What It Takes (154 page)

There was a question about how voters might regard this pissing match between Bush and Dole.

“We didn’t start it! We want to talk about the issues and leadership. Others don’t want us to talk about that. I’m not going to stop talking about that—I’m a strong leader, that I’ve got more done, that I’ve got a
record
—if I stop all that because someone doesn’t like it, then I don’t have a campaign. And I think it’s working! When you say, ‘Vote for Bob Dole, because he’s One of Us,’ that hits a tender spot—I can’t help it. I am what I am. And I was what I was when I was growing up. And a lot of people out there identify with that.”

Dole walked out into the sunshine. He’d stated his case.

Of course, on the news that night, there was no sunshine—and none of Dole’s pancake-house speech—just a dark hallway, a scowling hatchet man, bragging about his half-million to charity:

“I’d like to see the
Bushes
match that!”

It went on for days, everywhere Dole stopped: less than a month now until the voting began, and the only questions Dole heard were about his money.

The Bush campaign was challenging Dole to release
five years
of his tax returns. So the pack asked Dole: Would he release five years of tax returns? The Bushies were distributing hot poop from
The Hutchinson News
. Reporters asked Dole about the poop from the
News
.

Sometimes, Dole’s answers were plaintive (“You know, we’re running for
President of the United States
—and someone’s going to win! Let’s be serious!”) ... and sometimes, blustery (“Gaghh! You swallowed that story from Bush?”) ... but nothing seemed to satisfy. To Dole, it was apparent: they thought he was going to
win
... they were trying to
take it away
... they were coming
at his throat
... and the knife in their hands was Dave Owen.

Always, always, there were more complicated questions about Owen and his real estate deals, his banks, corporations, partnerships, loans from the Dole trust, sales of property to the Dole trust. ...
Senator, were you aware that the Dole trust had purchased the office building in Overland Park, which is listed as the address of the E.D.P. and Eagle partnerships, through which Dave Owen participated, with your former aide John Palmer, in supplying food service to the Army at Fort Leonard Wood?

Dole’s Senate Press Secretary, Walt Riker, tried to calm the waters ten times a day, pointing out that Dole knew nothing about the deals for the trust: “You know, that’s why they call it a blind trust.”

From Kansas, Dave Owen issued blanket denials of wrongdoing—specific denials wherever he could get a hearing. He got the Kansas City
Star
to knock down one charge—that he’d formed shell corporations just to make contributions to campaigns—but that’s because he knew the reporters in Kansas City. What about the other hundred and fifty newspapers, all trying to penetrate his business?

Owen talked to the editor in Hutchinson—knew him from years back, in Topeka—but the fellow said he couldn’t interfere with a news investigation. Owen called Kim Wells because Kim’s father was on the board of the company that owned the paper; but Kim, of course, couldn’t get the stories squelched. Owen called to assure Dole’s Big Guys that there was nothing to these stories, but the Big Guys were busy assuring the national big-feet (just on background, understand) that Owen never did much for Dole’s campaign, he was just a hanger-on, despite his title of Finance Chairman (just the kind of guy they were trying to
clean out
of the campaign; they’d warned Dole about him, but, uh ... don’t use my name, huh?) and somehow they couldn’t find time to call Owen back. Owen was supposed to meet Dole in Miami and travel with him back to the Midwest, but what with trying to answer the charges (
The Washington Post
wanted full explanation—
now
!), Owen was pinned down, so he sent word to Dole, in Springfield, Missouri, that there was nothing to this brouhaha—nothing wrong—but when Dave called the plane, he only got the body man, Glassner, who neglected to mention where Dole was going to stay that night, so Owen never did talk to Dole. He did talk once to Mari, who said Dole wasn’t in a good mood ... but after that, Mari didn’t return Dave’s calls. So Owen called Kim Wells again, and Kim said he’d talk to Dole ... but somehow Owen never heard from Wells.

Somehow (maybe when the Minicams staked out his office) ... Owen got the feeling he was being nudged off the back of the sleigh. ...
Bill Brock
bestirred himself to call and suggest: “Dave, I think we’ve got a
problem
. I think this is just unfortunate, but, ahmm ... maybe you need to cease doing anything for the campaign.”

At that point, Owen
had
to talk to Dole ... but he could never get through. True to form, Elizabeth called instead. But Elizabeth just asked about Dave’s family, and told him this would all work out—the cool Christian sympathy of the hospital hallway.

That’s when Owen got the message: he stopped trying to call Dole ... and he scheduled a press conference to announce he was leaving the campaign.

Dole was busy, arranging for the Office of Government Ethics to give
him
a clean bill of health—Elizabeth, too—and preemptively announce that. (“There is no indication,” said the deputy director, “that the Doles did anything improper.”) Of course, the Ethics office couldn’t say the same for Owen—not without a proper investigation!—wouldn’t say a thing for Owen.

Nor would Dole.

On the afternoon of Owen’s
auto-da-fé
, Dole did conduct a quick interview with Angelia Herrin of the
Wichita Eagle-Beacon
. Angelia told Dole of Owen’s announcement—he was stepping down from the campaign until these questions were resolved.

“WHAT?” Dole barked. “No!
No!
... I want it resolved. I want it
final
. His role has
ended
!”

There was silence in the car. They were riding through northern Iowa, in the half-light of a scarlet sunset. Angelia asked, gingerly:

“How do you feel?”

Dole stared at the angry red horizon ... then he wheeled from the window. “How would
you
feel?”

He’d
asked
Elizabeth, the minute she got into that deal with Owen. “What’re we paying
him
for?” Owen was making a
career
out of the Doles! Doing deals! Guy’s become a millionaire! Dole never wanted that. ... And too cute: you look in that trust, it’s not IBM stock—you pick up a rock, you see
worms
underneath.

“How would anyone feel?
Nobody
has the right ...”

When they got to Dole’s next stop, there were thirty more reporters who wanted to know: Would Owen’s departure put an end to Dole’s problem?

“I don’t
have
any problem,” Dole snapped.

“Maybe Dave Owen’s got a problem. I don’t.”

Dole was correct about that.

From that day, Dave Owen would face three and a half years of investigation from the Office of Ethics, the Securities and Exchange Commission, the FBI (in service of a U.S. Attorney in Missouri), a committee of the U.S. House of Representatives, the Federal Election Commission, the Kansas Public Disclosure Commission, and the Kansas Attorney General. Owen’s legal fees would eat up several hundred thousand dollars, his business opportunities would shrivel, he’d be shunned by former friends, his daughters would be scorned, his wife wouldn’t know if
she
should believe him, she would have to take a job as a secretary, Owen would spend his time playing golf—so he wouldn’t stay in bed all day. He owned a gun, and he surprised himself by thinking of suicide. ... In the end, he would plead guilty to one Class C misdemeanor in the state election law—the moral equivalent of parking in front of a hydrant.

In the end, he would never hear another word from Bob Dole.

Dole was correct about
his
situation, too.

From the day that Bob Dole cut off Dave Owen, Dole would no longer have a problem. He handed out
twenty years
of tax returns ... and nobody cared. The story of his money all but disappeared. In fact, from the moment Dave Owen was kicked off the sleigh, Dole was immediately and richly applauded. The big-feet, the smart guys, and everyone they talked to, approved.

Finally!

Finally, they said, Dole had learned to act ... like a President.

A
LL OF GEPHARDT’S KILLERS
flew out to Des Moines before the big
Regi
s
ter
debate, January 15. They were primed and ready for a good twitchy wrangle on the message, the strategy, the electoral imperatives in the last Democratic face-off before the caucus.

Of course, Dick had been through thirty debates ... but this was the big one for Iowa—three weeks before the vote. This could be the ball game. Not to mention, it was national TV, and the country would be watching for its first look at Hart-risen. ... How should they handle Hart? What if Hart came at Dick?

They gathered in the party room at Loreen’s apartment building. They had most of two days blocked out on Dick’s schedule. They wanted to mount a mock debate; they’d videotape, critique the tapes. They wanted to rehearse his answers. The other candidates knew Gephardt was surging: there were bound to be attacks on his trade bill, his farm bill ... his campaign, his
character
! ... They had to have a game plan!

But Dick already had a game plan. They might have been thinking about the message, but Gephardt had been doing it—eight times a day. He was on that weird white tractor beam that brushed away everything in his path. He was saying what he meant to say, more clearly than he ever had. What did he need them for?

“Okay, what about the deficit figure?” Doak began. (The trade deficit had diminished—bad news for Gephardt’s campaign.) “What’re we gonna say?”

But before Shrummy or another maestro could start, Dick said: “Look, it’s not numbers. It’s people. It’s American jobs. It’s American workers and their families ... that’s all I haveta say.”

“Uh, okay ... well, what’re we gonna say if Duke says your ag bill will raise food prices?”

Dick said, calmly: “Mike ... you know how much you pay for a boxa Wheaties? Buck and a half? Two bucks? ... You know how much goes to the farmer for that wheat? A penny and a half? Two cents? Four cents? ... If that price goes up two cents, you think that’s gonna hurt the American public? But that two cents makes all the difference to the family farmers of America. Why shouldn’t their labor earn them a living?”

They ran through three or four more questions—just the toughest, the ones they’d been stewing over in Washington. And every time, Dick would answer—boom—it was over. After twenty minutes, Shrum said: “I move that we end debate-prep ... unless Dick’s got any questions ...”

They looked to Gephardt.

“Yeah,” he said, and his eyes fell upon Trippi. “Joe—find out: How much is the wheat in a boxa Wheaties?”

Trippi was exultant. “Tonight,” he announced, before the debate, “you’re going to see a President of the United States.”

President Dick!

“He’s unbelievable. We didn’t even prep. He’s absolutely calm, absolutely certain. It’s scary ... he’s Mr. President!”

Trippi had a highly developed theory on what a President was—though, alas, he’d never been able to make one. He started working Iowa for Kennedy in ’80 ... but Kennedy couldn’t knock off Jimmy Carter. In ’84, Trippi was in Iowa as the deputy maestro for Walter Mondale, who swept the state ... though, again, Mondale fell short in the end.

That’s why Gephardt had his eye on Joe—Trippi knew Iowa ... Gephardt had to have Iowa. He started calling Trippi back in ’86—August ’86, the day Joe’s daughter was born. Trippi was a half-hour out of the delivery room when the phone rang:

“Joe? This is Dick Gephardt ... I just heard about the blessed event, and, uh, I just want you to know, I think it’s great!”

Christmas that year, Gephardt tracked down Trippi at his in-laws. Dick was trying to decide whether to dump Murphy in favor of Carrick. Trippi told him: “Dick, you may have a problem ... I just want you to know, Murphy has told twenty people that he has your personal assurance ...”

Within days, Gephardt had dumped Murphy. That’s when Trippi thought Dick might be a President.

“See,” Trippi said, “he might have
had
to make that decision. That’s what I mean, being ready to be President ... it’s too important for personal loyalties.

“That kind of decision—like cutting off a Pat Caddell ... Joe Biden will not have a problem making that kind of decision anymore.

“That’s what we demand in a President.”

But Trippi did not go to work for Gephardt—not right away. He went to Denver, to work for Gary Hart.

“That was a man,” Trippi said, “who was ready to be President. He showed straight determination ... even after the bomb hit. That day when he had the press conference in New Hampshire—a hundred fifty
banshees
in that room, just trying ... to take ... him ...
down
.

“It wasn’t once he was asked about adultery. They must’ve asked eight different ways. Joe Biden would’ve fallen apart. Anybody would have. But Hart stood there like a rock. He would not leave until there wasn’t anything left to ask. He took every bit of shit they could throw, and he handled it. He did ... whatever it took.

“That’s a President.”

So why wasn’t Trippi busy prepping Hart for the big Register debate?

“No, that’s what I mean,” Trippi said. “There’s this horrible logic to the process. The next day, when Hart decided to go home, when he decided he couldn’t put his family through it, or the women who were gonna be named, or whoever ... when he put anything else before this ... then he wasn’t ready to be President.”

H
ART DIDN’T DO DEBATE
prep. He didn’t have briefing books. (Who’d write them?) He had no Washington smart guys to act out parts in a practice. He had no opposition research—he didn’t want any. It wasn’t the polls—he was still on top of the national polls. (His was the only name voters recognized among the Democrats.) Even Hart didn’t quite believe those polls. It was just ... he was so sure he was miles ahead of those poor saps: