What It Takes (87 page)

How could Donna not have known?

Well, she was quick to trust, chatty and voluble, confiding—why wouldn’t she be? At twenty-nine, she had progressed through her brief adulthood from success to success—people always liked Donna. And admired her: she was a
magna cum laude
graduate of the University of South Carolina (serious about her grades, that meant), she was a cheerleader—
head cheerleader
(a serious responsibility)—she was a successful model, and an actress in commercials, industrial films, a few small parts on TV shows. She was always hunting opportunity—though, in those days, she was more and more convinced it was time to move on from the life she’d built in Miami. Her steady line of work was in pharmaceutical sales for Wyeth Labs, and she was serious about it, as was her wont—top salesperson in her district that year. Friday night, you’d likely find her home reading Wyeth reports or the journal of the AMA; she’d order in pizza, maybe watch some TV until she could fall asleep.

She was intelligent.

Worldly she was not.

Mention some name in the news, for instance, and Donna would get this sweet and serious look on her face like she knew she might know it ... but ... no connect.

Of politics she was blessedly unaware.

For instance: she was going out for some time with the rock singer Don Henley (she’d met him by chance, in Los Angeles, a couple of years before), and she was at Henley’s place in Aspen for this party, New Year’s Day, 1987. She was in the kitchen getting ready to serve some food she had helped cook, and she met ... Gary Hart.

“Can I get you anything?” said Donna Rice ... in complete and innocent ignorance of Gary Hart’s career, his run for the Presidency in 1984, his foreordained front-runnerhood for 1988. This was her first hint that Gary Hart was on the planet ... and tell the truth, even then, she did not take much notice.

Tell the truth, if a friend had not been shooting videotape of the party, all afternoon ... if Gary Hart had not taken ax to firewood, entertaining with his imitation of Abe Lincoln the rail-splitter ... if Hart, thereby, had not got himself prominently into the video record ... if Henley’s intimates had not sat around, after the party, and watched this video, and talked about “Gary, Gary, Gary,” remarking that here was a political leader of the
nation
... Donna would never have remembered the name.

The face, of course, was something else. That’s what happened, that Friday night in March, when Donna was at a cocktail affair at Turnberry Isle—it was a charity benefit, crowded and frantic ... and that’s why Donna and a dozen folks she knew walked out to get some air. They strolled along the docks toward a boat they knew (they knew the owner, actually) ... unaware that it had been chartered for the weekend and was occupied, even then, by two older men, who turned out to be Bill Broadhurst ... and Gary Hart—who invited the whole crowd on board for a drink. That’s when Donna got a good look at Gary, and said: “Hey! I know you!”

And that’s how they started talking.

But what did she know?

She didn’t know, for instance, he was married (though Lee was also at that party, in Aspen, New Year’s Day) ... she didn’t know where he lived ... she didn’t know what he’d done in his life. He was just a person ... a nice person.

And so interested in her—at least it seemed so, when he asked her to dinner the next day ... and then Sunday, on the yacht.

That was certainly the reason she accepted ... and called her friend Lynn to come along. They both, these men, seemed so interesting. And she made another call—to her dad, who’d probably know:

“I met this man, Gary Hart—what is he? A Congressman? ... A Senator? ... What state?”

In a way, that only made it better—fresher. He was so sweet, funny and serious at the same time, and he wanted to know what
she
thought. He didn’t hold forth like some distant, self-important politician. He didn’t presume at all.

And she hadn’t been with him long before she realized how much he wanted to get away from all the political talk, the pressure ... in fact, he was tormented: here was a man who had to choose between devotion to his country and personal happiness. He was facing a run for the
Presidency
, when really, he—half of him ...
didn’t want to campaign at all
! ... Donna understood, right away: here was a man facing the crisis of his life.

What stirred in her was not passion, but compassion.

At the same time, she knew that fate had put her with a man of exceptional vision, just as she was searching out a new path for her own life.
Here was the world of politics
, a new world to her. ... Gary said the
best
thing about his life in politics—the one thing that
excited him the most
—was the freshness and idealism of the young.

He was charmed by her.

And she knew it was awfully quick, but ... well, she was more than charmed—though she knew this was not reality, that boat was not reality, at all ... but she was more and more interested—fascinated was her word ... just after a day and a couple of evenings on that boat, and the morning after the cruise, coming back from Bimini ... after which Gary and Bill went to the Miami airport. Lynn and Donna stayed behind, and talked about Gary.

Lynn was the one Donna would confide in, when Gary called, after that. He’d call from the road, and say he was thinking about her, remembering. Sometimes, he was so sweet, she didn’t know what to think—or where things stood. One week, Lynn might try to tell Donna this could turn into something
serious
. Next time she’d say, maybe Donna should just break this off. And Donna was in turmoil—trying to sort out what she really felt. That’s why she had to think long and hard when he called and invited her to Washington—beginning of May. And in the end, that’s why she went—why she decided at the last minute to go—she wouldn’t know
what she wanted
until she could see him again.

H
ART COULDN’T SIT STILL
any longer. He had to find out what those guys were doing—at least let them know he was on to them, they could stop sneaking around his house. Maybe he could scare them off.

He walked outside, he was very alert. He’d try to bait them—he called it “trolling.” He wanted to be certain they were after
him
. He got into his car, drove a couple of blocks, parked again, and started walking through his neighborhood. He’d walk a block, turn the corner, stop ... listen. Sure enough, here would come the footsteps behind him. Hart doubled back toward Sixth Street, and made sure to pass their car. He gave it a good once-over, including the two guys inside. He let them see he was writing down their license number. Then he walked down the alley behind his house.

Jim McGee, investigative reporter, and Jim Savage, his editor, got out of the car and followed Hart down the alley. They turned a corner ... there he was.

They introduced themselves. They were nervous. Hart was leaning against a brick wall, in his white sweatshirt, arms crossed in front of his chest ... like he was waiting for an explanation.

McGee was saying, they wanted to know about the young woman who was staying in Hart’s house.

“No one is staying in my house,” Hart said, quite precisely.

Well, then, they wanted to know, what was his relationship with the woman?

“I am not involved in any relationship.”

Then why did two reporters just
see
Hart and this
woman
going into his house?

“The obvious reason is that I’m being set up.”

The
Herald
reported that Hart’s voice was shaking. The stories described him as “nervous and evasive.” But Hart was stiff with fury. Somewhere, there had to be a
line
behind which there was private life. Surely, the door of his own home ought to be a boundary. As Hart recalled, the
reporters
were shaky. When Tom Fiedler, in his jogging suit, joined the interview, Hart noted that Fiedler’s voice quivered. He couldn’t phrase his questions. He stuttered.

It went on for twenty minutes.

The
Herald
wanted to know the woman’s name.

Hart wasn’t going to reveal her name.

The
Herald
demanded to talk to the woman.

“I don’t have to produce anyone.”

What about the phone calls to the woman—what were they about?

“Nothing,” Hart said. “It was casual, political ...”

So what was his relationship with the woman?

“I have no personal relationship with the individual you are following.”

Was he denying he met her on a yacht in Miami?

“
I’m not denying anything
,
”
Hart snapped.

Did he have sex with her?

“The answer is no! ... I’m not going to get into all that.” Hart turned and started walking back toward his house. The
Herald
’s photographer started snapping pictures. “We don’t need any of
that
,” Hart said, and he was gone.

The Miamis ran off to file their story. They still didn’t know who the woman was, what she was to Hart, what had happened in the house. But they had Hart’s denials ... what the hell!

This was big!

They could still make the main edition for Sunday!

WASHINGTON
—
Gary Hart, the Democratic Presidential candidate who has dismissed allegations of womanizing, spent Friday night and most of Saturday in his Capitol Hill townhouse with a young woman who flew from Miami and met him. Hart denied any impropriety.

They would ram the story through in less than two hours.

While they were writing, Bill Broadhurst tracked them down by phone at a Quality Inn, twenty-some blocks away. Gary had called him. Broadhurst was outraged. He said he’d talk to these newsboys, straighten this thing out.

Broadhurst wanted to talk to Fiedler—but he couldn’t. Fiedler was busy, writing. Broadhurst insisted to Jim Savage that the woman the
Herald
was after had slept with her friend, at his house, not Hart’s. When Fiedler finally came to the phone, Broadhurst offered to host the
Herald
team at his house, give them his side of the story. “The girls” would be there. But Fiedler had to go. His deadline was
now
... he said he’d call Broadhurst back.

He did call back—when the story was headed for the presses in Miami. Six columns across the top of page one:

MIAMI WOMAN IS LINKED TO HART

Then
Fiedler wanted to come meet the two women. Broadhurst said they were asleep. They weren’t. But as Broadhurst pointed out: there was no point in showing the
Herald
guys anything anymore. Their story was filed.

Hart called Lee at the cabin, that night. He called his Campaign Manager, Bill Dixon, in Denver. Dixon called the other white boys into his apartment for a damage assessment. ... Why the hell did Hart
talk
to those
Herald
assholes? Dixon would have to get to Washington right away! ... Jesus! What was Gary
thinking?
... Did he think this wasn’t going to hurt? ...
Didn’t he understand?

No, Hart understood perfectly ... that he was the
victim
of a
process that was out of control
...

He woke up the next day, worked on his economics speech, went out to get the
Times
(glad to see there was no one watching his house). He took the early calls from Denver—tried to answer questions for the white boys, to help them manage this problem. But the more they asked, the more he had the air of a man who was being picked on—picked to death.

In Denver, they thought he didn’t understand. This was
front-page
, all over south Florida. The ABC Brinkley-fest gave it
big play
—
top of the news
! The wires were calling, the networks ... the white boys told Gary he’d have to get out of his house, the press would be pounding on his door any minute.

“I am not going to leave my house.”

Jesus! ... This stubborn sonofabitch just didn’t get it!

He got it.

By noon, he’d called his friend (and unofficial press counselor) Sidney Gruson. Gruson was a veteran
Times
-man, friend to Hart for fifteen years, who now had his job in the White House all picked out: Sidney Gruson, Special Assistant to the President. ... Hart tracked him down in Vermont, at a golf camp. Gruson hadn’t heard about the story. Hart told him. Gruson said it would go away.

“No it won’t,” Hart said.

“No, Gary,” Gruson said. “It’ll die.”

“I don’t think so ...”

Gruson ceased to protest after Hart said: “I may have to withdraw.”

B
Y SUNDAY NOON, REPORTERS
and cameramen had gathered at the gate, fifty yards from the cabin. Their cars and trucks all but blocked the dirt road up Troublesome Gulch. Lee Hart was their quarry ...

Or their prisoner: she couldn’t go out ... and let
those people
put her on TV? Never! ... Certainly not now, the way she looked. She’d canceled her schedule a few days before because of a sinus infection. The left side of her face was puffed up. It hurt when she flew. So she stayed home, trying to take it easy. After the reporters arrived, she didn’t want to go out. Then TV trucks showed, and the local stations had vans with masts and dishes on top for live shots; ABC nosed an air-conditioned semi up to her gate. Now there were twenty pairs of eyes and a half-dozen lenses trained on her windows. She’d have loved to tell those people what she thought of them. But how could she, with her face all swollen? “They’ll think he beat me!”

Lee was skittish, her voice was taut. In the cabin, she’d insist she wasn’t giving the reporters a thought. But every ten minutes she’d shout for someone to go out there.
They’re coming over the gate!
... The phone was ringing. Lee was saying: “Thanks, Warren ...I know ...I know. All right, I will ...” Warren Beatty was calling to check on Lee, to tell her, they’d get through this if they kept their heads up.

Ellen Strauss, the Harts’ monied and imperious friend from New York, weighed in every hour or two.