o
f people
! And he wanted to do something ...
so badly
—he was pushing himself harder than they were!

So they were running mock debates, beating up Dick, and their smart-guy-Gore said something about Dick’s vote for Reagan’s tax cut. Dick just wheeled on the guy, started yelling:

“Where were you? I led the FIGHT for the Democratic alternative! Where were
YOU
, Al? You were on the BACK BENCHES!”

The button men were silent, staring. Dick had hit back! But it sounded screechy—like the interviews with pro wrestlers. It wasn’t ... Presidential.

So Shrum broke in again. Now he was trying to back Dick off: “Uh, Congressman? I hate to say this, ’cause, you know, I always ... but that seemed, uh, a little harsh. Maybe we could try something like Dukakis does, where you say, ‘You don’t understand ...’or ‘Those are not the facts ...’ ”

Dick cocked his head, said he understood ... but behind his eyes, that just turned the screws tighter. Why were they now telling him
not
to kill? They didn’t think he could do it? They were giving up on him! ... Or they were wrong? They changed their minds? ... They didn’t
know
!

And from that point, Gephardt knew, he was alone. He’d always wanted their help. He’d always been good at asking for help. But this was the big one—and he was out there ... naked. They wanted him to kill, but be himself, but show some balls, but Presidential ... and there were no answers. He was going to have to get it from himself, and he didn’t know anymore where it was ... with all of them working on him, to rev him up, back him down—calm, it had to be calm, they said ... but as he left the room, there was Carrick, pounding his fist into his palm.

Ethel Klein, who always talked like a shrink, called it a “generalized web of anxiety.” And it only tightened on the big night. First, there was Ethel, driving him through D.C. to the Kennedy Center. God knows why they wanted her to bring him. Maybe they thought she’d calm him down. But how could she? She didn’t even know how to get to the place! She was a New Yorker ... she wasn’t the body man, couldn’t answer his questions: Where do we go when we come in? Where do we sit while the Republicans are on? ... She knew what he wanted: some piece of certainty—just logistics!—but she was helpless, her hands white on the wheel.

Then they got to the holding room, and there were Doak and Shrum. That was another signal. Shrum hated debates, never came. He was like a playwright who can’t stand opening night—his beautiful lines get all screwed up, and people hate it ... but Carrick insisted. Shrum was trying to make jokes—that’s what Carrick told him: Lighten it up! But Shrum was a mess, and nobody laughed ... so pretty soon Shrummy didn’t have any jokes. He paced the room, chafing his neck with his Italian scarf, fiddling with the fringe on the end, like a hungry Jew waiting for Yom Kippur to end. “Dick,” he said, “you’re just gonna have to get me through this.”

Doak was calmer—outwardly. He slipped into country-lawyer mode, like he used to when he had a big murder case, as a Public Defender in rural Missouri. Doak always tried to keep it simple—one truth for the jury to hang on to. Tonight, his one message for Dick was: Don’t ask a question if you don’t know the answer. And just to drive that home, fill the air, he told a story—one of his old murder trials. Doak had his client
off
, the case was going
great
, but the cop was on the stand ... and Doak asked a question when he didn’t know the answer: How did the cop know what happened in the house? So the cop went into forensics, how he pieced it together ... how this elderly lady, in her own home, was hit in the head, but then she ran through the house, and the guy hit her again, and she fought, and he hit her again where there was blood on the wall, and again, he bludgeoned her, where they found part of her scalp, and again, and he hit her, and hit her, until ... heh heh ... the jury saw that old lady’s brains and blood all over the walls ... heh heh—that case went down the drain.