Believer: My Forty Years in Politics (32 page)

We were all under the gun, but I felt it acutely. The message was my portfolio, and when Barack spoke, publicly and privately, of his concerns about the coherence and efficacy of the existing strategy, I took it as a personal challenge. For five years, Barack and I had climbed some improbable heights together, bound by shared values and mutual trust. Now, as the pressure built and time waned, I saw doubt, or at least skepticism, in his eyes.

What made it all the more frustrating was that we had methodically built a strategy in Iowa that was beginning to pay off. As often happens in campaigns, it takes the political community weeks to catch up with shifting dynamics. The vibe in the political community might still have been negative for Obama—but the dynamics on the ground showed that things were moving our way.

Edwards was falling steadily in our Iowa polling, and Hillary, though leading, showed little ability to grow. Also, though Plouffe was typically clandestine about the field reports from Iowa, they were more encouraging by the day. The progress reflected Barack’s own good work in the state, where he would spend so much time campaigning that he almost qualified as a caucus attendee himself. Some of it was also the result of the tireless efforts of our devoted organizers. We had laid the foundation with waves of media, and our message was beginning to be heard above the political cacophony.

Yet in the meeting with Barack, I wasn’t going to argue about where things stood. As he said, this discussion was about where we needed to go. Larry, Joel, and I had collaborated on a thirteen-page memo with detailed plans that I knew Barack wanted. It was animated by one basic strategic imperative: to close the deal, we had to draw a sharper contrast with the leader of the pack.

So far, Hillary had been the political equivalent of a great baseliner in tennis, playing a steady game and returning everything that came her way. She had pressed her advantage on Washington experience and gamely parried our call for change by embracing the word. Yet the “change” Hillary was offering was not much change at all—certainly not a move away from the raw, divisive politics that had come to define Washington. Rather, she seemed to revel in those politics. (“So if you want a winner who knows how to take them on, I’m your girl,” she boasted in one debate.) The change she was offering was not away from Washington’s habit of parsing words and passing on tough issues. (She habitually sought safe harbor.) The change she was offering was not away from a system dominated by PACs and corporate lobbyists. (She had taken their money and vocally defended their work.) The only real change she
was
offering was in political parties, and that simply wasn’t enough.

“From health care to energy to economic fairness, voters identify the systemic failures in Washington as the major obstacles to progress on the big challenges that face the country and impact their daily lives,” we wrote in the October memo. “We cannot let Clinton . . . blur the lines on who is the genuine agent of change in this election.”

We had adopted a slogan in September, largely because the Iowa campaign needed time to design and print signs for the state’s famed Jefferson-Jackson Day event that would take place in November. Good slogans are the irreducible core of a well-conceived campaign message. Jason Ralston, Margolis’s talented second chair, suggested “Change We Can Believe In,” which struck us as right on target. (It also reminded me of the tag line I had written for Simon twenty years earlier, “Isn’t it time to believe again?”) In the memo, we said our task now was to “create a distinct and sustained contrast in all our communications: Barack Obama is the only authentic ‘remedy’ to what ails Washington and stands in the way of progress. Hillary Clinton is a prescription for more of the same, meaning that our shared goals will once again be frustrated by Washington’s failed politics.”

Barack poked and prodded our strategy and our plans for executing it—through speeches, debates, interviews, advertising, and, most immediately, his performance at the critical upcoming JJ event, Iowa’s traditional proving ground for presidential candidates that would kick off the final sprint to the caucuses. He agreed that we needed to raise the stakes and draw a sharper contrast with Hillary, but he also admonished us not to go too far, rightly pointing out that we could not make an authentic case for change by employing the same sordid, scorched-earth tactics that we had spent so much time attacking.

“I told you guys at the beginning that, win or lose, Michelle and I were going to walk out of this with our heads high, proud of the campaign we had run,” he said. “I don’t want anyone crossing that line.”

M
Y
CAREER
AS
AN
O
BAMA
STRATEGIST
almost ended on a basketball court in
P
hilly a few days later.

We were in town for yet another debate and, as had become our custom before such events, were playing a little pickup basketball with the candidate to keep him loose. It was a mismatched group. Reggie Love, Barack’s six-foot-four “body man,” the campaign aide who was always alongside the candidate, had played big-time college basketball and football, and was built for it. Marvin Nicholson, our trip director, was six foot eight and another college basketball player. Gibbs was a talented athlete and had played college soccer. Barack, who played on a state championship high school basketball team in Hawaii, was quick and savvy on the court. I, too, had been playing all my life, and had all the components of greatness—except speed, quickness, and jumping ability. So when Barack dribbled past me, headed to the basket, I did what any self-respecting flat-footed defender would do and flailed my arm to stop him. I definitely stopped him. When I raked him hard across the bridge of his nose, he went down hard.

“Holy shit, I just broke the candidate’s nose,” I told Gibbs, as the Secret Service rushed to Barack’s side. Obama had signaled an aggressive posture for the debate. How would it look if he showed up with two black eyes and a bandage across his nose, due to an injury inflicted by his strategist? To my relief, the resilient candidate jumped up after a few seconds and shook off the effects of my matador defense, having suffered no apparent damage.

Hours later, during the NBC debate at Drexel University, it was Hillary on the defensive, the real tripwire for her coming when Tim Russert asked about Governor Eliot Spitzer’s abortive plan to provide driver’s licenses to undocumented immigrants in New York. Hillary danced around the issue, palavering at length about Bush’s failure to enact immigration reform, without giving a direct answer to Russert’s question. She soon found herself besieged by nearly everyone onstage, all eager to take the front-runner down a peg.

It was the first time in a dozen debates that Hillary tripped up. At the very moment when we were arguing that she was nothing more than a status quo Washington politician, her awkward evasions and the critical commentaries that ensued buttressed our case.

My focus, however, was on November 10, the night of the Jefferson-Jackson event in Des Moines.

The Iowa JJ is a yearly event but a quadrennial spectacle, a throwback to earlier times, with each presidential candidate given a fixed time to plead his or her case (without notes or a teleprompter) to a crowd of thousands of soon-to-be Democratic caucus-goers. Held in a cavernous old basketball arena, the JJ had become in recent cycles the most visible, boisterous, and important test for candidates leading up to the caucuses. In 2004, Kerry’s strong performance provided the momentum he needed to vault ahead in Iowa. Locked in a close race, Barack would have to give the performance of his life if he hoped to propel his campaign past Iowa.

From the moment Barack signed off on our final-phase strategy for Iowa, I began working with Jon Favreau on drafts for the JJ speech. Obama was in constant motion, so the burden was on us to produce a great draft for him. “We have to take this up one more notch,” I told Favs, contributing to his already considerable anxiety about the speech. “We have to raise the stakes. It’s not just about Bush. It’s about the lousy, phony, self-dealing politics of Washington that stands in the way of solving these big, pressing problems. Changing presidents isn’t enough if we don’t change the game. We have to make that case and, by implication, draw the contrast with Hillary. Yes, she’s an experienced player of the Washington game, running a state-of-the-art campaign. That’s exactly what we
don’t
need right now.”

The speech had to convey urgency and lay some responsibility on Iowa voters themselves. At this precarious moment in our history, it was, as another client of mine had said, up to them to “take a chance on hope.” The speech needed to serve up enough red meat to feed an arena filled with carnivorous Democrats hungry for victory, while still delivering the message that winning alone was no longer enough.

We were told that each candidate at the JJ would have just eleven minutes to speak, and would be held to it. Favs and I traveled with Barack in the days before the speech, in case any last-minute revisions were to be needed, but he made only minor edits—unusual for a speech of this magnitude. The task of memorizing it amid the organized chaos of the campaign was more than enough to occupy him. After every long day on the road, he would head to his room to study and practice. On the campaign RV or when he was waiting in a holding room for some event, he would randomly recite lines to reassure us and himself that he was getting it.

When JJ weekend rolled around, the whole Democratic community (officeholders, donors, activists) seemed to descend on Des Moines. The JJ was seen as the surest indication of the campaigns’ caucus day potential, making it a major organizational test to rally the troops beforehand to fill seats for the dinner and speeches. That meant, in part, buying tickets in large numbers and distributing them to your supporters—if you had the money
and
the supporters. The proposition was simple: the more folks you could wrangle, the greater your chances of engendering a big, enthusiastic response inside.

The highlight of the day was a raucous march from our campaign headquarters to the arena, several blocks away. It was led by a smiling, playful Barack and Michelle, who danced along to the beat of a local drum corps, followed by a sea of delirious young supporters. It was an irresistible, inspiring scene that reflected the spirit we had seen building as we toured the state to growing and enthusiastic crowds. These were not conscripts. They were believers, who saw at the end of the march the chance to change their country.

Dinner tables were set up on the main floor, surrounding a large stage, but the bulk of the crowd takes its seats in the huge balcony that rings the arena. By the luck of the draw, Barack was assigned the last speaking slot, following Hillary. House Speaker Nancy Pelosi was the emcee, introducing each candidate as “the next president of the United States,” so as to show no favoritism. Even though Edwards, who was the leadoff speaker, was still very much in contention in Iowa, there was a definite sense that he was on the evening’s undercard. Clinton and Obama were the main event.

Sometime after 10:00 p.m., Hillary climbed onto the stage to tumultuous applause. Penn and her strategists knew that voters judged her to be most experienced and battle-tested. So, from the very beginning of her remarks, she hammered at those points relentlessly:

“We are ready for change,” she said. “But, you know what? Change . . . change is just a word if you don’t have the strength and experience to make it happen. We must nominate a nominee who’s been tested, and elect a president who is ready to lead on day one.”

Barack and Michelle sat at a table about twenty feet away, listening with an air of studied calm to his rival’s presentation. He had been given the option of waiting in a holding room before his speech. “No, I want to see Hillary,” he said—and, perhaps, he also wanted her to see
him
.

As Hillary spoke of change, it was clear the change she offered was not in style or tone. She presented herself as a veteran of the Washington wars, a proven gladiator who was best equipped to beat the Republicans at their own game.

“Now, we’re getting closer to the Iowa caucuses. They’re going to be earlier than ever before. And I know as the campaign goes on, that it’s gonna get a little hotter out there,” Hillary continued. “But that’s fine with me. Because, you know, as Harry Truman said, ‘if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.’ And I’ll tell you what, I feel really comfortable in the kitchen.”

With that, Hillary launched into a long call-and-response, smacking the Republicans hard in every stanza, and then cuing her supporters to chant the made-for-JJ tag line “Turn Up the Heat.”

“I’m interested in attacking the problems of America, and I believe we should be turning up the heat on the Republicans; they deserve all the heat we can give them,” she said.

“Turn up the heat!” her sign-waving supporters shouted in unison, with all the spontaneity of a Politburo meeting.

Standing against the bleachers as Hillary spoke, I thought she had done a fine job of executing her strategy, but she also had played right into ours. There could not have been a starker example of “textbook politics.” Her speech was a steady diet of red meat for a partisan crowd, without a whole lot of nutritional value. The Republicans were responsible for all America’s problems. Now, to solve them, we had to “turn up the heat” on them. It might have seemed like an ideal refrain in an arena full of activist Democrats, but even in that boisterous room, folks were weary of the overheated, partisan food fight that had broken out in Washington. They knew it wasn’t just the Republicans, but our entire political system, that was askew. Many liked Hillary, but saw her as a polarizing figure. By stressing her Washington experience, toughness, and preparedness to fight, Hillary seemed to be promising more of the same.

Well, she’s done her part, I thought, as I waited for Barack to begin. Now I hope to God we do ours.

From the moment Nancy Pelosi returned to the stage to welcome Barack, our supporters, more numerous and frenetic, were primed to explode. Large banners bearing the word “Hope” were strewn from the railings surrounding the balcony, and the mere mention of Obama’s name created pandemonium. We added to this a little shtick of our own. I had recruited Ray Clay, the old Chicago Stadium announcer, to record an additional introduction to lead Barack to the stage in the same hyperbolic fashion Clay had once used to usher Michael Jordan to the court during the player’s glory years with the Bulls.

“And now,” Clay roared in his signature growl, “from our neighboring state of Illinois, a six-foot-two force for change—Senator Barack Obama!” By the time Barack sprinted up the stairs, hugged Pelosi, and seized the mike, the creaky old arena was rocking. After a brisk stroll around the perimeter of the stage to acknowledge the cheers, Obama quickly quieted the crowd.

If Hillary had appealed to them as partisans, Barack addressed them as Americans, signaling from his opening remarks that these were no ordinary times.

We are in a defining moment in our history. Our nation is at war. The planet is in peril. The dream that so many generations fought for feels as if it’s slowly slipping away. We’re working harder for less. We’ve never paid more for health care or for college. It’s harder to save and it’s harder to retire. And most of all we’ve lost faith that our leaders can or will do anything about it . . .

. . . And that is why the same old Washington textbook campaigns just won’t do in this election. That’s why not answering questions ’cause we’re afraid our answers won’t be popular just won’t do. That’s why telling the American people what we think they want to hear instead of telling the American people what they need to hear just won’t do. Triangulating and poll-driven positions because we’re worried about what Mitt or Rudy might say about us just won’t do. If we are really serious about winning this election, Democrats, then we can’t live in fear of losing it.

This party—the party of Jefferson and Jackson; of Roosevelt and Kennedy—has always made the biggest difference in the lives of the American people when we led, not by polls, but by principle. Not by calculation, but by conviction. When we summoned the entire nation to a common purpose—a higher purpose. And I run for the presidency of the United States of America because that is the party that America needs us to be right now.

It was Barack at his best. Hillary had made a standard political speech. Barack was making a reasoned and resonant argument for deeper and more fundamental change. As he spoke, I noticed supporters of the other candidates nodding their heads in agreement and joining in the applause. We had won the day.

As Barack finished to a rapturous ovation, Gibbs and I exchanged a hug and a high five, before catching up with Barack and Michelle as they exited the arena. “Fucking home run,” I blurted. “Yeah, I thought it was solid,” he said, a term to which I long ago had come to realize meant “really good” in Obama’s understated parlance. As we spoke, a gleeful Harstad, who had been sitting in the balcony with the troops, stumbled over. It was clear, from the moment he threw a congratulatory arm around me, that Paul had begun the celebration a little early. “This was a really big night for us,” he said, hanging unusually long on the word “really.” “He reaaaallly nailed it!”

Whistling past the graveyard, Penn told reporters that Obama had packed the arena with kids who would never attend the caucuses. Their response was meaningless, he said. But that was a loser’s lament. Barack
had
nailed it, clearly and compellingly defining the race in his terms. While we remained in a three-way tie in Harstad’s polling, Barack’s JJ speech infused our Iowa campaign with a new sense of energy and purpose that would sustain us for the final sprint of the campaign.

When Hillary spoke that evening, she told the crowd, “I’m not interested in attacking my opponents. I’m interested in attacking the problems of America.” It was consistent with her usual posture as the strong, confident presumptive nominee. Yet after that evening in Des Moines, it was clear that we had entered a new reality. The presumptive front-runner was in jeopardy—and she knew it.

On November 18, the
Times
reported that the Clinton campaign had called a Code Blue in Iowa, doubling the size of its operation there and vastly increasing Hillary’s presence in the state. On December 1, the
Des Moines Register
’s latest poll revealed why the Clinton campaign had gone into emergency mode. In October, Hillary was leading by seven. Now Obama had passed her and was winning by three.