The Negotiator Read online

  “Hi, Shep. What’s up?”

  “I’m calling about the Senate seat.”

  “What about it? Have you already got the inside scoop?” Shep knew everybody in Maine Democratic politics. I guessed that he had somehow found out who the governor was going to name and was calling to tell me. I was surprised by his answer.

  “No. Joe hasn’t made up his mind yet. He wants to know if you’ve thought about it.”

  I sat upright. “You talked to him?”

  He dodged the question. “I’m telling you he wants to know if you’ve thought about it.”

  I had thought about it, of course. But I had quickly dismissed it for the obvious reasons: I’d been appointed a federal judge just six months earlier and I was widely considered to be a political loser. “Well, yes, I have thought about it.”

  “Are you interested?”

  “Well, I don’t know, I’m not sure. I just assumed that he’d appoint Ken.”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t know all the background, but I’ve heard it’s not going to be Ken.”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  “You should do it, George. You know the Senate, you know the issues, you can handle it.”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure.” I repeated myself, fumbling for time, trying to think of what to say or do. It wasn’t the last time I would find myself in this position. I wanted it, but I wasn’t sure if I should try for it. I loved being a federal judge. It was a safe, secure, meaningful position, and I knew I could do it well. But the Senate! And Ed Muskie’s seat! What an honor. What a challenge. I’d have to talk to Sally. She certainly would have concerns and most likely would prefer that I not accept, though, despite reservations, she had gone along with my earlier political efforts. I also feared another failure. I was vaguely aware of the dismal record of appointed senators. Most didn’t seek election to a full term or were defeated if they did; very few went on to successful careers in the Senate. Both of Maine’s members of the House of Representatives were popular Republicans; either would be heavily favored to beat me in the next election. I had lost once in a statewide election. What reason was there to believe that I wouldn’t lose again? My mind raced with uncertainty.

  “Why don’t you think about it, George, then call me back? But there’s not much time. He’s going to make a decision soon and announce it next week. I think you should do this. Let me tell him that you’re interested.”

  When Sally returned home later that afternoon, I told her about the call. As I had anticipated, she preferred that I not consider the Senate. Although there were other stresses in our marriage, unrelated to politics, we had a life that overall was good and comfortable. But, as had happened before, she said she’d go along with it if that’s what I wanted. She was insistent, however, that no matter what happened, she would not move to Washington. She had been there once, and she didn’t like it. In addition Andrea was about to turn fifteen and was in her first year of high school. So we agreed that if I was appointed they would stay in South Portland and I would commute to Washington.

  That evening I called Shep. I wasn’t sure this was a serious inquiry. I didn’t know (and never will) who, if anyone, in the governor’s office Shep had talked to, or whether this was his own initiative. But in the end, all of the uncertainty and all of the obstacles were outweighed by the opportunity. In life risk is unavoidable. I told Shep to let the governor know I was interested.

  Word spread quickly. Within twenty-four hours I received calls from two friends who urged me not to get involved. One thought he was being considered and said candidly that he’d have a better chance if I was out of the picture. Our discussion was friendly, with a lot of good-natured banter. The other caller said he’d heard I was going to be chosen because Muskie had “forced” me on Brennan. I told him that anyone who believed that didn’t know the governor. I knew Joe Brennan well, and of one thing I was absolutely certain: he would make up his own mind. While he would seek and listen to advice, in the end it would be his choice, for his reasons.

  Then the governor called. I had known him for nearly twenty years. I had worked for him in the District Attorney’s Office, and we had run against each other in a primary election. The conversation was brief and cordial. He wanted to talk to me about the Senate. We agreed to meet and did so soon afterward. He was direct and to the point. He said he would appoint me to the Senate for one reason, and one reason only: “I think you can do the best job for the people of Maine.” He passed on to me the request from Muskie that I keep on as many members of his staff as possible. He then paused, looked me straight in the eye, and said, “I have only one request of you.” I braced myself. I had no idea what he might want from me. “What is it?” He replied, speaking slowly to give emphasis to his words. “I ask only that you do the best you can for the people of Maine and the nation based on your conscience and your best judgment. I will never ask you for anything else.” And he never did. Not once, ever, did he ask or suggest or hint that I vote a certain way, act a certain way, or speak a certain way. I left that meeting confirmed in my belief in his integrity. My conscience and my best judgment! I was impressed by what he asked for and relieved that he hadn’t asked for anything else. I also left with a deep determination to succeed, for him as well as for myself. I was keenly aware that he was taking an enormous political risk in appointing me. The governor would be up for reelection in two years and right there at the top of the ticket with him would be his appointee to the Senate, seeking election to a full term in his own right. The governor’s own reelection could be affected by my performance. I was determined not to let him down.

  It was widely reported, and even more widely assumed, that Senator Muskie had urged Governor Brennan to appoint me to the Senate. There were obvious reasons for that. I had served on Muskie’s Senate staff and had taken leaves of absence from my law firm to work on his campaigns for vice president and president. He had helped me to become U.S. attorney and then U.S. District Court judge. We had a very close and warm relationship. But the reports and the assumptions were wrong. Muskie had urged Brennan to appoint Ken Curtis, and he would have been justified in feeling that he had done more than enough for me. But he had other reasons, consistent with his lifelong practice of always trying to do the right thing. I was a federal judge. Curtis was not then holding any public office. By any reasonable standard Curtis appeared to be a much stronger candidate than I. And on the most important issue of all, Curtis had served as governor for eight years and before that as secretary of state of Maine; he could be expected to more quickly adjust to the demands of the Senate than I and more effectively represent the people of Maine. Muskie genuinely and rationally believed that Curtis was the best choice for the position. Had Brennan agreed, his decision would have been widely accepted and applauded. But while deeply respectful of Muskie, Brennan, as always, made his own decision. Unlike Muskie, who knew me only as a member of his staff, Brennan had seen me close up as a candidate in a political campaign. As a result he saw something that few others did: the possibility that the widespread view of me as a political loser might not be correct, that I might be able to do a good job as a senator and be an effective candidate for election to a full term.

  ELIZABETH TAYLOR’S HUSBAND

  When I entered the Senate in May 1980 it had been in session for five months. Although I had worked there as an aide to Senator Muskie, nearly two decades earlier, I had never personally experienced a filibuster. Not long after I arrived one occurred. Curious, I went to the Senate chamber at the appointed hour and took my seat. I was surprised to see that I was the only senator there. After several minutes another senator entered. He stood, was recognized by the presiding officer, and began to speak. He then spoke for a long time. He was followed by another senator who did the same thing, and then another. I spent several hours in my seat, listening. I eventually realized that I wasn’t learning anything, so it was well after midnight when I walked over to a Senate aide standing by the
door to the chamber.

  “Excuse me,” I said, “I’m new here.” Before I could go on he said, “Senator, that’s obvious to everyone.” Undaunted, I asked him where all the other senators were. “Where did they go? What do they do during a filibuster?” I asked.

  “They’re doing the sensible thing. They’re sleeping,” he said. “Come on, I’ll show you.” With that, as I followed, he walked out the door, took a few steps, and entered a large darkened room. There, to my astonishment, I saw, spread out, many canvas folding cots of the type I associated with emergency shelters. On the cots were United States senators: all male, all sleeping, mostly elderly and snoring. “There,” the clerk said, pointing, “There’s an empty cot in the middle. You’d better grab it.” There were no aisles, so to get to the empty cot I had to climb over other senators. The first was Ted Kennedy. He was a big man, and at that moment he looked to me like Mount Everest. But, slowly and carefully, I got over him without waking him up. I finally made it to the empty cot and as I lay down I began to have second thoughts about having given up a federal judgeship for the Senate. I had been a dignified person in a black robe; now, here I was, lying on a narrow, uncomfortable cot in my suit with a bunch of old men in suits, while a few senators spent the whole night on the Senate floor talking but saying little. I began to feel a sense of regret, even self-pity, when I rolled over on the cot and looked, on the next cot, directly into the sleeping face of Senator John Warner of Virginia. He then was married to Elizabeth Taylor. After a few minutes of wallowing in self-pity I thought, “Who am I to feel sorry for myself? There, just a few inches away from me is a man who could be home, legally in bed with Elizabeth Taylor, but who instead is spending the night with me.” At that moment I recalled what we all know to be true: No matter how bad off you may think you are, somebody is worse off. You can waste your time in self-pity, or you can do something about whatever problems you face. Then and there, I decided that’s what I would do. I haven’t felt any self-pity since, thanks to John Warner, who I hadn’t then met but who was a very capable senator and later became a good and valued friend.

  ELECTION TO THE SENATE

  My appointment to the Senate in 1980 and my election to a full Senate term in 1982 represented peaks of success, but there was a long and very deep valley between them. It was a time of testing and near despair. My problems burst into full public view almost exactly a year after I was appointed. In early May 1981 most of Maine’s newspapers ran prominent articles on a public opinion poll commissioned by Congressman David Emery, which showed that in an election to the Senate he would defeat me by 36 percentage points (61 to 25). One not very subtle headline said of me, “He has no chance to win.” Emery had been elected to the House of Representatives in 1974, when he was in his twenties, following two terms in the Maine Legislature. He had never lost an election. Maine’s other representative in Congress, Olympia Snowe, also had served in the Maine Legislature before her election in 1978 to the House. She too had never lost an election. She immediately responded to Emery by announcing her interest in the Republican nomination for the Senate, and she released a poll she had commissioned: it showed her defeating me by 31 percentage points. In the matchup with me, Snowe’s poll was as disturbing as Emery’s. But her poll went further; to emphasize the extent of my political weakness it included a matchup of Curtis and me. While the margin was less, the result was even more negative: among Democrats in a primary election Curtis would beat me by 22 points (57 to 35). In what the press labeled the battle of the polls, Emery fired back two days later with more information from his poll. Not surprisingly it affirmed that he would be a very strong candidate, heavily favored to trounce me in the general election. The battle of the polls triggered a series of newspaper articles and other political commentaries about me and my political prospects, almost all of which were heavily negative.1

  The other members of Maine’s delegation to Congress—Emery, Snowe, and Senator Bill Cohen—were Republicans, but in our work there were few partisan differences. We were a small delegation from a small state, so we knew we had to concentrate on Maine issues of common interest and work together. As a result, on a personal level, I developed a good relationship with each of them. There were of course some disagreements and misunderstandings, but none was significant enough, individually or collectively, to adversely affect our overall relationships. Obviously, because we served in the Senate, I saw and worked with Cohen more often; we got along so well that a few years later we wrote a book together.2 But my relationship with Emery and Snowe was good enough that I knew it would complicate the upcoming campaign.

  In June I got a slight reprieve when Snowe announced that she would not seek the Republication nomination to the Senate. Emery had argued successfully that it was “his turn” because he had entered the House before Snowe. The view that either Snowe or Emery would easily defeat me gained wide acceptance. One reporter who covered Washington for Maine newspapers asked to see me for personal reasons. He was somber but kind as he expressed what amounted to his condolences. It took me a few minutes to realize that he was speaking about me in the past tense: “You have nothing to be ashamed of, you’ve done your best, and I’m sure there’s still a good future for you somewhere in Maine.” I tried to lift the gloom by saying, “In a sense I feel privileged because not many people get to hear the eulogies at their funeral.” We both laughed, but after he left the gloom stayed with me.

  Although I didn’t realize it at the time I hit rock bottom in September, when Ken Curtis announced that he had established an exploratory committee for his candidacy for the Senate. His argument was simple and direct: I was such a weak candidate, certain to lose, that Democrats needed to replace me with a candidate who had a chance to win. He had twice been elected governor; I had run for governor and lost. To emphasize his point he released yet another poll; it confirmed Snowe’s poll that in a Democratic primary election he would beat me easily.

  I had been discouraged by the Emery and Snowe polls, but I was devastated by Curtis’s announcement. A fellow Democrat, a truly close friend I liked and admired and with whom I had worked for twenty years, he gave public expression to the doubts and fears of many Maine Democrats, and his poll was itself more evidence of my political weakness. The doubts and fears increased. But so did my determination. On September 30, Curtis’s committee distributed to all Democratic members of the legislature and all members of the Democratic State Committee a memorandum making the case for his candidacy. It cited the poll numbers that had previously been made public, then added other supportive information. I braced for a rush away from me and toward Curtis. To my surprise it didn’t happen. A few expressed their support for him, but most held their fire, at least publicly. It may have been faint, but I still had a political pulse.

  I had been working hard, but to deal with my many problems I could think of nothing other than to work harder. When the Senate was in session I attended and participated in every committee meeting, studied every bill, met every constituent. My time in Maine, on weekends and during congressional recesses, became a whirlwind of school and factory visits, service club luncheons, church bean suppers, and private and political meetings of every kind.

  I had been shocked by the findings of the polls, and several newspaper reports, that a large number of voters didn’t know who I was. They weren’t unfavorable; they simply had no impression or opinion of me. In desperation I tried to connect favorably with as many as I could. I announced that I would meet personally with any Maine citizen who requested a meeting. I began the process of traveling to my field offices around the state on weekends and during congressional recesses. There I spent hours meeting one-on-one (with one staffer present to take notes) with anyone who asked. A few were cranky, a few came just for the pleasure of telling me what a jerk I was (there were other even more unfavorable and unprintable phrases). A few brought up pending legislation. But the overwhelming majority were serious and sincere, intensely personal, often hurting and
aggrieved by some adversity. Many had lost their jobs. As I listened to their stories, my mind returned to my father’s year of unemployment; my heart ached for him, and for them. It was a sobering experience for me. After every round of meetings I thought, “And I think I’ve got problems!” I was forced to stop thinking about myself, to stop feeling sorry for myself. My resolve and determination to win increased, in part to be able to do what I could for the people who poured out their problems and their hearts to me.

  When I started this process it was not especially demanding because not that many people were interested in meeting with me. But, as time passed and I got better known, the number of requests steadily increased. Then, after I was elected majority leader, they shot up exponentially. As a result, those seeking a meeting had longer waits, as the list grew ever longer and the number of days on which I could hold meetings declined. Despite the difficulties, I was determined to maintain the effort, and did so, to the very end of my tenure in the Senate.

  Another practice I adopted was to have my staff select each day several of the most negative letters I’d received from Maine. I read each letter carefully, then from my office in the evening I telephoned each of the letter writers. Almost everyone I reached was surprised and many doubted that it really was their senator calling. Once I was able to convince them that the call was genuine, I told them that I had read their letter, that while we disagreed I welcomed their views and appreciated that they had taken the time to write to me. With a few exceptions the conversations were polite and civil. Later, while travelling in Maine, I was approached by many people who had received such calls and wanted to meet me in person. Unfortunately, I was not able to continue this practice after I became majority leader. The burden of managing the Senate, which then met often in the evening, was too great. I still tried to read the negative letters from Maine but couldn’t make the calls. To my surprise, I missed them.