Living History (80 page)

I had met with the legal team to offer suggestions about strategy and presentation, but there wasn’t much I could contribute other than my support. Because the vote to impeach in the House was considered similar to an indictment, Republican members of the House were sent to the Senate as managers or “prosecutors.” They were supposed to present “evidence” of the impeachable offenses while Bill’s lawyers would defend him. No live witnesses were introduced. Instead, the House managers relied on grand jury testimony and depositions they conducted of Sid Blumenthal, Vernon Jordan and Monica Lewinsky.

Sid Blumenthal has written a fascinating behind-the-scenes account of his experience during the impeachment in his book, The Clinton Wars.

The Constitution requires that two-thirds of the Senate vote to convict the President before he can be removed from office. It hadn’t yet happened in American history, and I did not expect it would happen now. No one involved seriously thought that sixty-seven Senators would vote to convict, so perhaps the House managers saw no reason to conduct even the semblance of a professional prosecution. There were few rules governing procedures or the evidence presented in the managers’ case. As a result, the proceedings bore little resemblance to a real trial―it was more like a group tirade denouncing my husband.

Throughout the five weeks of the spectacle, the President’s lawyers made a presentation on the law and the facts that I believe historians and legal scholars will turn to when trying to understand this regrettable moment in American history. In a stirring argument, Cheryl decisively repudiated the House managers’ position that acquitting the President would not only undermine the rule of law but also the nation’s civil rights laws. Mills, an African American, proclaimed: “I’m not worried about civil rights, because this President’s record on civil rights, on women’s rights, on all of our rights is unimpeachable…. I stand here before you today because President Bill Clinton believed I could stand here for him.”

Dale Bumpers, the former Senator from Arkansas, delivered a powerful argument on Bill’s behalf. Bumpers, a master orator and Bill’s close friend, wove together American history and Arkansas stories to deliver a compelling case in favor of acquittal. He forcefully reminded us that the Constitution was on trial. In his marvelous autobiography, The Best Lawyer in a One-Lawyer Town, Bumpers relates how Bill had called to ask him to speak on his behalf. After thinking it over, Bumpers realized that “Every family in America could relate, to one degree or another, to the trials and tribulations, so much a part of the human drama, that the Clintons had experienced.” And then he asked, “Where were the elements of forgiveness and redemption, the very foundation of Christianity?”

Throughout the trial, I never doubted that we would prevail in the end. I was relying more on my faith every day. It reminded me of an old saying from Sunday school: Faith is like stepping off a cliff and expecting one of two outcomes―you will either land on solid ground or you will be taught to fly.

The constitutional showdown on capitol Hill provided an odd backdrop for the growing speculation about my entry into the New York Senate race. I still had no interest in running for Senator Moynihan’s seat, but by the beginning of 1999, the Democratic leadership was in a full-court press to change my mind. Tom Daschle, the Senate Minority leader whom I greatly respected, called to encourage me. So did many Democrats from New York and around the country. As flattering as the attention was, I felt that other seasoned New York Democrats would be better suited to enter the race. Congresswoman Nita Lowey, New York State Comptroller H. Carl McCall and Andrew Cuomo, Secretary of Housing and Urban Development in the Clinton Administration, were at the top of the list.

The likely GOP nominee, New York City’s mayor, Rudolph Giuliani, would be a formidable opponent for any Democratic candidate. Party leaders, worried about losing a longtime Democratic seat, were intent on fielding a similarly high-profile candidate who could raise the staggering amounts of money that such a race requires. In a sense, I was a desperation choice―a well-known public figure who might be able to offset Giuliani’s national profile and his party’s deep pockets. In that context, it wasn’t surprising that the idea of my candidacy was resuscitated a few days into the new year during the taping of NBC’s Meet the Press.

The guest on Sunday, January 3, was Senator Robert Torricelli of New Jersey, who, as head of the Democratic Senatorial Campaign Committee, was responsible for recruiting candidates and raising money for Democratic campaigns. The host, Tim Russert, had asked Torricelli about the race before the show and announced on the air that Torricelli believed I would run.

When I heard about Torricelli’s remarks, I called him. “Bob, you’re out there talking about my life,” I said. “You know I’m not running. Why are you saying this?” Torricelli sidestepped the question, knowing full well that he had opened the floodgates. Andrew Cuomo and Carl McCall took themselves out of the race, choosing to focus instead on the 2002 gubernatorial contest, and Nita Lowey said she would wait to decide whether to wage a campaign of her own.

With each of these developments, public speculation about my entry into the race intensified.

But privately, I was being counseled against it. The few friends I spoke to consistently urged me not to run. My top White House staff were also opposed. They worried about the stresses I would be subjected to as a candidate and the emotional costs of a lengthy campaign.

When King Hussein of Jordan died on February 7 after a brave struggle with cancer, Bill and I put everything else aside for a few days to make another long, mournful journey to the Middle East to the Jordanian capital of Amman. Former Presidents Ford, Carter and Bush traveled on Air Force One. The prospects for peace in the Middle East suffered irreparable losses with the deaths of two great men, Rabin and now Hussein. The streets of Amman were crowded with mourners from all over the world. Queen Noor, dressed in black and wearing a white head scarf, graciously greeted the dignitaries who came to pay their respects to her remarkable husband. Shortly before his death, the King had designated his eldest son, Abdullah, as his successor. King Abdullah and his gifted Queen, Rania, have more than fulfilled expectations, bringing great energy and grace to their difficult responsibilities.

When we returned home from the King’s funeral, the impeachment trial was a dark cloud hanging over our family. Bill and I were still struggling to repair our relationship and trying to protect Chelsea from the fallout on Capitol Hill. Thrown into this mix was the public pressure I felt to make a decision about the Senate race, a decision that would have immediate and long-term consequences in my life and my family’s.

A conversation with Harold Ickes, an expert on New York politics, persuaded me that I had to acknowledge the growing public pressure to run and take the question of a campaign seriously. Harold’s greatest asset as a friend is his candor, even bluntness. Although he is a truly sweet and lovely man, he has a bark that can scare you to death.

Every other word is an expletive, even when he’s dishing out a compliment. In his typically colorful way, he offered some advice.

“If you think you’re not gonna run, then go out and issue a Shermanesque statement,”

Harold said. “But if you’re still mulling it over, don’t say anything yet. With impeachment going on, nobody is going to press you on it right now anyway.”

Harold and I agreed to meet on February 12, the day, it turned out, that the Senate was due to vote on impeachment. I was confident that a majority of the Senate would be guided by the Constitution and vote to acquit. As we awaited the outcome, I listened intently as Harold assessed the New York political landscape and explained the vicissitudes of a New York Senate campaign. He spread out a large map of the state, and we pored over it for hours as he offered a running commentary about the obstacles I would face. He pointed to towns from Montauk to Plattsburgh to Niagara Falls, and it became clear that to take a campaign to New York’s 19 million citizens, I would have to physically cover a state of 54,000 square miles. On top of that I would have to master the intricacies of local politics, of dramatic differences in the personalities, cultures and economies of upstate New York and the suburbs. New York City was its own universe: a cauldron of competing politicians and interest groups. The five boroughs were like individual mini-states, each presenting needs and challenges different from counties and cities upstate and also from the suburbs of neighboring Long Island and Westchester.

As our meeting stretched over hours, Harold zeroed in on all of the negatives of entering the race. I was not a New York native, had never run for office and would face Giuliani, an intimidating opponent. No woman had ever won statewide in New York on her own. The national Republican Party would do everything in its power to demonize me and my politics. A campaign would be nasty and emotionally draining. And how would I campaign in New York while I was First Lady? The list went on.

“I don’t even know if you’d be a good candidate, Hillary,” he said. I didn’t know either.

That afternoon, the U.S. Senate voted to acquit Bill of the impeachment charges by a wide margin. Neither charge against him received a majority of votes, let alone the required two-thirds. The outcome itself was anticlimactic, causing no elation, only relief.

Most important, the Constitution and the Presidency remained intact.

I still hadn’t decided whether to run, but, thanks to Harold, I now had a more realistic view of what a campaign would require. With the impeachment trial behind us, it was time to address the issue. On February 16, my office released a statement acknowledging that I would give careful thought to a potential candidacy and would decide later in the year.

Harold gave me a list of too New Yorkers to contact, and, in late February, I began calling and meeting with each of them-beginning with Senator Moynihan and his wife, Liz, who had run her husband’s campaigns and was extraordinarily knowledgeable about New York politics. Senator Moynihan offered generous public support, telling NBC’s Tim Russert, who had once worked for him, that my “magnificent, young, bright, able Illinois-Arkansas enthusiasm” would suit New York and New Yorkers. “She’d be welcome and she’d win,” he said. That took my breath away-especially the adjective “young.” I also consulted with former New York City Mayors Ed Koch and David Dinkins, who were supportive and encouraging. Senator Schumer was helpful and practical, having just survived his own brutal statewide campaign. Democratic Speaker Sheldon Silver, party Chair Judith Hope and members of Congress, mayors, state legislators, county chairmen, labor leaders, activists and friends all weighed in with their views. So did Robert E Kennedy, Jr., an environmental activist whose father had held the seat before Senator Moynihan. He, too, was enthusiastic and promised to tutor me on pressing environmental issues in the state.

Yet, as encouraging as many people were, plenty of others worked feverishly to discourage me. Close friends, in particular, couldn’t fathom why I would consider a grueling Senate campaign after the emotional upheaval of the past few years. Life on the campaign trail would be a far cry from the comfort and security of the White House. Each day would begin at dawn and seldom be finished before the wee hours of the morning.

This peripatetic existence would mean eating meals on the fly, living out of a suitcase for months on end and relying on friends around the state to let me stay in their homes when 1 was on the road. Worst of all, it would mean little time during our last year in the White House with my family and even less time with friends.

There were also doubts about whether Congress was where I could be most effective.

For months, I had been mulling over my options for life after the White House. Some friends argued that I would have more influence promoting change in the international arena than in the 100-member Senate. After nearly three decades as an advocate and eight years as First Lady, I had accumulated broad experience working on behalf of women, children and families. Even if I managed to win, I wasn’t sure it was worth giving up a visible platform for an intense political campaign and the daily demands of life as a politician.

And there were more opportunities to consider: I had been approached about running foundations, hosting a television show, assuming a college presidency or becoming a corporate CEO. These were appealing choices and far more comfortable than the prospect of a tough Senate race.

Mandy Grunwald, a skilled media consultant who grew up in New York and was a veteran of Senator Moynihan’s recent campaigns, echoed Harold’s warnings. She cautioned that I would have to learn to deal with an aggressive New York press corps (not one of my specialties). Mandy bluntly explained that I would not receive any free passes just because I was the new kid on the block: Mistakes were not overlooked by the New York press. They are often blown up in the tabloids, broadcast on the local news at 6, 7, 12, 4, 5, 6, 10 and 11 o’clock, and dissected by newspaper columnists. Then the radio talk show hosts get their turn. And that wouldn’t be all. Given the historic nature of a First Lady running for the Senate, I could also expect more than the usual New York press contingent scrutinizing my campaign. Just the prospect of my running prompted national and international media outlets to flood my White House press office with interview requests.

The treacherous waters of New York politics also caused me some concern. Knowledgeable New Yorkers frankly advised that I could never win because I wasn’t Irish, Italian, Catholic or Jewish, and an ethnic identity was imperative in such a diverse state. Another constituency that would pose an unusual challenge was Democratic women, particularly professional women my age who normally would be my natural base but were skeptical of my motives and my decision to stay married to Bill.

One day in the spring, I was running down the list of hurdles I would face when Patti Solis Doyle, my scheduler and an astute political adviser, interrupted my monologue and blurted out: “Hillary, I just don’t think you can win this race.” She was so sure that I shouldn’t―and wouldn’t―run that she and her husband, Jim, made tentative plans to move home to Chicago.