The Confession (17 page)

The first winter after she came was an especially cold one. We had more snow than I ever remember—six, seven feet of snow. Month after month it piled, trapping people in their homes. I barely slept, running around the township trying to keep the roads open. On top of that, I was busy raising money for the senate run. My first run for mayor had cost me $250,000. At the state level, the stakes were higher—and so was the price tag. Jack set a fundraising goal for me of more than $600,000. It was like squeezing rocks, trying to get that much money out of my friends. But we persevered.

At the same time, all the lobbyists suddenly starting asking for meetings. They all wanted access, which was a sure sign they thought I could win. They were all very nice, all well dressed, but their expectations were high; I found myself uncomfortable among them, not yet sure how to respond to their demands.

I was lucky to have Jack Fay at my side throughout this period, smoking and sipping coffee over the
Times
in the corner of my office, freely dispensing his wisdom and moral guidance. It was like having Sir Thomas More on call at all times. He hated the lobbyists, whom he collectively called “the Unclean.” Sometimes he would crank his glasses up to his brow and blurt out his leftist critiques of them in the middle of my meetings—startling my guests, who'd no doubt assumed he was my old grandfather or uncle I allowed to hang around the office. Finally, I had to start receiving the lobbyists in our conference room; I wasn't about to ask the great Jack Fay to clear out of my office, even for a few minutes.

I weighed their proposals, trying to make choices based on their ideologies, track records, and commitments to the community. Jack thought this was ridiculous.

“Why do you give a damn? So Joe Dem can build a million-dollar extension on his home? You should care? Whoever gets the contract is in it for the money. That's all.”

He had a point. But back at home, Kari was pulling me in the other direction. She thought there was something lowly about the way Americans campaigned for office, and how, once in office, we focused on mundane things like providing services rather than points of policy. I remember saying to her once, “Kari, I'm not
supposed
to be grappling with the big issues of the day. I'm running a city. It's hard work.” But of course she was mostly right. I wasn't stepping back and seeing the many moral compromises and ethical shortcuts I was beginning to take in the fundraising process. More and more, we were spending our best energies on the business of rewarding supporters and placating detractors—in other words, engaging in the business of patronage.

I tried to convince her that all of this was essential, that it was all part of building my career. To her it must have seemed like the only business of government was handing out jobs and contracts.

I must also admit that our love life went by the wayside, though she never complained. Looking back, I wonder if avoiding intimacy wasn't the real reason I worked so many late nights. More than once I do remember being relieved to find Kari asleep when I got home—I could slip in beside her without feeling any obligation.

Our worst fight came on the occasion of Morag's first birthday party, a month before Election Day 1993. I was like a robot by then, running for senate while trying to keep up with obligations at town hall. It was the same day as the Mayor's Soccer Trophy, a yearly banquet for the school leagues. To make the day memorable for Morag, Kari had baked almond tarts, scones, and an angel food cake with lemon filling. After greeting our guests, I told Kari I had to slip out for a few minutes for an appearance at the banquet. But I got caught up handing out all the little awards, and I didn't return for four hours. When I got back the guests were gone, and Kari was cleaning up in a blue funk.

“Woodbridge only has one mayor,” I said in my defense.

“Morag only has one father,” she shot back. She was right.

Her frustrations, which were all justified, turned to disgust when the Republicans started playing dirty politics. A friend of mine who worked at the post office called campaign headquarters one afternoon. “You are not
going to believe what they're trying to nail you on,” he told me. “They're mailing out a leaflet with a picture of your car in front of an adult bookstore in Times Square with a big headline: ‘What was Jim McGreevey's car doing in front of this place?'”

I don't know how many times in my adult life my heart has frozen in place thinking I'd been caught. This may have been my longest seizure ever. Until I saw a copy of the flyer, I was convinced I'd been busted for sure. But the image was an obvious fake. They had pasted a photograph of my official township car, a silver Chevy Caprice, over a photograph of one of those sleazy emporia on West Forty-second Street advertising GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS! The text of the brochure revealed the germ of the story—that my car had received a parking ticket at eight o'clock one morning in the vicinity, which was absolutely true.

The true story, however, was completely innocent. That morning I'd raced into town for a meeting Senator Bradley's office had kindly arranged, to help me get an expedited passport for a trip to Woodbridge's sister city in the Dominican Republic, Paraiso. In my rush I'd pulled the car into a no-parking zone in front of a Catholic church and paid the fine for my impatience. How ironic was that—all the embarrassing places I'd been, and what got me in trouble was parking in front of a Catholic church.

That's how the game is played—smear campaigns, baseless allegations, and character assassinations. It was disgusting, and done without shame. The leaflet was produced by the Republican State Committee, the highest body in the GOP organization. They mailed it to every household in the 19th Legislative District on the Friday night before the Tuesday election. The parents of every kid in Morag's playgroup got a copy. Kari was beside herself with hurt. “Jim, why do people do this?” she asked. In Vancouver, this kind of dirty politics was unheard of. “I don't want to live like this, with people who would behave this way.”

Neither did I. On Saturday morning I called a press conference with Democratic Party leaders and Rev. Jack Dunlap of the First Presbyterian Church of Avenel, who founded the sister-city project that runs a free clinic there. Several area pastors joined us, as did Senator Frank Lautenberg. I hammered my fist on the podium in anger, demanding a retraction and an
apology. “This is made up of whole cloth,” I said. “This is politics at its worst.”

Ultimately, the Republican State Committee admitted it was a fake. Still, I knew it had made an impact—if not always the impact the GOP wanted. One of my supporters even said to me with a wink, “Well, at least we know what kind of mayor we have!” I'll admit, there was a part of me that didn't mind the rumor that I was interested in GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS!

After the dust had settled, I was elected state senator, just two years after becoming mayor and four years after joining the assembly—a hat trick that brought me to the attention of the statewide party leadership. At thirty-six, I was a young man with a future.

 

HOPING TO MAKE THINGS BETTER WITH KARI, I BOUGHT US ALL
tickets for Walt Disney World for Christmas. We'd never been on a real vacation before—not even a honeymoon, because I was running for mayor at the time. We had always wanted to go to Ireland, but for now, given our meager finances, Florida would have to suffice.

We weren't even able to stay in any of the charming theme hotels on the Disney campus. Instead I booked us at a little Holiday Inn along the highway a few miles away. Everything was so expensive there that we all stayed in one room, including Agnes, and lived on Domino's Pizza—breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

No one was happy about the arrangements, but I tried to keep a cheerful demeanor, especially for Morag. I wanted this to be a magical experience—something she'd remember her whole life. But she wasn't any happier than the rest of us. It rained constantly, I remember. It was cold. She was sleeping nonstop, perhaps because she had a cold coming on.

She was fast asleep in her stroller on the afternoon of the fabled Disney Christmas Parade. When Santa's sleigh appeared, I thought,
Finally—this will cheer her up.
I started to wake her.

“Jim, please don't do that,” Kari said. “She's two years old. You're doing that for yourself, not for her.”

“Don't be silly,” I assured her, shaking Morag awake. “Look, honey, Santa Claus is coming!”

The sight of a big red-suited man coming at her through the rain was too much for her. She screamed and screamed, and would not be comforted.

 

I LOVED KARI AS MUCH AS EVER. I ADMIRED HER AND RESPECTED
her and my heart ached for her whenever we were apart. But I knew it wasn't right. If any marriage would work for me, this one would—but it didn't. She suspected this, I am sure, and it must have made her feel awful. It wasn't her I was rejecting. I loved her deeply as a friend and companion. I loved her company. I loved being on vacation with her. I loved watching her as a mother. I loved being with her. I simply wasn't made to mate with a woman; it went against my nature. But I wasn't about to say that to her or do anything to threaten our marriage, which I valued so highly.

After Agnes's first blizzardy winter in our condominium, the next year she and Kari decided to spend a few weeks with Morag in Vancouver, where the weather is much milder. Kari hadn't returned to work after the delivery and Morag wasn't in school yet, so there was nothing to keep them home. Morag loved seeing her extended family there, and I was happy to know they were comfortable and among family. In the spring and summer, they flew to Vancouver again. I managed to join them for a few days, but not as much as I would have liked.

If only I'd been paying closer attention, I would have noticed that Kari was removing more of her things from our home with each trip she took. She returned only briefly in 1995. I never complained. I missed my family terribly, but their absence freed up my time for political work, for which I was developing a true addiction. I loved all of it—helping people, feeling the power, tracking the backroom machinations. And the harder I worked, the less I thought about sex, or heard the whispers of my heart.

 

IT WASN'T AN IDEAL TIME TO BE RETURNING TO TRENTON AS A
Democratic lawmaker. Jim Florio lost his reelection, as expected, and
Whitman moved into the governor's office, giving the Republicans control of the executive branch
and
both houses. My party was in a shambles. We lacked clear leadership and lost track of our vision. The party responded by turning to pollsters and consultants rather than returning to our core values—which to me have always included helping the poor, sick, and elderly; investing aggressively in the young; stabilizing the economy; defending the environment; advancing social justice; and advocating for middle class interests. We should never need to test these values with focus groups or surveys. But it was becoming popular for individual senators to employ their own pollsters, then argue among one another about the popularity of each new initiative.

Without bold vision, we weren't likely to get anything passed. The Republican majority locked us out of all leadership positions and kept us marginalized in committees. Our legislation rarely even made it to debates. It isn't overstating things to say we were totally irrelevant in Trenton at the time.

I did sponsor or cosponsor a number of meaningful but doomed bills, among them a Charter Schools proposal and a bill to cap municipal spending. Revisiting my earlier work on the Holocaust, I also sponsored a bill—the first in the nation—mandating that the terrible history of Nazi war crimes be taught to every child in New Jersey schools, lest that tragic chapter ever be forgotten. That bill ultimately passed, but for many years it wasn't a priority for lawmakers.

In frustration, then, we stood by as Whitman and her allies pushed through a series of Reaganesque policies designed to shrink government and create wide-open incentives for business investments. Whitman seemed to have her eye on higher office from the start. Indeed, she'd quickly made herself over to appeal to the conservative wing of her party. George Will dubbed her an American Margaret Thatcher, “without all that abrasiveness.”

With great fanfare, she enacted three successive income tax cuts, totaling 30 percent. The top income earners got smaller reductions, but in dollar terms they reaped the biggest savings. Families earning more than $2 million a year—like Whitman and her husband, a Wall Street corporate buyout specialist—saved more than $13,000; for most New Jerseyans, the yearly savings was $350. I also saw the wisdom of giving taxpayers a little relief after the Florio debacle, but Whitman's deep cuts backfired on her, as local
property taxes were raised even further to offset the shortfalls. The tax bills of ordinary New Jerseyans were largely unchanged.

Then she set her sights on energy deregulation, which at the time was a big war cry for Republicans. Dismantling government oversight of public utilities was one of the greatest scams of the 1990s. I never thought the idea made any sense. Power companies claimed that deregulation would provide consumers with competitive opportunities, allowing them to select a favorite electricity “vendor” from a menu of choices. Theoretically that would drive down prices, as it had when the telephone companies were deregulated.

But I knew energy was a different story. For generations, New Jersey had followed what was called a “rate-based rate of return” system, which accounted for the utilities' reinvestment in infrastructure and technology, factored in overhead and expenses, and established a fair rate of return for shareholders while assuring consumers weren't being gouged. It was a successful system, and as a result New Jersey had one of the most powerful grids in the nation. I argued for preserving the old system.