The Negotiator Page 15

  Shortly after I became majority leader I continued the tradition of hosting a private dinner for all of the senators and their spouses. It was a purely social occasion, intended to welcome the new members and to give the returning members an opportunity to reengage after the Christmas break. I asked Senator Byrd to speak and suggested he talk about the Senate itself. He did so in lengthy remarks that were riveting, inspiring, and at times melancholy.

  With power and passion he described the origin and evolution of the Senate, what it meant to the country, and to him. The longer he talked, the more emotional and personal he became. He had devoted his life to the Senate, to the benefit of the institution and the nation, but at great cost in his personal and private life. He worked very long hours, and when he wasn’t working he read extensively. He had read all of the works of Shakespeare seven times and all of the classics of Roman literature several times. He seemed to remember everything he’d ever read. And yet, along with pride and devotion, there was a clear sense of poignancy, even loss, at what he had missed and especially of the burden his career had placed on his beloved wife.

  When I returned home that night I couldn’t get his words out of my mind. Six years earlier, on Christmas Day 1982, shortly after I had unexpectedly won election to a full term in the Senate, I had decided that I would not try to make the Senate a career for life. In my short time there I had seen how the office consumed those who occupied it, and how it was starting to consume me, to the exclusion of every other interest in life. I was working long hours, seven days a week. The phone calls, the meetings, the issues, the problems seemed endless. I resolved to do my best while I was there, but I would leave on my terms and at a time of my choosing. Now, six years later, I had just been reelected to the Senate and then elected majority leader. After listening to Senator Byrd that evening I had two thoughts. I admired and respected him more than ever, and as an American I was grateful for his devotion. But I knew that I could not live as he had lived, and I reaffirmed my decision not to stay for the rest of my working life.

  Not all Democratic senators shared my view of Byrd, and during 1987 internal speculation and discussion began about his future. Although it wasn’t until April 1988 that he formally announced he would not seek another term as majority leader, it was evident that would be his decision long before then. So the campaign to succeed Byrd started early and was long. Unlike public campaigns for the Senate, the elections for the leadership tend to be private and intensely personal. There were, after all, only fifty-five eligible voters.

  Inouye and Johnston made their candidacies known first. Both were well qualified. Inouye was a decorated army veteran of World War II. He had served in the Territorial House and Senate in Hawaii and then for four years in the U.S. House of Representatives before his election to the Senate in 1962. He was pleasant, able, and universally liked by other senators, Democratic and Republican. Several press accounts described him as a natural successor to Byrd. Johnston was exceptionally intelligent, with well-honed debating skills. He had served in the Louisiana House of Representatives and Senate before being elected to the U.S. Senate in 1972. I had a good relationship with both of them. Inouye had chaired the Iran-Contra Committee; there I had worked closely with him. Johnston and I had become friends outside of the Senate. He was one of the best tennis players in the Senate, and I had shared the court with him many times. I would have had a hard time choosing between them.

  Shortly after they began to campaign among their colleagues, on an otherwise unremarkable day, I got up to leave the Senate chamber following a vote. Senator Max Baucus, a Democrat from Montana, walked up to me and asked, “Have you got a minute? I’d like to talk to you.” “Sure,” I answered. Max and I served together on two committees, Finance and Environment and Public Works, and had collaborated on a lot of legislation. We found two empty seats in the rear of the chamber.

  As we sat down Max got right to the point. “Have you thought about running for majority leader?”

  I was aware that my name had been included in press speculation, but I had done nothing to prepare or advance my candidacy. My answer, “Well, not really,” was unconvincing, even to me.

  “Well, you should.”

  “You think I should run?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you serious, Max?”

  “Yes, I’m serious.”

  There was a pause. “Well, I’ll have to think about that.”

  “That’s what I’m asking you to do. Think about it. Now. Will you?”

  “Well, yes, I will.”

  “If you run, I’ll support you and I think a lot of others will too.”

  At first I didn’t tell anyone about our conversation, but for two days I thought about little else. The arguments against my running were strong. I had been in the Senate only seven years; in fact I was still in my first full elected term. Inouye and Johnston were far senior, far better known, far more experienced. The positive arguments seemed less strong. I had worked hard on legislation, with a modest but good record of success. I had done well in the Iran-Contra hearings and as chairman of the Democratic Senatorial Campaign Committee in the 1986 election. Several senators had been very complimentary about my comeback victory in 1982, but I took that to be routine political flattery. I’d worked well with colleagues on both sides of the aisle and was not aware of having made any enemies. But was that enough?

  Two days later Bill Bradley came up to me on the Senate floor and bluntly urged me to run. A former professional basketball player, Bill was a well-known, highly regarded senator from New Jersey. I worked with him on the Finance Committee, where, with a few other senators, we had been deeply involved in major tax reform legislation in 1986. He said that he would vote for me and would actively work for me. “You can win. But you’ve got to get in and get to work.”

  Max had gotten me thinking hard. Bill focused my thoughts. I convened a meeting of a few members of my staff. I described my conversations with Baucus and Bradley and asked them for their reactions. They all urged me to run. That wasn’t a surprise; it was as obvious to them as it was to me that I wanted to do it. But I didn’t want to make a fool of myself. I didn’t know (and still don’t) whether Baucus and Bradley had acted independently. I had no way of knowing whether there was wider support, as they both had indicated. After considerable discussion I decided to talk with John Glenn.

  I knew of no senator who didn’t respect Glenn. A true American hero, who will be remembered long after all of his Senate colleagues, John was personally modest and politically moderate, a perfect bellwether from a bellwether state. It was difficult for me to even raise the subject of my running for the majority leader position, but my fears were unfounded. He was, as ever, gracious. He said he thought I would be a strong candidate and, if elected, an effective leader. I didn’t directly ask for his support then, but I was encouraged enough to get into the race. Later, after I asked for and received his commitment, I went further and asked him to give the nominating speech for me at the caucus. He agreed and delivered graceful and low-key remarks that may not have changed any votes (every senator had made a commitment before the nominating speeches began) but provided reassurance to those who had committed to me.

  The campaign continued for months. I met individually with every Democratic senator except Johnston and Inouye. A few committed to me in the first meeting; a few others told me they were committed to someone else. But most said they were undecided. So there followed several rounds of meetings. Many didn’t decide until the weekend preceding the election. It was the Thanksgiving holiday and I spent the entire weekend packing for a move from my apartment in Northwest Washington to a small townhouse on Capitol Hill, just minutes from my Senate office. For the four days of that holiday, between opening, filling, and closing dozens of cardboard boxes, I made and received scores of calls from senators who were in the final stages of decision making. By Monday, the day before the election, I thought I had the votes to win.

  But
I was wary. Not long before, Senator Byrd had asked to see me. I sensed what was coming and steeled myself as I entered his large and impressive Appropriations Committee office in the Capitol building. He seated me in a soft cushioned chair and pulled up a small wooden chair on which he sat directly in front of and looking down at me, our knees almost touching. It was a bright sunny day and light poured into the room through the spacious windows behind him, creating a halo-like effect around his silver hair. Although I had guessed right about what he would say, it still hit me hard when I heard it. He began by reviewing my Senate career, our relationship, and all he had done for me. It was all true, as I acknowledged. He reminded me that much earlier I had committed to vote for him for majority leader. I acknowledged that as well. Then he pulled his chair up even closer, leaned in until his face was right next to mine, and in a low but intense voice asked me to honor that commitment by withdrawing from the race so that he could seek reelection. He said he thought I couldn’t win because of my inexperience and lack of seniority, but he was confident that he could win if I dropped out and supported him.

  I pointed out to him that he himself had changed the circumstances by not seeking reelection; it was not reasonable to now expect me to withdraw my candidacy, and I would not do so. He didn’t like my answer, and we repeated the essence of the conversation several times before the meeting ended. It was one of the most intense and difficult of my Senate tenure. He made it clear that he wouldn’t vote for me, but my admiration for him was undimmed. He was a great man, strong and proud, and he was reluctant to cede power. In a perverse way I admired him more than ever.

  Three seats in the first row of the Old Senate Chamber were reserved for the candidates. I sat on the aisle just a few feet from the dais. To my left was Johnston, and to his left was Inouye. As we each wrote our names on the ballot we joked about the fact that no one would be shut out in the balloting. Under the rules of the caucus, to be elected a candidate needed a majority of votes. If no candidate received twenty-eight or more votes on the first ballot, the candidate with the fewest votes was eliminated and the other two would compete in a run-off election.

  As the ballots were passed up to the dais for counting I reviewed my situation. I thought I knew how every senator would vote. I expected to be elected on the first ballot with twenty-eight votes; Inouye would get fourteen and Johnston thirteen. In addition I had second-ballot commitments from six senators; they had promised to vote for one of my opponents on the first ballot but had assured me that they’d be with me on a second. But I couldn’t be sure that all of my first-vote supporters would stay with me on a second ballot. And there was always the chance that Mo Udall had been right. I remained outwardly calm, but my heart was thumping hard when Byrd announced the result.

  “Mitchell twenty-seven, Inouye fourteen, Johnston fourteen.”

  My first thought was that Mo Udall was wrong. In a secret ballot fifty-four out of fifty-five senators had voted as they said they would. A good record by any standard. But my thoughts shifted quickly. I was one vote short. One senator had not kept his commitment to me. Instantly the face and name of that senator came to my mind. I don’t know how or why I knew who it was, but I did know, with absolute certainty. I started to turn to look at him, seated somewhere behind me. But I suppressed the urge. That could wait. For now I had to think clearly about how to proceed.

  Before I could do anything, before any other word was spoken, Bennett Johnston rose and asked for recognition. “Mr. Chairman,” he said, in a clear and strong voice, “I move that Senator Mitchell be elected majority leader by acclamation.” Dan Inouye rose to second the motion, and instantly the other senators stood, applauding and shouting their consent. When the new Congress convened in January 1989 I would be the majority leader of the Senate. I shook hands with and thanked Johnston and Inouye. It may sound trite, but I really did like both men and regarded them, then and thereafter, as friends. I then thanked and accepted congratulations from Byrd and most of the other senators.

  The rest of the day was a blur of press conferences, congratulatory calls, meetings and more meetings. It was after eleven o’clock that evening when I finally lay down in bed so physically and emotionally exhausted that I fell quickly into a deep sleep.

  Through a haze I heard the telephone ringing, loudly, insistently. I had been sleeping so soundly that for an instant I didn’t know where I was or what time it was. I picked up the phone.

  “George?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s ——.” He said his name.

  My mind snapped to full alert. “I know why you’re calling.”

  There was a long pause. “You do?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I can’t explain it, but I know. I knew it the moment the vote was announced.”

  There was another, much longer pause. “Well, I want to apologize and to explain.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I’m truly sorry. I did it. I shouldn’t have, but I did.”

  He then explained what had happened and why. Although they didn’t justify what he did, I understood his reasons. Politics, like life itself, can force painful choices.

  “I accept your apology,” I said. “You’ve shown a lot of guts in calling me. You had no way of knowing that I knew. As far as I’m concerned it’s over. It’s behind us. I’ve got to run the Senate now, and I’ll need your help and the help of a lot of other senators. Let’s concentrate on the future.”

  I assured him that I would never disclose his name to anyone. I never have. His name will go with me to my grave. He went on to an outstanding career in the Senate, and I served for six difficult but exciting years as majority leader.

  The next day I called Bob Dole, the Senate minority leader, and asked to meet with him. I felt it important to establish a good relationship with the man I would have to work closely with for years to come. Bob had been in the Senate for twenty years; before that he had served eight years in the House. He had been chairman of the Finance Committee and majority leader and was the Republican nominee for vice president in 1976. He was nationally known; I was hardly known at all. My only real contact with him had been during our shared assignment to the Finance Committee. To the limited extent that we had interacted, our relationship was polite and cordial. I was aware that there had been occasional tensions between Dole and Byrd, and I wanted to avoid that in my relationship with Dole, if possible.

  When I entered his office Dole again congratulated me on my election. I thanked him and then went directly to my reason for asking to see him. I said that while I was a relative newcomer in the Senate, I was aware that the leaders’ jobs were extremely difficult, with a high potential for misunderstanding and mistrust. I told him that I wanted to have a good personal and working relationship with him. I had come to tell him what he could expect from me: “I will never surprise you. To the extent that it’s humanly possible, I will always give you notice of my intentions, hopefully far enough in advance that you’ll have time to consider your response. I will never attack or criticize you personally, in public or in private. I will always be available to you. We’re going to disagree often. But I hope and intend that we’ll do so in a way that’s not personal and that permits us to continue to work together. Finally, I pledge to you that I will always honor and keep my commitments to you. I hope I can expect you to act the same way toward me.” While I was talking I could tell by the look on his face that he was pleased. His response was positive, enthusiastic, and generous.

  Among the reasons I admired Bob Dole was his moving personal history. From the small town of Russell, Kansas, he entered the army during World War II and soon found himself in the mountains of Italy. There, as a twenty-one-year-old platoon leader, he was grievously wounded. After years of rehabilitation he continued in public service, ending in his long Senate career. His war wounds resulted in the loss of the use of his right arm, so as I rose to leave the meeting I extended my left ha
nd. We shook hands and I left, determined to keep my word and confident that he would keep his.

  For the next six years we worked together in the Senate leadership, I as majority leader, he as minority leader. When the Senate was in session we met and talked several times a day. We occasionally had lunch or dinner together. We represented different parties with different political philosophies. We negotiated hundreds of agreements on Senate business and procedures. We discussed, debated, and voted on many hundreds of issues, some of them extremely contentious. We often disagreed. But not once did a harsh word ever pass between us, in public or in private. I kept my word to him and he kept his word to me. Over those six years our relationship grew close. It has mellowed in the nearly two decades since I left the Senate. We don’t see each other as often as we once did, and the differences are now muted and often unspoken, but there remains between us an enduring bond. We share pride in the fact that we represented our country, our parties, and our constituents vigorously (and, we hope, effectively) but without rancor or hostility.

  TALMADGE

  Two days after the general election in early November 1988, I read in a newspaper that I had won all but one of Maine’s 673 voting precincts. The only one I lost was in Talmadge, a small town in eastern Maine, not far from the Canadian border. Naturally this aroused my interest, so I asked my staff to obtain a list of voters in Talmadge. I then wrote to each of them, referring to the newspaper article and inviting them to attend a town meeting with me in Talmadge. I told them I wanted to find out what they thought I was doing wrong. The meeting was set for early December.

  Route 1, one of the oldest and best known roads in America, runs from Fort Kent, at the northern tip of Maine, to Key West, at the southern edge of Florida. Unlike more modern highways, it rarely follows a straight line. To the contrary, like a retired couple heading south for the winter with lots of time on their hands, it meanders back and forth across the vast landscape of eastern America as if searching (but not too hard) for the warmth of the Florida sun. For its first two hundred miles it traverses just two Maine counties, Aroostook and Washington. Both have lots of land and few people. The landscape is varied and beautiful, the people hardy, resilient, and very independent. Just over halfway in that first stretch it passes by Talmadge. There, just a few miles from the Canadian border, in the election of 1988, I received twelve votes to Jasper Wyman’s eighteen.