What It Takes (86 page)

Later—years later—he’d be asked: Wasn’t he pissed off? Furious? But after all that time (maybe because of it), Hart would not admit to anger.

He’d say he realized that night: it would never stop. He saw those guys on his street and he knew: the whole campaign, he’d be prey. They’d never leave him alone, with this
stuff
... his marriage, his debts, his name, his age ... he was facing another year and a half of fighting for his life—one damned thing after another, he said—five years, or ten, if he won. And there wasn’t any way he could change that ... change
them
.

He would say: he felt “just sad.”

And worried.

But he was in his own home.

He hadn’t robbed any banks.

He didn’t shoo Donna Rice away, or shove her into a closet.

He didn’t call anybody—save for Broadhurst. “There’s somebody watching this place,” Hart said. “I don’t
know
who. ... I don’t think we ought to leave. Why don’t you bring the dinner over here?”

Like anyone besieged, Hart’s first thought was to shut the gates and stay in. He’d be safer—he’d wait. Maybe they would go away.

The guys from Miami never had a doubt:

Big story!

Amazing!

Part of it was the way it happened—it was like fate. It started with the rumors. Then Tom Fiedler,
The Miami Herald
’s political big-foot, wrote a column
defending
Hart against the rumors, and some woman called to complain:
How can you defend him? He’s having an affair with a friend of mine!

Who’s the friend?

No names were named.

Fiedler tried to blow off the caller, but she phoned again. She offered pictures. She reported on calls from Hart to her friend. She said they went on a
cruise
—Hart and this gorgeous blonde! She said her friend was flying from Miami to D.C.,
this weekend, to meet Hart
!

Well, you couldn’t
not
sniff around.

And when the caller’s dates checked out, and Hart headquarters said Gary had canceled Kentucky that weekend and was taking some time off in Washington, well ...

“What flight?” Fiedler asked his source.

She said she’d call back, but she didn’t.

So it was just a roll of the dice when the
Herald
’s top investigative hit man, Jim McGee—two hundred pounds, all swathed, for reasons unknown, in a parka—sprinted for a cab outside the newspaper office, whipped the driver to a lather for the airport, and made standby on Eastern’s flight 996, the first nonstop from Miami to Washington that Friday night.

He saw three blondes—two pretty ones. He walked up the aisle of the plane to get a good look. He tried to watch them deplane. One of the blondes met a boyfriend. The other was met by a dark-haired woman ... no Gary Hart, no campaign types.

What could McGee do? He got Hart’s address—Sixth Street, SE—and went to take a look. At the end of Hart’s block, and across the street, there was a park. McGee found a bench, sat down to watch the door, and an hour later, here came Hart ...
with the second blonde from the plane
!

Holy shit! It’s HER!

It was like God Himself had thrust this juicy pork chop into their mouths! ... After that, it was a rush of phone calls, rent-a-cars, and fresh manpower (a photographer!) from Miami ...
Chrissake, get up here!
... They had to tie this down!

It was Friday night when McGee spotted Hart and the blonde leaving Hart’s house, late Friday night when McGee saw Hart and the blonde reenter the house. It was Saturday morning when the rest of the
Herald
troops boarded a plane in Miami, almost noon Saturday by the time they showed up on Sixth Street, with three more rent-a-cars. Someone, besides McGee,
had to see
Hart and the blonde! (Hey! Two sources! This was, you know, an
investigative team
!) ... So they’re sitting with the pork chop in their mouths, for
hours
—it’s HUGE, there’s juice on their chins—but none of the Miamis had seen Hart
all day
, and then it was Saturday night, which meant ... shit! They were gonna miss the Sunday paper.

Finally, 8:50
P.M.,
darkness again, and McGee, in the alley, saw Hart and the woman walking from the back of the house. McGee made for the street, whispered to Fiedler, who trotted by in his jogging suit. Fiedler crossed the street to the park so Hart wouldn’t spot him: Hart would know his face. Hart and the woman were headed for Hart’s car. ... But then, they turned and walked back to the house.

Fiedler thought Hart looked spooked.

This was big!

Of course it was ... Hart was
in there
, in his
house,
with this, this ... this
cutlet
! From MIAMI! ... She was young, she was blond, she was ...

Who was she?

They didn’t know.

What was she doing in there?

They didn’t know.

But, come
on
—what do you
think
they were doing in there? Anyway, what did it matter?

This was legit—a
political
story—because the guy had spent the last few weeks
denying
... well, denying stories like this!

Broadhurst came over with Donna’s friend, Lynn Armandt—and with barbecued chicken for dinner. But no one paid much attention to dinner. Hart was fidgety, stiff with worry and suppressed rage. What were those guys
after
?

He’d been set up! He was sure he was being set up. They’d been following him! ... Or maybe, the girl. Maybe they followed the girls! Maybe one of these girls in
his own kitchen
... had set him up! At once, Hart was distant, removed, and angry. Everybody felt it. Broadhurst thought they should leave—him and the girls—they should just get out. Broadhurst always knew what the other fellow wanted—or needed.

In the aftermath, months later, some of Hart’s people would blame Bill Broadhurst for the whole mess. They’d say he was the one who invited Lynn Armandt to Washington, he was the one who made that weekend happen. There were true believers who could excuse Gary for hanging around with two young women—but they’d never forgive him for
Broadhurst
! The guy was a
fixer
—wasn’t he? ... He was a political back-scratchin’ lawyer who made it big when his pal Edwin Edwards got to be Governor of Louisiana. The true Hart wonks wanted to know: Why would Gary connect himself, politically, with that sort of backroom dealer?

But it wasn’t all politics with Broadhurst.

R
AY STROTHER, HART’S OLD
ad man, introduced Bill Broadhurst to Hart after the ’84 campaign. Broadhurst did a couple of political events, at his Washington house, for Hart—and they hit it off.

Like so many people who attracted Hart, Broadhurst was a man of personal ease. If Bill was sitting with Washington politicos, he could chat urbanely about press and polls. With good ol’ boys from Louisiana, Billy B. could drink hard and tell raunchy stories.

Perhaps his greatest talent was discernment. With Hart, Broadhurst discerned two things right away.

Number one, Hart needed time away from Senate business, and, later, campaign business. Anyone could see that—everyone on Hart’s staff, for instance. But who had the money to finance a weekend getaway to Turnberry Isle? Who among the Hart wonks even knew Turnberry Isle existed? ... Billy B. knew. He also knew fine food and wine. And he could pick up a check.

The great thing was, Broadhurst didn’t ask for anything in return. He didn’t insist on his status as a player, didn’t try to insinuate himself into strategy sessions, issues, or political meetings. Broadhurst just wanted to be of help ... to Gary. And the greatest thing, for Hart: he didn’t have to sit through a chat-fest with Broadhurst.

That was number two. Broadhurst sensed that Hart valued space and silence. That’s why Hart liked to travel with Billy Shore. They could sit through a flight across the country in silence. Broadhurst quickly learned to keep quiet around Hart. Broadhurst could sit for hours on a boat without saying a word—and without expecting Hart to say a word.

At HQ in Denver, no one knew much about Broadhurst. He was impressive, with that gray hair (though he was three years younger than Gary) and his southern manner. They knew he was a lawyer from Louisiana, he had connections, he had money. He could travel at his own expense, to make contacts for Gary. They knew he had to have a desk set aside for when he was in town. That’s all they knew.

He was certainly generous. There were never dollars wasted in the office on Downing Street: it was wholly Spartan—used desks and chairs, no luxuries. Broadhurst hadn’t been there three days before he gave one of the workers a hundred dollars for a coffee urn and another hundred for a microwave. People could eat and drink—Broadhurst was a hero!

Then he started working with the field staff. He was good about coming by to ask what he could do for them. He’d mention that he was going to Kentucky, staying at the Governor’s mansion. He’d see who Gary could line up down there, where he should stand on local races. Broadhurst was on the road for Hart more and more, as the winter waned in ’87.

The first sign of trouble came at a schedule meeting, in February, in the conference room. There were meetings every day in that room—that hole without windows. Broadhurst had never sat in before. This time, on the new block schedule, a weekend trip to Puerto Rico had suddenly been cut to one day. The second day of that weekend, suddenly, had no events. And Casey wasn’t arguing—which was weird. Usually, she’d
obsess
about a day ... Christ, a
whole day
? There were so many days lost to the law firm, so many for Iowa, or New Hampshire—never time enough. A day was precious!

But Sue was silent. And she knew more about the schedule than anyone. Still, someone asked: “Well, uh, what is
this
?”

It was Broadhurst who answered, quickly and firmly: “There’s an extra day. Gary wants it, and it’s on there.”

That was a day Bill and Gary were going out on the boat.

The way Broadhurst saw it, that was just one small thing he could do for Hart—give him time for relaxation ... away from it all. That was important in any campaign, Broadhurst said, and though this was his first Presidential campaign, he could see it was probably more important than ever at this level.

“You’ve got to have mental relaxation and talk about other things,” he would say. “You need space and time.”

He meant, Gary did.

It was on a boat, a charter boat, the last weekend in March, that Broadhurst met Lynn Armandt. That was just happenstance. What happened was, Gary and Bill were down in Florida for a weekend on this boat ... and Gary ran into Donna Rice, invited her back to the boat for dinner, then for a cruise ... and Donna called Lynn Armandt to go along. Donna didn’t want to go with two men, alone. And Lynn was fun, she’d get along fine with new people. Lynn would know how to act—she was sharp, a woman of business.

She had a very hip and knowing manner—casual, like her clothes—Miami Beach funky (unlike Donna, who spent her working days in business suits). They were both twenty-nine years old. Donna had only known Lynn a few months—they were mostly just workout buddies at the Turnberry health club ... but Lynn lived at Turnberry Isle, so she could come out to the boat on a minute’s notice—that’s why Donna called her.

Lynn Armandt wasn’t exactly part of the actress-model-TV crowd in Miami; she was more a part of the Turnberry Isle crowd. She was one of the people (good-looking, or rich, for the most part) who were given free memberships and encouraged to hang around. Lynn had never fooled with college—what for? She had her own shop, the Too Hot Miami bikini boutique at Turnberry, which was a good place for business—a fast crowd and plenty of cash.

She was ever a young woman with her eye on the main chance ... which, of course, Bill Broadhurst discerned. Right away, on the boat, he started talking to her about a business opportunity. His law office in Washington needed someone to coordinate its social functions. The woman who’d held the job had left the firm. Would that be something of interest to Lynn?

Yes, it would.

So, early on, Bill said he would invite Lynn to Washington to talk more about the job. It may have been that whiff of business on the Florida air that made Lynn so sanguine about the time spent with Bill and Donna and Gary. As she later told
People
mag (business again—big cash for her story), Lynn had doubts about this boat trip, at the start. But with a lunch of lobster salad, cold asparagus, white wine ... and a detailed account of Gary Hart’s latest novel, from the author, who was “a great storyteller” ... Lynn relaxed. “So she made no objection when she found the boat was headed for Bimini. ‘I felt very comfortable.’ ”

In fact, none among them felt any pain, by late afternoon, as they steamed into Bimini and pitched up in a bar called The Compleat Angler. They drank more, talked more, and took over the bandstand. It was Donna and Lynn singing “Twist and Shout,” Broadhurst on drums, Hart’s merry fingers on the castanets. It was on the dock that Hart had his picture taken with Donna Rice on his lap. (Come to think of it, that was Lynn’s idea.)

It was Donna’s camera, and Donna’s picture—never intended for public ... well, public anything! She never did let the negative out of her possession. It was always her picture,
her property
—which was partly what would gall her so when it made its very public debut on the front page of the
National Enquirer
. (The
Enquirer
had the nerve to claim copyright on the photo!)

By that time, Donna would know ... it was a terrible mistake to lend the photos from that weekend to Lynn Armandt. (But Lynn was so insistent—said she
had
to show her boyfriend!) ... And especially that one of Donna on Gary’s lap. (Donna
never
would have lent
that
if Gary had already announced his candidacy.) ...

Of course, by that time, Donna would know ... Lynn sold her out at every turn. She wasn’t any kind of buddy at all.

In the end, Lynn was just a woman of business.