Jimmy Two: America in Carter's Second Term

[Vidal]

JIMMY TWO!
America in Carter's Second Term

2023 Best Cold War to Contemporary Timeline​

This is not about creating some liberal utopia. If it were, Jimmy Carter would not be my choice. The archetypal “liberal” president deregulated industries at the expense of unions, decided to dramatically increase the Pentagon’s budget while sacrificing an opportunity for national health insurance because of its cost, opposed a minimum wage increase, and formulated an energy policy that relied heavily on the widespread use of coal. None of these would fare well in a Democratic primary today. But, at the same time, Carter seemed far to the left in other ways. He wanted universal same-day voter registration, and he proposed it at the start of his first term. He wanted to tax capital gains at the same rate as wage income. He rejected tax cuts for the rich. That deregulation I mentioned earlier was all part of helping the consumer — at the expense of big business interests (unions were collateral, not the intended object of Carter’s ire). And that energy plan that relied on coal also invested significantly in solar and wind energies. He appointed more women and people of color to the federal bench than all of his predecessors combined.

But beyond this complicated legislative legacy is another stunning fact about our 39th president. He never told a lie. Not once did the press corps catch him in some outright untruth. And they tried. And yes, he was prone to some exaggeration here and there, but he never lied. Whether you read Jonathan Alter’s biography of him, or Rick Perlstein’s account of his presidency, or Kai Bird’s biography of him, that fact isn’t in dispute. He promised the people he wouldn’t lie to them, and he didn’t. He made mistakes — yes. He kept Bert Lance around too long — heck, he appointed him in the first place. He eschewed the norms of Washington, believing he could treat Congress — a legislative body of more than 500 full-time legislators — like the Georgia state legislature that convened for a fraction of the time. He thought he could handle the presidency without a chief of staff. And he worried too little about the political outcomes, rarely considering that particular policies may be popular for a reason.

Jimmy Carter is a lot of things, but he is not the simple caricature I learned about from the history books or from the conventional wisdom when I was growing up. He is not a big government liberal who drove our economy into the ground. He was not a hapless president in over his head watching the world pass him by. He did not spend his presidency prioritizing the White House tennis court schedule over the affairs of state.

Like a lot of us, I hate being lied to. And I grew up learning a certain historical canon — that Jimmy Carter was a failure. But when a car accident happens and a seatbelt saves the driver’s life, there’s a pretty good argument to be made that Jimmy Carter wasn’t a total failure. When I sip a drink at a craft brewery, there’s pretty good reason to believe Jimmy Carter didn’t totally screw up on the job. When a family can afford to fly on a plane for their vacation, when impoverished Americans are able to access food stamps without first purchasing a physical stamp, when Americans watched the Soviet Union fall apart — all of these are instances when someone should have said, “Hey. Jimmy Carter wasn’t a failure.” But no one did. And few do today.

We are in the midst of a national reexamination of Jimmy Carter The President. We’ve always appreciated Jimmy Carter The Man. Jimmy Carter The Ex-President. Jimmy Carter The Humanitarian. But now we are reconsidering Jimmy Carter The President, and I think that’s important. Not because he was the best or most successful president. Not because he was a perfect president, or even a nearly-perfect one, but because we’ve been lied to for so long. We’ve been told that Jimmy Carter is synonymous with failure, with disaster. That he is proof positive that liberal ideas don’t work, when, in fact, Carter was one of the last presidents to face a major primary challenge because he wasn’t liberal enough for the Democrats of the day.

No, Jimmy Carter cannot be fit into a box, and that’s precisely why I felt compelled to consider what his second term may have looked like. I’ve read a lot of timelines on this board, but I believe the best ones are when the author makes a controversial decision — one that goes against the standard groupthink — and then is able to convince you to see their premise in a new light. I enjoy the timelines when ‘plausibility’ does not mean a simple straight line. For a man as paradoxical as Jimmy Carter, there is a lot to work with and a lot of decisions to consider. As I’ve written the timeline, I’ve been nervous, wondering to myself, Would Jimmy Carter really do that? But the reason Carter is such a fascinating subject for alternate history is because there are so many ways you could answer. My ultimate hope is that this alternate history shows you something about him that his biographers couldn’t.

Of course, he had some ingrained traits. He was self-assured. He often thought he was the smartest person in the room. But even some of his most characteristically Carter beliefs — his love of peace, for example — were not absolute. He was no pacifist. He considered military intervention throughout his presidency before deciding against it. He wanted to take on big business and expand the social safety net without ballooning government spending. Which side won out with him? Hard to say. Conservatives will tell you the former. Liberals will argue the latter. And this is why his second term deserves a thorough examination. In fact, it deserves multiple thorough examinations.

If there was one North Star I kept while researching this timeline, it would be a quote from @Yes in his introduction of McGoverning: “The best fantasists, on the other hand, weave altered worlds then drop real souls in them, where they behave in the fresh landscape as real souls would. That’s the goal here. Things change, but Things change. People don’t stop being themselves (at least the ones already born when we start.)” There is no better advice for the alternate historian, but it is especially important to keep in mind when dealing with Jimmy Carter. As I tinkered with points of divergence and the 1979-1980 portion of this timeline, I kept going back to this quotation. In some ways, Carter is the best subject for this, and in some ways the worst. He is a man of contradictions, and in showing you other decisions he may have made, I have sought only to illustrate his complexity — not to change his character.

I thought about an early point of divergence — getting rid of Bert Lance. But there’s no way Jimmy Carter goes to Washington without one of his closest personal advisers, especially while Charlie Kirbo stayed home. I considered having Carter embrace Kennedy’s plan for national health insurance, but there is simply no way to persuade Jimmy Carter, in the environment of the 1970s economy, to buy-in to a plan the spent that much money, even though his heart wanted to give healthcare to all Americans. I have enjoyed reading and listening to Walter Mondale recount his time as vice president. He is almost aghast — still — that you were never able to persuade Carter based on political reasoning. It’s not hard to find ways to make George Bush or Gerald Ford two-term presidents. You go back in time, tinker with the advisers, have them include a question in a poll they might have missed and you manipulate it so the president sees the path to the second term. But you can’t do that with Carter, because Carter wasn’t driven by finding a path to a second term — only I was.

All of this is to say, I’ve long believed someone had to do Jimmy Carter justice. And I’m glad that Jonathan Alter and Kai Bird have done their part. Now, it’s time to bring the reexamination of Carter The President to alternatehistory.com. Of course, my version will not be definitive, but I hope it gets us to look at the possibility of a second Carter term in a real way. Again, the goal is not some kind of grand liberal erasure of Reagan. That timeline (which I often dream of) is more about going back to the ’76 election, re-electing Ford or nominating Mo Udall — anything to get a traditional liberal Democrat in office to preside over the prosperity of the 1980s. This isn’t that timeline. Jimmy Carter’s second isn’t going to be fun for Ted Kennedy or most Democrats, and it won’t even be that fun for Jimmy Carter, but I hope it’s fun for all of us as we consider what might have been.

“No one can know what ‘would have been,’ but with a new beginning and the millstone of the captive hostages removed, we would have continued our strong commitment to energy conservation, maintained our nation’s determined effort to bring peace to Israel and its neighbors, and kept our national budgets in balance.”
-Jimmy Carter

"We told the truth. We obeyed the law. We kept the peace."
-Walter Mondale

"But in truth, Carter is sometimes perceived as a failure simply because he refused to make us feel good about the country. He insisted on telling us what was wrong and what it would take to make things better. And for most Americans, it was easier to label the messenger ‘a failure’ than to grapple with the hard problems."
-Kai Bird in The Outlier (2021)​

 

[Vidal]

Author’s Note & Acknowledgements

Many of you know that my Amalfi Coast Villa in the test threads forum is littered with crumpled up points of divergences. There’s “Chasing Camelot,” where Kennedy survives, only to be engulfed in scandal. There’s “Nixon: Profile of a Car Salesman.” I’ve always wanted to do this one — a timeline where Nixon is a used car salesman and comments on the alternate timeline he finds himself in. There are more modern takes, like “Havoc” and “The Dog Who Caught the Bus” that deal with the War on Terror. There’s “A Snake At Sky’s Ranch,” the timeline in which Ronald Reagan loses to Gary Hart in 1984. And there are truly countless others.

But three timeline ideas have always stuck in my mind. The first is “Dah,” or “The United States of Amnesia.” It’s a world in which Gore Vidal is motivated to run for Senate in 1964 against Bobby Kennedy. His entry compels William Buckley to get into it as well, and we’re left with a messy Senate race in which Gore Vidal emerges as the next U.S. Senator from New York.

The other two deal with my favorite period of history: the 1970s and 1980s. I’ve already attempted one. “Passkey Down” — the timeline in which Squeaky Fromme is successful, Gerald Ford is assassinated, and Nelson Rockefeller assumes the presidency.

The last one, though, is my real passion, and we’re about to embark on it together.

I’ve always found Jimmy Carter to be a remarkable man — a man of contradictions, a man who so defies the political orthodoxies of our current politics. He was a man who rode into office on the back of the Religious Right, only to find himself swallowed by it in 1980. He was, simply, too honest for the job he had. I really believe he was too good a man to do it well.

I guess part of me has always felt that he got the short end of the stick, and while I am always happy to write a timeline where America is spared the rise of the Religious Right, this is not really that, nor is it some liberal panacea. I didn’t set out to make some ideological point with this timeline. I just think Jimmy Carter got dealt a bad hand, and so I thought I’d deal him a slightly better one and see where it goes.

Before I give thanks to the friends on this site who got this project off the ground, I want to shout out Rick Perlstein, who has influenced my view of history more than any of the textbook authors I stumbled upon in high school or college. His ability to connect the cultural and the political, his ability to draw the line from one event straight through to the Religious Right’s takeover of the Republican Party, inspired this project in many ways, and the publication of Reaganland encouraged me to really take up this project in a more earnest way than I had before.

I also want to take a moment to thank my girlfriend. We’ve just moved in to a new place together, and she has been patient and understanding as I’ve slipped away to feverishly type some 30,000 words in the last month or so. I owe a lot of people on this site for their support and guidance, but I would not have the time to spend here if I did not have a supportive partner in my real life.

Now for those we know a bit more personally, who graciously spent hours discussing and debating aspects of the timeline and offering their counsel.

First, to @Yes, whose McGoverning has influenced and motivated a great many of us. He played two crucial roles in spurring this timeline. The first was by being the first guest of the Villa to speak up and say that he liked what I had to say in my initial brain dump of Jimmy Two — giving me the confidence that I wasn’t alone in seeing a more successful Carter presidency. He also stepped in and showed me the way when I was agonizing over how to resolve the Hostage Crisis. He provided resources and advice that shaped a central tenet of this world.

Then, of course, came @Oppo, who also influenced the final outcome in a great way. While I had considered a different route altogether — having Thatcher accept the Shah and thereby butterflying the Iranian Hostage Crisis — it was Oppo who pointed out what many of the historians of this time did not put so bluntly: Carter needed the Hostage Crisis to defeat Kennedy in the primary. I soon became convinced of this, and for that I owe a great measure of thanks to Oppo, who prevented me from going down a flawed path.

And, finally, to @Wolfram, who finds it in himself to nod approvingly at every hair-brained POD that floats into my mind. Whether it’s a question about Hillary winning the 2008 Democratic primaries, about Al Qaeda assassinating Bill, or a question about the world we are all about to enter, he has provided reasoned advice that has given me the confidence to re-open Scrivener time and time again. You’ll notice his touch on those chapters that mention two of our favorite Texans.

But really, to all of you who comment, message, and post: Thank you. We’ve found ourselves a cool little corner of the internet. I’m humbled to be here.

In conclusion, I can only quote the advice (from whom we do not know, though it is often misattributed to Ernest Hemingway) that most made this timeline possible — yes, even more than messages from Yes about the Hostage Crisis and Oppo about the Kennedy primary:

Write drunk; edit sober.​

 

[Vidal]

PROLOGUE

“We haven't done one thing in this Administration that has gotten us votes. Every issue that Jimmy Carter has taken on has lost us votes.”
-Evan Dobelle, Carter campaign chairman​

January 20, 1985
The White House — Washington, DC

Jimmy Carter entered the Oval Office for his final time as president. Gone were the paintings and photographs that marked his time in this room. The portrait of George Washington that once hung over the fireplace had already been moved. His personal photographs — of Rosalynn, of Amy, of the boys — had been packed away for his return flight to Plains. He approached the Resolute Desk and slowly dragged his fingertips across it. Anyone who had expected it to be empty had learned nothing about the man who occupied this room for the last eight years.

On Carter’s desk stood a gargantuan stack of papers — pardons and commutations all. Most of them involved nonviolent drug offenders. The pardons were for those who had used marijuana. The commutations for more than 50 Americans, many of whom men of color, who had chosen crack cocaine over powder cocaine. Their sentences were adjusted to be in line with the sentences of those who’d used the powder substance, many of whom were white. He sat down at the desk to sign them.

The sun was creeping through the windows behind him, and as he took a deep breath, he thought back to the events that had transpired in this office. Debates over the Panama Canal Treaties. Conversations about healthcare reform — in both terms. He’d sat in this very chair and delivered a speech that, he believed, redefined his presidency: The Crisis of Confidence speech. Some historians would come to call it the moment when Carter secured his second term. In that moment, Carter just thought about the land he’d promised the American people, and the future they’d worked together to achieve.

He came to this room when he learned that Americans in Iran had been taken hostage, and he was here — behind this desk — when he learned they’d been released. He’d discussed energy policy with Congressional leaders, urged them to act on Social Security reform, and pleaded with them to stop racking up the country’s debt. He’d sat in this very room and made decisions about not one but two appointments to the U.S. Supreme Court — to say nothing of the countless men and women he’d named to the federal judiciary. In his first term alone, he’d appointed more women, more African-Americans, and more Hispanics to the federal judiciary than all of his predecessors combined. He continued that legacy into his second term.

He’d been the first American president to confront the scourge of AIDS. He’d learned of political assassinations in this room. He’d sought to normalize relations with China and with Cuba. He’d debated Tip O’Neill and O’Neill’s successor, Kennedy and Dole, Baker and Byrd. He’d met newer members of Congress and state officials in whom he placed great hope for the Democratic Party’s future, leaders like Bill Clinton, Geraldine Ferraro, and Mickey Leland.

Most of all, he’d addressed the deep dissatisfaction that Americans held about their politicians — about Washington. He showed them it was possible for a president to serve not just four but eight full years without ever telling a lie.

Carter thought of all these accomplishments as he signed the pardons and commutations.

With each signature, he grew more grateful for the American people who had placed him in this office. He had been an improbable president — a president who took advantage of the new nominating process and, after winning two close elections, found himself with the most powerful of offices. Not bad for a boy from Plains. Not bad for Earl Carter’s son.

After he’d finished signing the final one, knowing the headache it would cause his successor, he capped his pen and rose from the desk. With his hands in his pockets, he looked again at the room, knowing it was time to go.

But Jimmy Carter had not been born into privilege. He had not gotten here easily, and he had not held onto the office without difficulty. His years had tried the American spirit. He’d never unearthed the secret to economic miracles. Instead, he sought valiantly to balance the budget and practice the fiscal restraint he thought would set the country on a prosperous course.

His final four years in office were dominated by the thought of what would happen in the Year 2000, when America welcomed a new century — a new millennium. He wondered what the politics of the nation would be, yes, but more importantly, he wondered what the state of the planet would be. He’d touched on this in his 1980 Convention address, his Inaugural address, and just last week in his farewell address to the nation. The boy from Plains was always looking to the future.

He neared the door that would take him along the walkway, beside the Rose Garden, and to the Residence. Rosalynn was getting dressed for the Inauguration of Carter’s successor. They were expected to welcome the president-elect in less than an hour.

Jimmy Carter knew it was time to go, but even he did not understand the extent to which he had shaped the nation in his image. His fiscal restraint and preference for peace had made possible a balanced budget — a reality that would alter the platforms of both major political parties. His defeat of the Moral Majority in 1980 did more to advance the causes of equality than he — or anyone — could imagine. He would live to see another seven presidents inaugurated — including an African-American and a woman. He’d be alive for the national legalization of marijuana for recreational use, witness the legalization of same-sex marriage, watch the fall of Communism, and before he left the Earth, he’d be honored with the Nobel Peace Prize and the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

Historians would call him one of the most consequential presidents in history. Some would praise his steady hand, others would say he squandered a time period that was ripe for progressive advancement. Environmentalists would say his achievements dwarfed those of Theodore Roosevelt. Conservatives would never forgive him for robbing them of what might have been.

On that bitterly cold day — when the inauguration would be forced inside — Jimmy Carter knew not what history would make of him or his administration, but he knew what he wanted them to say. He wanted them to say that Jimmy Carter had changed Washington. Only time will tell. So, he turned and looked once more at the Oval Office, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply — inhaling eight years of budget negotiations, bill signings, television addresses, and all the rest, and then slowly exhaling. They weren’t his problems anymore. He was about to be a former president. And then he closed the door behind him.

After eight difficult years, he was leaving with the begrudging respect of the American populace. He awaited a brief respite in Plains, but he knew that it would not be long before he launched into his post-presidency. He was excited about what lay ahead for him and for Rosalynn. He believed to his core that there was just one title in the American republic superior to that of President, and he was ready to don it once more: Citizen.


July 2, 1979
R Street — Washington, DC

Like most Americans, Jody Powell was having trouble filling up his car. He sat in line waiting — as did most folks in the summer of 1979 — until he drove to another gas station and then another. Finally, at the third station, he decided Fuck it and chose to wait it out instead of trekking across town to another place. And so he sat. And sat. For an hour. All the while, the radio blasted reports about what a horrible, no-good job his boss — and by extension Jody himself — was doing. In other words, a perfectly pleasant way to spend your Saturday afternoon. With a fury, Powell struck the radio, changing the station and replacing the somber reports on the state of the union with rambunctious music.

Powell was on the way to spend the day at R Street Beach — the bachelor pad (complete with a pool) owned by Pat Caddell, his colleague and the president’s pollster. There was a fratiness to the locale, where coke flowed freely (some wondered if it shouldn’t be named Powder Mountain instead) and buxom blondes and brunettes wandered in scantily-clad bikinis to the amusement of the White House staffers, Congressional aides, young associate lawyers, and other young men who — somehow — had been given the role of steering the ship of state. Some of the women were secretaries, some paralegals, some lawyers or lobbyists in their own right, and some — well, nobody knew where some of them came from. One would be forgiven if they searched (unsuccessfully) for some Greek letters on the door.

When Powell finally got to the pump, he looked at the price and sighed. “Goddamnit, Jimmy,” he muttered to himself before searching to make sure nobody had heard him. The gas flowed. His car started. And off he went — to the R Street Beach.

Powell, 35, showed up and parked his car — hearing the crowd before seeing it. As he opened the door, there was no Caddell to greet him. Caddell was somewhere among the masses. No matter. Powell found his way to the pool, doing a double take as one of those buxom brunettes, talking to the president’s right-hand man, Hamilton Jordan, asked the second-most-powerful man in Washington, “So, what’s your major?” Powell shook his head but grinned. He was married, but Jordan (infamously) was not, and his colleague took the question as a sign to wrap-up the conversation. Probably too young. He called for Jody.

“You didn’t want to tell her it was political science?” the press secretary snickered.

“I think ‘was’ is the operative word in that sentence,” Jordan replied. “Have you seen Caddell?”

“I just got here.”

“What the hell took you so long?”

Powell looked him in the eyes and sighed with his own, “Well, [Hamilton], I hate to tell you this, but I had to sit in line for an hour to get gas.”

Jordan’s smile widened. “Aw buddy! Only an hour! That ain’t too bad these days,” he said, the sarcasm practically flowing onto Powell’s shirt like oil from a well. “You should tell Reagan it only took an hour.”

The pair set out to find Caddell. Their eyes sought out curves and then trailed north, hoping to find Caddell’s face across from the woman holding court. They had no such luck. Caddell was not shirtless by the pool or downing shots at the kitchen counter. He was behind the shut door of his bedroom frantically working on a 107-page memo for the President of the United States — all while Georgetown students ripped shots and dove into the pool just steps away. Caddell was but a few years older (having been born in 1950), but while the co-eds frivolously spent their Saturday, he was putting the finishing touches on what would become one of the most consequential memos ever handed to a President of the United States.

The president had already seen what the original Caddell put together — a 75-page rambling titled “Of Crisis and Opportunity.” He didn’t embrace it, but he didn’t dismiss it outright as Walter Mondale, the vice president, had. In fact, the memo had sent Mondale into such a flurry that he was considering removing himself from the ticket in 1980 or resigning from the office at once.

When Jordan and Powell finally located Caddell, he was muttering the same words he’d been repeating for more than a month. They floated through the air as Caddell paced: “malaise,” “crisis,” “confidence — crisis of confidence,” “reshape,” “Lincoln,” “political and social fabric,” “Roosevelt,” “fundamental.” The final draft, to which Caddell was nearing, would total more than 100 pages, urge the president to deliver a philosophical address to the nation, and — perhaps most outlandishly — call on him to convene a Second Constitutional Convention. Powell, who was with Caddell on a lot of his argument, thought that went a bridge too far.

“Pat, let’s go!” Jordan called. “Come have a beer and talk this all over with us.”

Caddell waved them off. “I’m almost done. I need to get this to the president.”

Jordan rolled his eyes. “Well, we’ll be out there,” he said.

• • •​

While Jordan and Powell enjoyed their Saturday, Caddell remained holed up in his bedroom working on the memo. He’d read the poll numbers more times than he could count. Carter’s personal favorability ratings had been turned on their head. Almost no president had seen such a stunning drop in personal favorability — even as job approval numbers danced along the graph. Simply put, Carter couldn’t win reelection with these numbers. He had to inspire the American people. Validate and direct their anger. Give them a reason to hope again. All of it was too much — the waiting in lines, the talk of inflation, the lack of jobs, the culture wars over the ERA and gay rights. People were tired of all of it and just as Watergate had launched a peanut farmer into the White House, the seemingly permanent distrust of government it sowed threatened to make him a one-term president. Pat Caddell knew he had identified the problem.

He also knew that the president could survive this. The polling in the primary was bad, Kennedy would kill Carter if it were accurate, but when it came to the general election, Carter was somehow performing alright — even with depressing personal favorability numbers. In a May poll commissioned by the DNC, Carter led Ford by 5, Reagan by 8, Connally by more than 30-points, Baker by more than 20-points. If every other number was this bad, but he still beat the Republicans than there was hope yet for the scrappy peanut farmer who had already found his way into the Oval Office once.

Carter needed a reset moment. A bold speech to turn the corner. The problems went beyond the energy crisis or inflation. Voters saw them, but they could overlook them if only they believed in Carter. Mondale and the others who thought Caddell was a loon were the real loons. You didn’t need the best plans or the best policies to win an election. You needed people to believe that you’d do the best job — and they didn’t come to that decision because of policy memos or position papers, they came to that conclusion because they had a feeling inside them that told them to go ahead and trust you. And Carter’s only chance to reset the narrative — to get the American people to trust him in that way — was to deliver a primetime address that was boldly honest.

Caddell even suggested a sort of promotional tour to advertise the speech. The White House should announce the president was going off to an undisclosed location. Powell could tell the press that the president was gone, there wasn’t any crisis, he’d just decided to do something he’d wanted to do for a very long time, and then Powell could refuse to take questions. No American would dare miss such a speech. And then, with the whole nation watching, Carter could talk to them about the crisis of confidence they had and inspire them to overcome it.

The president had already decided to give a speech on July 5th, but it was set to be a traditional address on the energy crisis. Caddell knew what to expect: a speech laden with intricate assessments of the problem, uninspiring legislation to fix it, and an audience that couldn’t care less — even as they waited for hours in line to get gas. No, it wouldn’t do. If Carter wanted to win this upcoming election, he had to give a different speech. Caddell banked everything on the memo, even took a first pass at what the speech might say, and sent it off to make sure the president had it when he arrived at Camp David on July 4th for a day of rest. It would be Caddell’s final chance to convince the president he was right — and for Carter to give the kind of speech that could save his presidency.

As he put the finishing touches on the memo, a young woman - the daughter of an influential lobbyist - pushed her way into the room, begging Caddell to finish the memo and entertain her. Caddell was not conventionally attractive, but he had access to power and in Washington access to power was attractive. As Gore Vidal once famously said, “Everything is about sex, except sex. Sex is about power.” And so it was for Caddell in those glorious days of the Carter administration, when he brought actress Lauren Bacall to Carter’s inaugural ball (and went home with her afterwards) and went on more than a few dates with Christie Hefner, the daughter of Hugh. As for the young lady currently wrapping her arms around Caddell, the pollster insisted he needed more time to finish the memo. “Please,” he begged, “it’s the most important thing I’ve ever done.” But as she persisted, Caddell relented. “Fine,” he said, pulling down his swim shorts and unbuttoning his shirt. Such was the life of this young Carter staffer.

• • •​

When Caddell finally stumbled out of the bedroom an hour-and-a-half later when everything (and everyone) was finished, he found Jordan on the couch in the living room, watching others snort coke while he looked on. “Atta boy, Jordan!” Caddell said. “You can join them, ya know!” Jordan glared at Caddell. The media had (falsely) reported that he’d frequently availed himself of the powdery substance — and it was a source of agony for the young staffer. Caddell put up both his hands as if to say, Hey, I didn’t write Cronkite’s story for him. And he mosied to the kitchen. Jordan got up to join him.

“When are you going to give it to him?”

“He wants to read it on the 4th — when he’s in Camp David.”

Jordan nodded. “You’ve got Mondale pretty fucking pissed, Pat.”

“Mondale has me pretty fucking pissed, Ham.”

“The difference is Walter Mondale is the vice president, and you’re not.”

“The difference is Walter Mondale is never going to be the fucking president, and I advise the one we’ve got now. Goddamnit, don’t you people see? This is a deeper issue. This is a big problem. This is something we’ve gotta do something about.”

“I’m just saying, you’ve got Mondale pretty pissed. He’s talking about quitting.”

“Oh shut the fuck up,” Caddell said, pushing Jordan’s shoulder, “There’s no way that egotistical Hubert Humphrey wannabe is going to quit the vice presidency. Besides, we couldn’t get that fucking lucky in this administration. Without Mondale we could pick someone who’d get us votes.”

Jordan rolled his eyes. He viewed the possibility of a Mondale resignation with doom. It would be a disaster for Carter, he thought, and prove that the president couldn’t handle Washington. No, they couldn’t afford to let Mondale go. And Caddell’s attitude wasn’t helping diffuse the situation.

“Alright, well get the president your memo, will ya?"

“It’s all done,” Caddell said, a grin creeping across his face. “Signed, sealed, delivered — well, not delivered. I’ll do that in the morning.”

Caddell may have sounded crazy — and some of his ideas certainly were — but he had tapped into a reality that the Georgia Mafia had not yet come to terms with. Yes, there were a number of problems in America right now. Gas lines were long. Unemployment was on the rise. Inflation was devaluing people’s savings. But Jimmy Carter had done a lot of things right. He’d been calling for solutions to the energy problem. He negotiated peace in the Middle East. He was pushing for the decriminalization of cannabis. His deregulation of the airline industry had made air travel affordable for the middle class in a way it hadn’t been before. But none of this seemed to matter to most Americans. Instead, they remained at war with themselves.

So while Walter Fucking Mondale and Hamilton Jordan dicked around, Caddell was tapping into a broader problem. They wanted another speech. Another typical speech. Something that identified a problem and proposed a legislative solution. But Jimmy Carter had solutions. He was the smartest goddamn president the country had had in a long while, and people didn’t like him. The country needed to feel something again — like they did with Kennedy.

Carter was not an “Ask not” kind of president, but he did have the potential to talk to the country honestly and ask them to do their part — Hell, maybe he was an “Ask not” president. It was about what people could do for their country. It was about how we were going to overcome these problems together.

But all around people didn’t want to listen. Watergate made them distrust government. The media in the post-Watergate world had become so obsessed with making everything into a scandal (poor Bert Lance) that people were losing faith in it. Churches. Schools. Nobody cared about them anymore. Nobody trusted them anymore. And what was a peanut farmer from Plains to do about it all? Caddell figured he had to give it to ‘em straight. And if they didn’t want to hear it? Well, at least they tried.

 

[Vidal]

Part I: The Campaign
July 4, 1979 - January 20, 1981

"Recession is when your neighbor loses his job. Depression is when you lose yours. And recovery is when Jimmy Carter loses his."
-Ronald Reagan

"To say that Jimmy Carter does not understand politics or is not a good politician denies the phenomenon by which he got to the White House. He is without question the best politician, when he's working at it, of anybody I have ever seen."
-Hamilton Jordan​

 

[Vidal]

THE LAND PROMISED

“Then Moses climbed Mount Nebo ... There the Lord showed him the whole land ... Then the Lord said to him, ‘This is the land I promised on oath to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob ... I will let you see it with your eyes, but you will not cross over into it.’”
-Deuteronomy 34:1–4​

July 4, 1979
Camp David — Catoctin Mountain, MD

Presidents often have to leave the country. There are trade agreements to negotiate, peace to maintain, wars to prevent, leaders to meet. In June of 1979, the President of the United States was in Tokyo for the G-7 summit. It was Carter’s first time meeting the Japanese Emperor, which he was looking forward to as much as the four day vacation scheduled in Hawaii at the end of the trip. But the country had other plans for this president, because even though the president often travels abroad, he usually returns home to a stable country — one in as good of shape as when he left. Jimmy Carter — already on track to be one of the unluckiest presidents to ever occupy the Oval Office — received no such courtesy during his July 1979 trip. When he returned to the United States, the country was very much on the verge of falling apart.

Like a toddler left unsupervised, the United States at the end of June 1979, was in trouble. On June 24th, the New York Times had a front-page story that reported some people had to wait in line for up to five hours to fill their tanks. And that was if they could find a place to get gas in the first place. The Times also reported that 90% of New York gas stations hadn’t opened the day before. [1] But it wasn’t just everyday motorists who were angry. Truckers were, too. They were so angry, in fact, that they went on strike — strangling the nation’s distribution system at the worst possible time. The tension came to a head in Levittown, Pennsylvania. Levittown was the quintessential suburban community. The houses were identical and arranged perfectly. Driving through the streets you could almost hear that song: Little boxes on the hillside / Little boxes made of ticky tacky / Little boxes on the hillside / Little boxes all the same.

And yet it was here — in quiet, suburban, ticky tacky Levittown, Pennsylvania — that a riot broke out. It started with a protest. A group of truckers brought their rigs to Five Points (an intersection in town surrounded by four gas stations) and parked them right there. They told the police officers they would not be moving. Locals loved it and felt that the truckers were standing up for all of them. Gas stations in Levittown had been closed the day before. Now, the truckers were making a statement, and they wanted to join them. More and more people descended on Five Points. And then one of the other gas stations closed and the dozens of cars in line joined in the protest. Folks chanted “More gas! More gas!” It was a slow burn — after all, there was no fuel — but the fire was growing, and when night fell, Levittown erupted.

No one died in the riot that night, but 44 police officers and 200 protestors were injured. A mattress was burned. And a sofa. And a car. And a van. The stations nearby were vandalized and then that fuel was — literally — added to the fire. And north the flames went, rising and rising over Small Town, USA. [2]

The riot was the climax. The building action had included more than a few fatalities when summer heat and tension combined with long lines at service stations and produced deadly consequences. Dennis Rosales, a former Marine, shot and killed Andrew Medosa when they fought over a spot in line for gas. Medosa’s wife watched in horror as the incident unfolded. In Brooklyn, a man was stabbed to death over gas. In Dallas, another man was shot. It was pandemonium.

And this was the nation to which Jimmy Carter returned — unhappily — after his trip to Tokyo. The vacation in Hawaii was scrapped and Carter instead went to Camp David. His staff had already advised the networks that the’d be addressing the nation on July 5th. But a curious thing happened when Jimmy Carter arrived at the mountaintop.

• • •​

On the morning of Independence Day, President Carter read the revised 107-page memo from Pat Caddell, and like the Lord showing Moses the Promised Land, Carter believed Caddell had showed him his path to fixing America. He phoned Washington and told everyone there to stop working on the text for the next night. He was tired, he said, of not being straight the American people. Caddell had hit the nail on the head, diagnosing the sociological and political problems gripping the nation. Rosalynn had read it too, the president told them, and she saw things the way he did — the way Pat Caddell did. Cancel the speech on July 5th — he wouldn’t be ready. He wanted to talk to people and re-write the whole goddamn thing.

Gordon Stewart, the speechwriter who drafted Carter’s remarks for the 5th, threw his papers into the air and stormed out of the room. The vice president, also working with the team on the remarks, slowly sat back in his chair. Incredible. He said nothing but wore a look of complete exasperation. Hamilton Jordan shrugged. That’s Jimmy, he seemed to say. For Rex Granum, the Deputy Press Secretary, there was a more pressing matter. What should he tell the press? Carter was furious with the question. “Just tell them I cancelled the damned speech!” he barked. And so, that’s what Granum did, and as expected, the press went into a panic. Senator Abe Ribicoff from Connecticut groaned, “Why, the man doesn’t deserve to be president!”

The next day, Jordan and Powell were back at the R Street Beach, enjoying some time free from the Eighteen Acres now that the president’s speech had been cancelled. But then they got a call. They had to report to Camp David. The president wanted them immediately. Any sunny mood they enjoyed dissipated as they trekked to the Naval Observatory. The flight lasted about 40-minutes and Jordan said only, “We gotta fire some people.” [3] Had the rest of Washington been in the helicopter with Jordan, they probably would’ve replied, “There’s the door.” But alas, Ham was not on the chopping block.

At the moment, nobody was. Carter just wanted to listen. He wanted to hear from people — business leaders, governors, mayors, Congressional leaders, preachers and clergymen, teachers and doctors. He wanted to hear from Americans. “There’s a crisis of confidence in this country!” Carter told his aides, as if the discovery had been his and not that of a 107-page memo they’d all read. And so, Carter told them, they would be at Camp David for quite awhile — at least a week. Carter wanted to reflect on his presidency and then chart a new course.

Mondale was irate — apoplectic, even. He insisted the president’s speech should focus on the tangible crisis, not some psychological disaster. Caddell’s memo was loony, he said. It wasn’t the kind of address a president should be giving — not when there were riots in the suburbs over a gas crisis the president could do something about.

“We got elected on the grounds that we wanted a government as good as its people. Now, as I hear it, we want to tell them we need a people as good as the government; I don’t think that’s going to sell!” Mondale yelled. [4] Carter was adamant, and his mind was already made up. The president begged his vice president to see it his way.

“Fritz, we have to inspire the people to care about this. To move on. To join us in moving forward,” he said.

Mondale shot back, “You have a style problem. You can’t uplift people!” Jimmy Carter was no John Kennedy. It was a shot across the bow, but Carter took it in stride. He could get as good as he gave. He implored Mondale to read Caddell’s whole memo.

“I have!” he yelled. “It’s the craziest goddamn thing I’ve ever read.” Pat Caddell wanted very badly to disappear into the wall, but instead he just stood quietly while the Vice President of the United States suggested a memo he’d spent hours on — a document he believed would change the course of history — was the “craziest goddamn thing” he’d ever read. He started doing the math. Twelve years as a senator. Three as vice president. Mondale had certainly read a lot of memos…

Carter simply shrugged. “Well, I thought it was brilliant.” Caddell exhaled. There was a lot of disagreement over a memo he’d penned, but Caddell had convinced the most important person in the room. And with that, the president began calling upon leaders from all walks of life — summoning them to the Mountaintop and hearing them out. But first, he had to calm his vice president.

Around Camp David they walked, Jimmy and Fritz. For Mondale, the proposition of staying on in the Carter administration seemed a losing battle. What was all of this for? he wondered aloud. The president assured him of their mission, but Mondale wasn’t convinced.

“I think it would be best if I resigned,” Mondale said. “I don’t think I can be the kind of vice president you need right now. I’m not on this path; I’m not behind this agenda. Your staff doesn’t see eye to eye with me, and, frankly, I don’t see eye to eye with them. You need a vice president who is with you 100%, and I’m just — I can’t be that vice president for you. Not with this strategy. I think it’s a dangerous miscalculation.”

Carter sighed. “Fritz,” he said, putting his arm around the vice president, “I can’t do this job without you. The stakes are high, and we have Kennedy on the sidelines waiting to come in for the kill. We can’t let up now. There’s something profoundly wrong boiling below the surface, and I really think Pat’s got it. People don’t believe in us anymore — you said so yourself. But that wasn’t always the case. It’s been a tough year, but do you remember the campaign? People thought we were going to change Washington — give them the government they deserve. And we still can, but only if we remind them of that.”

The vice president was quiet, shrugging as the president made his counter-argument. He was convinced not to resign, but adamant that he consider stepping aside and letting Carter pick a new running mate at the convention. But Carter would have none of it. “And who would I pick, Fritz? You’re the best partner I’ve got. And the only one I want. Now, I need your help. Who should I hear from? Who has their finger on the pulse? I need you to put together some names for me — governors, yes, but mayors and thinkers — wise men and women — people we need to hear from. It’ll make the speech better and set our course.”

The whole idea of the summit was absurd to Fritz. The president locked up in Camp David (after canceling a speech no less), gathering advice from other elected officials, religious leaders, businessmen and women, and then… what? Giving a speech that excoriated the American spirit and talked more about feelings than policy? It wasn’t how Mondale would govern, but Fritz had another four years before he could make a go at the presidency himself. He had hoped to make such a bid as the incumbent vice president, but a pit in his stomach told him that dream was further and further out of reach. Instead, he’d have to claw his way back to Washington.

“Of course, Mr. President,” he replied. “I’ll get you some names as soon as I can. Let me think about who would be a good fit.” Carter smiled. His vice president was back on his side.

Whether or not these were wise men coming to Camp David was up for debate, but they didn’t arrive on camelback and they absolutely did not come bearing gifts. Instead, they brought candor — often in the form of bad news. The country, they agreed, was rudderless. And many had no qualms about reminding Jimmy Carter he was responsible for being the rudder. Or at least pointing the rudder in the right direction.

It started with the governors. The most vocal of the bunch hailed from Arkansas, and his name was Bill Clinton. It was too early then for Clinton to know how deeply his fate in electoral politics would intertwine with Carter’s, but in that moment he wanted to convey his concerns about Carter to the president himself. In his honey-layered Southern dialect, the Arkansas governor bluntly got to the point. “Mr. President, sometimes you’re too —” he seemed to search for the word. Pressing his lips together gently, Clinton paused before letting the truth dribble out “— puritanical. Sometimes you come across like a 17th century New England Puritan.” [5] Carter was quiet, but quickly disagreed.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I think I’m willing to tell the American people what they need to hear. Most politicians are content with simply regurgitating what they think Americans want to hear. I think people in this country can handle the truth, and I think they deserve it.”

Again, Clinton pressed his lips together. “Mr. President, don’t just preach sacrifice but liberation—and that it is an exciting time to be alive. Say your program will unleash a burst of energy.” Carter nodded quietly as Clinton sat unsure of whether or not he’d gotten through to Carter. “I believed firmly,” he would later recall, “that I was looking at a one-term president — a man who had the political skills of a cucumber.”

Each group of wisemen heaped valid criticisms upon Carter. Each time the president waved them off. He knew what he wanted to do. He knew what he needed to do. Mondale was apoplectic. He would later tell his biographer, “I was beside myself. I mean truly — honest to God — beside myself. Here he was calling on these people for their advice, but in reality he just refuted their arguments point-by-point. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Yet, as each group receded, Carter took to his diary for a range of assessments. Some were bizarrely candid. On July 7th he closed his entry with a grave truth: “Their criticisms of me were much more severe, including the basic question: Can I govern the country?” [6] But two days later, he thought he had orchestrated a miracle: Congressional agreement. He wrote, “This was a long day, with two congressional committee groups and a morning session on energy. I’ve never seen so much cooperation among this group who have been fighting for two years.” [7]

Just as he’d used Camp David to negotiate peace in the Middle East, Carter thought he’d be able to bring together the warring factions of his own political party.

• • •​

The most pivotal gathering came near the end of the sojourn to the mountaintop, when Carter conversed with religious leaders — or, as the White House staff called them, derisively, “the God Squad.” And it was on the evening of June 10th that President Carter found his moral clarity — the insight into his soul and the soul of his nation for which he had yearned. Marc Tannenbaum, a Rabbi, compared the president to Moses and believed that he would return from Camp David with a new vision for the people. The president listened intensely as Tannenbaum described the president leading the country away from “unrestrained consumerism” and “mindless self-indulgence.” Carter was mesmerized. He was Moses. Or, at least, Moses-adjacent.

Carter listened carefully as Robert Bellah, a sociologist of religion, laid out what he felt Carter should do. The president couldn’t have agreed more. His only question was how to do it. “We need to hold the people accountable,” he agreed. “There’s been a corruption of our values. Absolutely. But Fritz and others are worried that a lecture won’t work, and I agree. That’s not my aim. I want to move the country forward.” He did not specify where exactly he would lead the country, but it was implied to those who knew the book of Deuteronomy: the land promised.

Bellah urged the president to do what he knew deep down he wanted to do. When Carter asked how much the American people could handle, Bellah answered plainly, “They can handle the truth.” Just as Carter had told that young ambitious governor of Arkansas. The American people can handle the truth. And so, Carter knew, it was the truth he would tell them.

The speechwriting team agonized over Carter’s demands. The final version was left up to Rick Hertzberg, but others were involved in the draft. Rafhsoon’s objections to Caddell’s premise meant he was largely removed from influencing the draft Carter would deliver. Carter, and others on the team, did not want a speech that was thick with complicated policy. When one speechwriter dismissed Stu Eizenstat’s draft as “mumbo jumbo,” the policy adviser filled with rage.

“That’s bullshit!” he yelled. “This is what the country needs to hear. This is what the country needs!” And then he began to list his points in simple, matter-of-fact sentences. One by one until the eyes of the speechwriting team lit up — almost like they’d seen the Promised Speech. For they had found it. A speech that was worthy of their president. And so they scribbled furiously as Eizenstat ticked off his points. On and on they went until a breathless Eizenstat threw his hands in the air. “Mumbo jumbo?!” he reiterated in disbelief. “I don’t think so!” And the speechwriters agreed. They’d found a way to meld the solutions to the problem, the moral conundrum to the political. They had their speech.

And then the president retreated to the Camp David movie theater, draft in hand, where speechwriter Gordon Stewart — also a former theater producer — meticulously coached the president on his delivery, pretending to walk out of the theater in boredom until Carter’s voice matched the urgency of the moment — of his words — and convinced Stewart to turn around and listen to him. An exasperated Carter continued, delivering each line with a forceful emphasis. He would not let poor delivery squander the Biblical words in front of him. America needed to hear this speech. Somewhere, far in the back of his head, he heard Fritz Mondale’s words echoing: “You have a style problem! You can’t uplift people!” Carter knew he had to prove his vice president wrong.

Early in his career, newspapers reported that Carter bore a striking resemblance to the 35th president. Kennedy’s legacy loomed over Carter — and all subsequent presidents — in more ways than one. Not only did Carter believe the former president’s brother would primary him, he knew that he was unable to match Kennedy’s charisma. But where Kennedy had charisma, Carter had the truth, and he would practice the speech until his delivery ensured success.

After a long night of rehearsals, Carter tucked himself into bed and turned to his wife. “Rosie,” he said in earnest, “I’m ready.”


July 15, 1979
The White House — Washington, DC

Carter knew the speech inside and out. He’d rehearsed it, after all, which he never did. On the evening of July 15th, Carter began his remarks to the people. He’d scrapped an opening about how it was the anniversary of his nomination to the presidency — Powell told him it was “weird.” Instead, the president began with an acknowledgement that the times were difficult, and that he understood Americans had turned to him for steady leadership. “During the past three years, I’ve spoken to you on many occasions about national concerns, the energy crisis, reorganizing the government, our nation’s economy, and issues of war and especially peace,” he said.

And he hinted the speech would wax philosophical: “Gradually, you’ve heard more and more about what the government thinks or what the government should be doing and less and less about our nation’s hopes, our dreams, and our vision of the future.”

With a firm voice and a clenched fist, Carter asked the question all of America was wondering: “Why have we not been able to get together as a nation to resolve our serious energy problem?”

He felt confident about his message and his delivery, and he gathered momentum heading into the most bizarre portion ever delivered by a president: a resuscitation of criticisms. He quoted Clinton: “Mr. President, you are not leading this nation -- you’re just managing the government.” He quoted regular Americans, like a young woman in Pennsylvania who thought ordinary people were excluded from political power. The words of a black woman, a Mayor of a small town in Mississippi, who told him, “The big shots are not the only ones who are important. Remember, you can’t sell anything on Wall Street unless someone digs it up somewhere else first.” Those watching from Georgia recognized the rhetoric of their Southern populist former governor.

Then, the president told his nation he wanted to talk about a “fundamental threat to American democracy,” which he identified simply: “It is a crisis of confidence.” He continued, “The erosion of our confidence in the future is threatening to destroy the social and the political fabric of America.”

He spoke, without ever using the word, of a national malaise. People were unsure that better days lay ahead—a marked difference from the traditional American attitude. He cited public opinion polls, “For the first time in the history of our country a majority of our people believe that the next five years will be worse than the past five years.” Like a preacher, he decried the “growing disrespect for government and for churches and for schools, the news media, and other institutions.” Few knew at the time that he was diagnosing a very real — very pervasive problem that had the chance to metastasize until it engulfed the country. Carter, however, was determined to prevent that from happening.

He ended the speech by listing off policy prescriptions from the problems, and he announced that he would speak again in Kansas City to reiterate the argument he made that evening. Reverend Carter once again invoked sacrifice: “We can manage the short-term shortages more effectively, and we will; but there are no short-term solutions to our long-range problems. There is simply no way to avoid sacrifice.”

Then, the teleprompter in front of him halted for just a second, but it was long enough that the president felt compelled to go off of his prepared remarks so as not to lose the momentum his speech was gathering. He reached for the words Bill Clinton had offered him days before. “But this is about more than sacrifice. It is about liberation. It is about our country moving forward into a better tomorrow — a tomorrow where we are not reliant on foreign powers. This is our chance to free ourselves.” And then the teleprompter caught up with him, and he continued, mentioning his upcoming trip to Kansas City, thanking the American people for their strength, and encouraging them to join him.

He thanked the country, said goodnight, and then the speech was over.

Jody Powell clapped. Pat Caddell grinned. Hamilton Jordan smiled, because it was over. They shared a drink together and then everyone headed their separate ways, and Carter went off to bed.

When he awoke the next morning, the news was positive. Caddell believed they were looking at a significant polling bump. One overnight poll gave them an 11-point bump. Another poll said 17%. Carter, who always put his faith in Caddell’s numbers, saying his pollster was “never wrong,” was thrilled. The famed Theodore White heaped praise on Carter, saying, “No president since Abraham Lincoln has spoken with such sincerity to the American people about matters of spirit.”

Carter would later write in his diary, “There was a feeling we’d done it. I think the press felt something was happening. The people did, I know that based on my travels. There was a sense of almost joy in the country … joy, expectation, we’re on our way again.”


July 17, 1979
The White House — Washington, DC

Pat Caddell would, for years, believe that he had saved the Carter presidency from certain destruction. With the threat of Kennedy looming and an emboldened Republican Party, it was Caddell who had put his finger on the pulse, identified the problem, and prescribed the antidote. In reality, the person who saved the Carter presidency may have been Richard Moe, the Chief of Staff to Vice President Mondale.

It was during those long nights at Camp David when the president questioned every facet of American society, interviewing elected officials and faith leaders, when Richard Moe stumbled into a meeting of Carter’s Georgia Mafia. They were all there — Jordan and Powell, Rafshoon and Caddell — and they were debating the worst idea Moe had ever heard: If Carter should fire a majority of his cabinet when they got back to Washington. They wanted all the cabinet secretaries to write letters of resignation and offer them to the president so that he could be seen as shaking up the government. Moe was incredulous as Jordan called the idea “brilliant” and said it was “exactly the bold action we need to take after the speech.”

Moe did not hesitate to speak up. “Do you remember the last guy who did that?” The blank stares indicated they didn’t. “That’s exactly what Nixon did, and it only hurt him.” Jerry Rafshoon, who had come up with the idea, fought back. “It’s totally different!” he promised. Moe didn’t see it, and he seriously believed that any goodwill Carter may earn from the speech would disappear overnight if he followed it up with firing his cabinet. And if the speech was a disaster, as he predicted, then it would seal the fate of his presidency. Rather than go back to sleep that night, Moe went to find the vice president. [8]

Walter Mondale had already flirted with resignation or retirement, and he desperately wanted to see Carter fire some of the cabinet, but when an out-of-breath Richard Moe appeared at his cabin that night, he knew that he should listen to his chief of staff. Moe stated his case. Rafhsoon and Jordan thought Carter should demand the whole cabinet’s resignations. Then, Carter would fire about half of them. It would send the wrong message, Moe insisted. Yes, they thought it would show strength, but in reality it would be perceived as yet another example of the hapless peanut farmer unable to manage the government. “Your instincts are right about Schlesinger — maybe Blumenthal and Califano,” Moe said, referring to the three cabinet secretaries Mondale wanted Carter to dismiss, “but if you go ahead and let Carter do this, it’s going to underscore everyone’s negative perceptions of him.”

Mondale nodded. He was listening, mulling over the idea, as Moe continued to insist. “This is what Nixon did,” he reminded the vice president. “You remember how that changed everything.” Mondale did. The Nixon presidency had dominated his career in the Senate. He remembered it well. It was late at night, and so he put his hand on Moe’s shoulder and assured him that he’d take Moe’s advice directly to the president the next morning.

And he did. He knew the president rose early, and so Mondale greeted him outside his cabin, offering him a cup of coffee and asking to go for a walk. Through the trees they went, one foot in front of the other, hands in their pockets, disagreements filling the air. “I think this idea about the cabinet — you’ve got it all wrong,” Mondale said. He agreed with Carter that Schlesinger had to go — Blumenthal and Califano, too, but to demand all of the cabinet’s resignations at once would muddle the message. “If you fire Jim, it sends the clear signal that you’re ready to bring in a new Energy Secretary to fix the problem. If you demand everyone’s resignation and then accept Jim’s it just looks like you picked his out of the stack. The message is stronger,” Mondale insisted, “if you target the change.”

Carter nodded. “But don’t you think there’s something to be said for one fell swoop? We’re coming in and cleaning house,” he pushed back.

Mondale didn’t agree. “The problem is, you’re already in the house. You brought these people in yourself.” Carter started to see the point his vice president was making. The conversation drifted to other topics, and then, finally, they found themselves back at Carter’s cabin.

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Fritz said, ending the conversation. He wasn’t sure if his message had gotten through, but he’d tried.

Carter respected Fritz’s warning but wasn’t entirely convinced — until he ran the idea by the rest of the senior staff. The president was teetering. At first, he opposed the idea, but then Rafshoon and some of the others talked him into it. Carter liked bold. He knew that was what the moment demanded. But now, here was Fritz coming and saying it was too much — it would step on the speech, and he’d reminded Carter that the whole idea reeked of Nixon and wasn’t Carter supposed to be the anti-Nixon?

On July 17th, the president convened his staff to outline a few of the changes that would be implemented in the post-Camp David White House. He floated the idea of a mass firing, telling his staff, “I may ask all of the cabinet for pro forma resignations.” Stu Eizenstat gulped. In his mind he made an eery prediction, Our foreign partners, who know only their own systems of government, will think ours has disintegrated. Before moving on in the agenda, Carter took a brief pause, and Eizenstat looked around the room, saw others wearing faces of concern, and filled the silence.

“Mr. President, I think we should consider how this will be seen. I know that we need a cabinet that’s committed to carrying our agenda forward, but I don’t think this is the way to get it. It’s going to create confusion — especially among our foreign counterparts — and it’s going to be misread by people here at home.”

The president nodded his head. “Anyone else?”

Anne Wexler agreed with Eizenstat, noting that a more targeted approach would be better received by the public and limit the confusion. “I think the bolder move is actually to take the time to identify the problem areas and move swiftly to fix them instead of branding the entire cabinet in a certain way,” she advised. Carter nodded, taking it all in.

Ham didn’t put up much of a fight, and now that Fritz’s opinion was shared by multiple members of his own inner circle, the president decided to reverse course. “Alright. Ham, let’s discuss who we should change around, but we’ll scrap the idea of the pro forma resignations.” And on the meeting went. [9]

Finally, the president decided to ask for James Schlesinger’s resignation. Griffin Bell, the Attorney General, had already been planning his departure. A month later, Secretary of Health, Education, and Welfare Joseph Califano also left the administration. Treasury Secretary Blumenthal had been spared, but his future in the Carter White House remained anything but certain.

>>>>>>>>>>>>

[1] Camelot’s End, 129

[2] Descriptions of the riot from Camelot’s End and Reaganland.

[3] This according to Perlstein’s account in Reaganland.

[4] His Very Best, 465

[5] Clinton’s assessment comes from Reaganland 578.

[6] White House Diary, 342

[7] White House Diary, 342

[8] And here, dear reader, we find our first real point of divergence. This is the real ace for Carter. Rather than tell everyone the idea is bad and then go to bed, only to revisit the idea after it had been decided, Moe wastes no time and heads to Mondale, who forces Carter to abandon the idea of a mass firing of cabinet members.

[9] Eizenstat writes that he and others had concerns about the cabinet resignations that nobody spoke up. In this scenario, he does. And Anne Wexler, with whom he articulated the concerns about how it’d be perceived abroad, agrees. These concerns, echoing those of Fritz, convince Carter to abandon the plan in favor of a more targeted cabinet reshuffle.

NB: Accounts of the meetings at Camp David come from four sources: Mostly Perlstein’s Reaganland, but also His Very Best by Jonathan Alter, The Outlier by Kai Bird, and Carter’s White House Diary. Reaganland also informed my depiction of this being a "righteous" endeavor for Carter.

 

[Vidal]

PRIMARY COLORS

“You don't think Abraham Lincoln was a whore before he was a president? He had to tell his little stories and smile his shit-eating back country grin, and he did it all just so he could have the opportunity to one day stand before the nation and appeal to the better angels of our nature.”
-Jack Stanton in Primary Colors (1998)​

September 13, 1979
State Republican Convention — San Diego, CA

Ronald Reagan was antsy. He had been following the advice of John Sears for some time now, but he was starting to believe that Sears’ instincts were wrong. They’d employed a strategy some dubbed the “front walker” — allowing the other candidates to enter and beat themselves up while the dutiful Reagan marched on, rather quietly, toward the caucuses and primaries. And as Reagan sat confined to the sidelines, he watched as other candidates — boring candidates, like Howard Baker — stole his thunder. Take, for example, the issue of SALT II, where Baker had forcefully come out in opposition. Reagan needed to regain the mantle, he thought. He needed to come out swinging, prove that he deserved to be the first-choice of Republican voters. And he had just the idea to do it.

But when he told his campaign manager, Ronald Reagan was met with dismay instead of excitement. The issue was a speech he’d give to the state Republican convention in San Diego on September 13th. Sears thought the topic should be SALT II, and he believed it would be a critical moment in the run-up to the campaign. Here, he believed, Reagan could sound entirely conventional, and in the process, he’d assuage the concerns of Republicans who thought he was too outside the box to win a general election.

On the way to Los Angeles, Reagan stopped in Colorado, where he visited the NORAD headquarters in the Cheyenne Mountain. During the tour, Reagan learned about new technology that was tracking thousands of objects in the sky. He was impressed. But he was also surprised that the technology hadn’t been developed further. How can it be that with all of this technology, there’s no way to stop an incoming nuclear weapon? Reagan pondered the question, and on the flight to California, he broached the subject with Sears.

“I think I could propose some kind of system that could stop an incoming nuclear missile,” Reagan said. Sears couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Governor, with all due respect, I think such a proposal would be laughed out of the room.”

Reagan disagreed. He explained the technology he’d seen at NORAD, and he instructed Sears to pull some language together. “I think we can set ourselves apart,” he said. While opponents attacked his age, Reagan could show himself to be a forward-thinker, someone ready to take on problems not yet anticipated. “Everyone is talking about SALT,” he reasoned, “but I have a chance to move the conversation in a dramatic way — a way that benefits us.” The problem was, Sears didn’t believe it would benefit him. Instead, he thought it would cement the image that Reagan was inept and not cut-out to handle foreign policy issues. Reagan didn’t buy it. He’d nearly knocked off an incumbent president precisely because he’d been unconventional. If he turned into another establishment Republican, the voters who were attracted to him would find another conservative, like Phil Crane, and then what would be left? President Howard Baker?

Aides convinced a begrudging Reagan that the issue could be explored more—later. Right now, they needed Reagan to go out there and deliver the speech as prepared. Reagan relented.

In front of the California Republican Party, Reagan read remarks that had been written for him about SALT II and foreign policy. Reporters in the room noted that this was a different Reagan — a moderate Reagan. Until the teleprompter went out, and Reagan was forced to improvise. At first, he stumbled through a few lines he remembered off the top of his head, and then a little piece of him thought, To Hell with it, and he decided to give the speech he wanted to give.

“And mankind holds in its hands the greatest assurance of world peace — a technology that will allow us to stop incoming missiles. We can develop a shield that will stop attacks from reaching our shores. We can destroy them in the sky. And when we develop this technology, the petty disagreements here on Earth about who gets how many weapons will vanish, because the answer will not matter. Regardless of the weapons on Earth, the answer to peace exists in the satellites of the sky,” Reagan said. Sears choked on his coffee.

The response was swift. The papers called Reagan’s speech “an ode to the Goldwater years” and said he seemed “content with expanding nuclear arsenals.” Sears read each article with an increasing sense of dread. The nomination was slipping from their hands. But the best summary of the speech belonged to John Connally, the former Texas governor and Nixon cabinet secretary, and a rival for the nomination. Of Reagan’s fiasco, Connally quipped, “Perhaps Mr. Reagan was in those Hollywood studios just a few years too many. This isn’t Star Wars.” This isn’t Star Wars. Reagan was a mocked man. His policies were fantasy. The insinuation was humorous and cut to the point — Ronald Reagan was not presidential material. But was Connally?

Some in the Moral Majority were beginning to think so. They had doubted Connally — viewing him (rightly, perhaps) as a smooth-talking politician who lacked a guiding moral or ideological compass. Instead, he seemed ambitious and content with amassing political power no matter how it was done. Again, their read was not entirely off base. Connally was a protege of Lyndon Johnson’s after all, and most recently he had been a confidant to Richard Nixon. He was not likely to win any awards for piety. But the Moral Majority was less concerned with finding a pious preacher than they were with finding an electable politician — someone who they thought could carry the torch on their issues, no matter their own issues. Reagan, after all, had been divorced, and as Governor of California he’d signed the most liberal abortion legislation to date. Surely, he was not a perfect vessel. And so, in the wake of his SALT II speech, as others in the Washington establishment mocked the Gipper, those on the Christian Right, seeking relevance — seeking to back a winner, began to reconsider their fidelity to Ronald Reagan. And like it was a game of Texas Hold ‘Em, John Connally was holding a royal flush.

In Connally’s home state of Texas, a group of religious leaders assembled to discuss the emerging political campaign. Among those present were Billy Graham, Pat Robertson, Paige Patterson, Charles Stanley — assembled by Paul Weyrich. Their task was to discuss how Christianity could be leveraged into a political force. Weyrich was discouraged, he said. He’d supported Carter in 1976, but felt he’d been betrayed by the president. Now, he thought it was time to unify behind a particular candidate — someone who would owe his election to them. The ongoing debates about gay rights and crime in the cities, about segregated schools being tax-exempt, about prayer in school—the Evangelicals were angry, and they wanted to do something about it. Pat Robertson said passionately, “I’ll die to turn this country. Whatever it takes. We can’t lose the country.” And so it was that the Crusaders found their mission. They wanted to elect a president.

But the question was who. Many had been impressed by Reagan, by his support for Henry Hyde, and his impassioned campaign against Ford. But others felt, given his SALT II speech, he was “unelectable.” One hypothesized Reagan may even fade before the first votes were cast. Others cited his opposition to the Briggs Amendment in California, which would have banned homosexual teachers in the classroom. Reagan was against that? How could he be?

Instead, they should look at Connally, another argued. Sure, he was a bit of a wheeler dealer, but wasn’t that the candidate they needed? Someone willing to adopt their platform wholesale for the sake of winning? Someone in the room agreed, but brought the hypothetical to its logical conclusion. “Say he wins. How do we trust him?” There was silence. [1]

If the Religious Right was going to find a candidate, they would have to wait. For neither Reagan nor Connally (nor Baker nor Bush The Asterisk) was a good enough candidate for them just yet. But news of the meeting trickled out and eventually it got to Haley Barbour, who had previously worked for Reagan in 1976 and was now on Connally’s team. He got the word to the higher-ups that Connally needed to pivot — to show the Christian leaders searching for a candidate that he was their guy. Connally assured his team he had an Ace up his sleeve. He’d been developing a “bold stroke,” he called it — something that would upend the race and set him on the course to the nomination and the White House. He was going to give a major address on Middle East peace. His advisers were horrified.

Not only was the topic one unlikely to earn Connally votes, his proposal was anathema to just about every conceivable constituency. The plan had been developed with Sam Hoskinson, who then showed it to Kissinger. The former Secretary of State said simply, “Tear this up.” Eddie Mahe, who was campaign manager, was married to a fundamentalist Christian. “If Connally gives that speech, I can’t vote for him,” she said.

If Connally gave the speech, Mahe’s wife would not be the only supporter to desert the candidate. The speech was laced with political dynamite. It called for the United States to draw a “clear distinction” between supporting Israel and supporting Israel’s “broader territorial acquisitions.” Connally called for a collaborative takeover of oil, allowing for its “unimpeded flow.” It would be protected by American airpower stationed permanently near the Strait of Hormuz and the Sinai Peninsula. Jewish organizations would be incensed.

But eventually, Mahe convinced his boss of something else. Voters were tired of foreign policy minutiae. Carter had orchestrated a monumental deal for peace in the Middle East and barely received a polling bump. Instead, he argued, Connally’s path to the nomination went through the South (which the campaign had already agreed upon), and to win there, he needed to convince on-the-fence Christians that they could trust Connally to deliver on their new issue — abortion.

At first, Connally wasn’t interested. Social issues didn’t excite him, and he’d come of age in a time when they didn’t excite voters either. But Mahe pressed him. The times had changed. These voters went for Carter. Now, they wanted someone else. If Connally could deliver, the same kind of boots on the ground that won tough Senate races for Republicans like Orrin Hatch in Utah in 1976 and Roger Jepsen in Iowa in 1978 would hit the ground for Connally, too. Never to turn away a chance for votes, Connally started to come around to the idea. He had a personal friendship with Billy Graham and early on the campaign had met with Evangelical leaders, who had told Connally that he was the candidate they prayed for. [2]

The candidate gave in to Mahe, agreeing that the plan for Middle East Peace could wait. Instead, he would give a speech about Christian values — American values. And he would center it on “the issue of life,” which was not a phrase Connally had used much before, but it would soon become a key part of the Republican Party’s debate about what it stood for. And Connally’s speech helped ignite the blaze.

“You’ve heard me talk about this before,” Connally told the crowd, “but every time an American goes abroad they are pitied. Pitied. Yes, that’s right. Those from this great land travel across the Atlantic and Europeans take pity on us because of the state of our country. Well I don’t like that any more than you do,” he continued. “Everywhere you go in this country, our values are threatened.” Connally was gaining momentum, his fist pounding the podium. “I tell you there is a lot that is threatened — our energy supply, our currency — but what hurts most of all is that our way of life is threatened by insidious forces who seek to redefine our relationship with Gahhhd. They try and change the definition of marriage — something that hasn’t been up for debate for centuries. They try and tell us that kids can’t learn in religious schools and that those schools aren’t worthy of tax exemption.” The fists met the podium again. The voice soared: “There ahhh faw-ces luuuuhking in this country who don’t beleeeeve you should be able to bow your head in prayAH on any federal property.” The crowd had been warped into a tizzy. This was the kind of sermon that brought a congregation to its feet. And on their feet they were. “And dayuhh I say there are those in this land who see muuuhduhhh and liken it to a meah CHOI-ce as if it is a question of what socks to put on in the mornin’. I say to you today: We know what happens when nations go down this road. We know of Sodom and Gomorrah. We know that an ugly fate awaits a nation that turns its back on God and the Good Book. And I will not let that happen to this promised land. I! Will! Not! Abide!” The audience roared its approval. Connally grinned. “This is a cruuusaaaadeee,” he said, the candidate unable to help himself. “It is a crusade, and I cannot do it alone.”

Then, he ended the speech with a familiar refrain: “I'm not asking you to help me as a favor. It's your business. It's your country. It's your currency. It's your privileges, your freedom. It's your leadership — the leadership of your country, which reflects on every one of you.” In this instance, he added a line to the end: “And it is aaaaahhh Gaaaaaaaaahhhhhdddd who must be respected.” [3]

Mahe’s wife, watching on, applauded — her smile wide. “This is the speech that will make John president,” she told her husband. Eddie certainly hoped so.


October 20, 1979
JFK Library — Boston, MA

On September 7, 1979, Senator Edward Kennedy told Carter plainly that he was running against him for the Democratic nomination. It was the same decision his brother Bobby had made 12 years earlier in deciding to primary Lyndon Johnson. But while Bobby’s decision was rooted in foreign policy, Ted’s was rooted in domestic policy. The crux of the sour relationship was healthcare reform. Kennedy didn’t believe Carter’s plan went far enough. But there was also a philosophical reasoning. All of Carter’s simpleton approaches — the lack of alcohol at functions, the unwillingness to accommodate Congressional requests, the flippant way his staff treated Congressional staff, his reticence to appoint a Kennedy loyalist to the judiciary — angered the Massachusetts senator, too. Ted would later recall that the Crisis of Confidence speech as a significant contributing factor. While Carter enjoyed a bump, his somber tone offended Ted, whose brother Jack was famous for his inspirational oratory. “Ask not what your country can do for you…” And so, in 1980, the ghosts of Joe Jr, Jack, and Bobby sat heavy enough on Ted’s conscience that he decided to push forward with a campaign for the Democratic nomination.

The candidates met face-to-face at the dedication of the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library & Museum in Boston. It was customary for the incumbent president to attend such an event, but this one would receive outsized attention precisely because the press knew an internal party conflict was brewing between the event’s two headliners: the late president’s brother and the man who presently occupied the Oval Office.

From the time the event was set, the Carter team knew they had to outperform. When Landon Butler drafted a memo concerning Kennedy’s primary campaign, he pinpointed the date of the Library dedication as a “pivotal point” and continued, “We must make plans, now, to insure that this speech is among the best the President has ever given.” [4]

On the day of the dedication, a breeze from Boston Harbor swept across the stage. The president kissed Senator Kennedy’s wife, Joan, on the cheek, but observers noticed former First Lady Jackie Kennedy seemed to recoil from the president as he reached out to her. Carter was in unfriendly territory. It seemed as though the entire Kennedy clan was in the audience — the late president’s mother, his children, siblings, nieces and nephews. No one doubted that Senator Kennedy was just weeks away from announcing his own campaign for the presidency. It was under these auspicious circumstances that Carter decided to begin by making a joke.

“I never met him,” he admitted, “but I know that John Kennedy loved politics. He loved laughter, and when the two came together, he loved that best of all.” The president continued by telling a story of his predecessor speaking with members of the press. The press, Carter explained, asked Jack a question: “Mr. President, your brother Ted said recently on television after seeing the cares of office on you, he wasn’t sure he would ever be interested in being president.” No one missed the joke, and the audience laughed — as if saying, ‘Touché, Mr. President.”

As Carter told the story, the reporter continued, “’I wonder if you could tell us whether, first, if you had it to do over again, you would work for the presidency and, second, whether you can recommend this job to others?’ The president replied, ‘Well the answer to the first question is yes, and the second is no. I do not recommend it to others — at least for a while.’” The audience continued in its laughter and the president turned to Ted as he drove his point home, “As you can well see, President Kennedy’s wit — and also his wisdom — is certainly as relevant today as it was then.” The peanut farmer president flashed his famous grin. The audience, full of a family for whom politics was as much a sport as touch football on a summer day in Hyannis, proceeded to chuckle. Ted had no choice but to recognize his adversary was a worthy one. [5]

Carter’s speech was memorable for more reasons than the opening salve. He spoke openly about November 22, 1963, the day of Kennedy’s assassination. He was in his peanut warehouse. “In a few minutes, I learned that he had not lived. My president. I wept openly, for the first time in more than ten years, for the first time since the day that my own father died.” It was a profound display of respect towards the Kennedy family, and it also brought Carter closer to Americans who would read the speech in the papers later. Everyone had their own story of that fateful dreary day — the day gray clouds consumed Camelot — and they could each recall how they had heard the news. By sharing his story, Carter was again reminding the average American that he was just like them.

Carter concluded his remarks with a discussion of policy, saying that the times had changed since the 1960s. “We have a keener appreciation of limits now,” he explained. “The limits of government; limits on the use of military power abroad; the limits on manipulating without harm to ourselves a delicate and balanced natural environment.” The ideological contrast between Carter and Ted Kennedy could not have been made more clear than in that speech — and Carter’s point was lost on few: Jack Kennedy’s policies were more in line with Carter’s than his brother’s.

Everyone agreed that Carter had delivered a great speech, possibly the best of his life. Elated, the president felt energized about the inevitable primary that loomed ahead, but before he could let his mind drift to thoughts of beating Kennedy, he faced an urgent matter.

For months, a foreign policy decision had loomed over Carter: would he admit the Shah to the United States for medical treatment? The status of the Shah had been of great debate for years, and Carter’s administration had offered him protection in the United States twice, in December 1978 and January 1979, before the Ayatollah Khomeini returned to Iran and took power. They’d hoped, perhaps naively, that removing the Shah early would have allowed a more moderate government to take charge. But the Shah resisted and chose not to come. It was not until a month later, on February 22nd, that the Shah informed the government that he’d like to come to the United States.

By this point, the animosity against the Shah had grown immeasurably in Iran, and while Khomeini may have been fine with him leaving to the United States early so that he could take power, that was no longer the case. The president, recalling a brief hostage situation on February 14th, denied the Shah’s request. But the Shah was determined. He enlisted the help of powerful friends, including Henry Kissinger and David Rockefeller, to lobby on his behalf. Kissinger was particularly impassioned about the issue of the Shah’s entrance, not because of a personal affinity but because he believed the United States owed the Shah.

In April of 1979, Kissinger and Rockefeller added John McCloy to their ranks and made a direct appeal to the president, Secretary of State Cy Vance, and Zbigniew Brzezinski. Carter resisted them face-to-face, denying the Shah’s request. He found the whole campaign offensive. But Z-big went behind Carter’s back and assured the Shah’s lobbyists that he was on their side and that he would continue to carry their message in the White House. Further overtures stalled, and the prospects for the Shah seemed bleak — until he received a chilling diagnosis.

On October 18th, David Rockefeller informed Cy Vance about the Shah’s illness and expressed that explained that his condition was grave. The Shah needed world-class medical treatment, like the kind found in the United States. The illness was enough to convince Vance that it was time to admit the Shah on humanitarian grounds. With Vance and Brzezinski now aligned, it was only a matter of time before Carter caved. After all, how often did those two agree?

Vance and Brzezinski also convinced Jordan that the time had come to admit the Shah, if for different reasons. Jordan was concerned about the effect that his death could have on domestic politics, worried that the image of the Shah dying in Mexico awaiting treatment in the States would be too much for Carter to overcome.

Warren Christopher, Vance’s number two at the State Department, drafted a memo for the president. It was stamped “Supersensitive” and given to Carter while he was in Boston. It spelled the situation out for Carter, and the president was incensed immediately. He knew right away that the decision in front of him was unpleasant. He had a dying man — a one-time ally of the United States — dying across the border, needing medical care in the United States. And he had a radical Iranian leader who would never accept the United States’ allowing the Shah into the country. For Carter, there could not have been a harder decision to make.

Eerily, Carter knew that admitting the Shah would pose grave consequences. Prior to arriving in Boston, Carter had lashed out at those who suggested bringing the Shah to the United States. “To hell with Kissinger,” he had barked. “I am the president of this country.” And when they continued to press him, Carter asked, “What are you guys going to advise me to do if they overrun our embassy and take our people hostage?” It was a question they should have pondered longer.

Instead, with Christopher’s memo in hand, Carter acted with his heart, not his mind or his gut, and he approved the Shah’s entry into the United States for medical treatment. Two days later, the Shah landed at LaGuardia Airport.


November 3, 1979
The Lighthouse Inn — Cedar Rapids, IA

The candidate had just wrapped up a long day of shaking hands. Few babies were kissed, but it had been a long and successful day for the presidential aspirant. In a diner with his team, he leaned back and sighed. “I think we’re going to do it,” he smiled. “I think we’re going to win Iowa.”

The candidate was George H.W. Bush. Son of former Senator Prescott Bush of Connecticut. Hero pilot of World War II. Formerly the CIA Director and the Chairman of the Republican National Committee.

His path to this campaign had been more twisted than a rattlesnake in the hot sun of his adopted Texas. Bush served briefly in the House of Representatives, but he’d failed to ever win a campaign at the statewide level. When his ticket to the Senate seemed assured, the Democrats had tossed out incumbent Ralph Yarborough in favor of a newer candidate, a more moderate Democrat who would appeal to Texas and block Bush from walking the halls his father had once loomed large in. That candidate was Lloyd Bentsen, but there was another prominent Texan who had played a heavy role in that defeat in 1970.

One of the peculiarities of the one-party system in Texas is that the elected officials came to resemble a sort of family tree. They could trace their roots back to someone for whom they’d worked or advised in earlier years. Lyndon Johnson had a fondness for Sam Rayburn. John Connally had been a staffer for Lyndon Johnson. Lloyd Bentsen had been in Connally’s inner circle, encouraging him to seek a fourth term as governor. [6]

In turn, Connally encouraged Bentsen to primary Yarborough. The younger Bentsen hoped Connally might want to make the challenge himself, but the governor shied away from such a Texas-sized showdown. Instead, he was the Oz behind the curtain of the Bentsen for Senate operation. When it came time to move from the primary campaign to the general election, Bentsen found himself against a Republican with whom he agreed on nearly every issue, and so he turned again to Connally for the kind of organizational support one needs to overcome a dull and uninspiring campaign. Connally provided it.

Suddenly, George Bush, the man who had traversed the state in 1964, his voice hoarse, his lungs filled with the rhetoric of Barry Goldwater, found himself painted a moderate. He was the candidate with four names — George Herbert Walker Bush. He was the son of a New England Senator. He went to Yale. And when Texans turned on their television sets they saw the same face over and over: John Connally. For Lloyd Bentsen. For Senate.

When Nixon entered the White House and brought with him his dreams of turning John Connally into a Republican, he offered the Texas Governor a spot as Treasury Secretary. Connally encouraged him to name Bush to a position first. It wasn’t because he liked or respected Bush, no. He just didn’t want Nixon to burn bridges with the Texas Republicans. And so it was that George Bush became Ambassador to the United Nations. [7]

Now, George H.W. Bush was, he believed, on the cusp of becoming President of the United States — surpassing, even, the resume of his father. He would need to defeat John Connally and Ronald Reagan to do it.

If he’d said the statement, “I think we’re going to win Iowa,” aloud to anyone besides his campaign team, he’d have been laughed at. But George Bush’s staff believed him when the candidate said it. They’d known it to be true long before the candidate allowed himself to believe it.

The Bush campaign was in a fortunate position in Iowa for several reasons. The Reagan campaign continued to follow a quixotic strategy that seemed to emphasize, above all else, that their candidate didn’t need to meet actual voters. The frontrunner had chosen not to set up a significant campaign operation in the caucus state that launched Jimmy Carter on his White House trajectory. Bush, however, sought to replicate the incumbent president’s path — win big in Iowa, perform well enough in New Hampshire, and throw the front runner off his tilt. He reasoned there were still enough voters who thought Reagan was just a bit too far to the right for them.

Of course, in Iowa, the message was less about policy and more about age. Just that day, volunteers for Bush spent hours calling Republicans across the state. Time and time again, they heard that the person on the other end of the line was planning to caucus for Ronald Reagan. “Oh hey,” the Bush campaign volunteer would say, “that’s alright. I like Reagan a lot myself. But I think of George Bush as a younger Reagan.” Bush’s literature reminded voters that he had the “physical stamina” to do the job, and he met every caucus goer he could to prove it.

At the table, seated with his staff, Bush smiled a satisfied grin. His internal numbers showed the campaign was moving in the right direction. He was still behind, but he believed he could pull it off. And the Reagan campaign had started to notice, because the attacks on Bush’s character were beginning to make their way back to the candidate.

“You know,” he said, “I despise it. I really do. It’s terrible the way I’ve been abused.” He thought about it some more and continued, “It’s anti-intellectual. That’s what it is. It’s downright anti-intellectual. It’s worse than the Birch stuff. We can’t let these people own this party.” [7] His team nodded. Of course it was. Reagan was a lightweight. Their man was the real deal. The fact the press still wasn’t giving Bush his due was proof enough of the absurdity.

That night, George Bush went to bed convinced that he could win Iowa, and with Iowa, the presidency. As he drifted asleep, he had no idea that the campaign for the White House was about to change completely the next morning.

>>>>>>>>>>>>

[1] This meeting happened IOTL, but it ended with universal agreement on Reagan among the movement’s leaders. ITTL, where Reagan’s rollout is shakier, Connally is permitted a second bite at the apple. Reaganland, 625.

[2] The Lone Star, 575

[3] https://www.nytimes.com/1979/11/18/archives/connally-coming-on-tough-connally.html

[4] Camelot’s End, 153

[5] Camelot’s End, 154-155

[6] The Lone Star, 377.

[7] The Lone Star, 382.

[8] Much of this is pieced together from Craig Shirley’s Rendezvous with Destiny. This particular quotation is based on something Shirley attributes to Bush on pg. 97. I’ve edited it slightly.

 

[Vidal]

DOWN A PERILOUS ROAD

“What are you guys going to advise me to do if they overrun our embassy and take our people hostage?”
-Jimmy Carter​

November 4, 1979
The White House — Washington, DC

Hamilton Jordan was home when he got the call at 4:30am. It was the duty officer in the White House Situation Room. “Mr. Jordan,” he began, “we want to advise you that the American embassy in Tehran has been overrun by demonstrators, and the American personnel are believed to be held in captivity.” Fuck. He wanted to go there — even though he knew he shouldn’t. Wanted to go back to Valentine’s Day when it happened before. When they should’ve beefed up the security. But he couldn’t go there — not now. He had to get the boys home, then he could think about it. It won’t be long. A few days? When will they give it up?

Around the same time, Secretary of State Cy Vance placed a call to the president. Carter was at Camp David and immediately felt a pit grow in his stomach. He heard the shots. When he blinked he saw it: Hostage-takers assassinating an American every day until the Shah was brought back to Iran. The images haunted him each day of the crisis. It was Carter’s greatest fear. He took a moment and thought about it. Deep breath. In and out. That was his fear, yes, but it was not how he expected the situation to unfold.

Carter got the full briefing and talked it over with the team. It was just like Valentine’s Day they all agreed. They’d be home in 24 hours. Seventy-two hours tops. No more.

That night, Jordan, like many Americans, watched one of the most disastrous interviews in American history. It was a CBS special report on Ted Kennedy, the man many liberals hoped would replace Carter as president. In fact, at the time of the broadcast, 53% of Democrats wanted Kennedy to be the party’s nominee for president. Just 16% of Democrats were planning to vote for Carter. And when Gallup asked all voters who they’d prefer to win in November, Carter lost to Reagan by ten points while Kennedy beat him by eighteen. [1]

But from the outset of the CBS broadcast, Kennedy faced difficult questions from one of America’s greatest newsman, Roger Mudd. He was asked about his marriage, about his fear of assassination and a “Kennedy curse.” When they came back from commercial, the scene was set for Kennedy’s most difficult hour: A reenactment of the fateful Chappaquiddick incident, complete with shaky footage of a car heading towards the fateful bridge from the point of view of the driver. Mudd narrated the entire event and then the camera cut to him, standing at the site of Mary Jo Kopechne’s death on a bright and sunny day. “Senator Kennedy did not report the drowning of Mary Jo Kopechne until the next day, ten hours later,” he said. That would have been damning enough, but Mudd continued, reminding viewers who may have forgotten that the judge who presided over the affair did not believe Kennedy was telling the truth, that Kennedy’s version of events did not make sense.

In the segment afterwards, Kennedy struggled to put coherent sentences together to explain his actions, underscoring the point that what he did that night may have simply been indefensible. Jordan couldn’t believe what he was watching — it was almost too good to be true. Here was a seemingly invincible opponent struggling to answer basic questions. Jody Powell shook his head. “Not one of these questions is surprising. I would’ve anticipated each one if I were prepping him.” He tucked his head into his palm, afraid of watching it get worse. For a brief moment, Jordan was worried people would think the entire production had been bankrolled by the Carter campaign.

What Jordan did not know was the best was yet to come. Mudd asked Kennedy a simple question: “Why do you want to be president?” and it landed with a thud. The senator seemed shocked (a cynic may have said offended) by the question. Four seconds of silence followed. Powell counted each one.

Surely some of Kennedy’s discomfort stemmed from the fact that when the interview was recorded on October 12th, he was not yet an announced candidate for the Party’s nomination. He was a hypothetical candidate. And Kennedy led with that caveat, saying, “Well, I ummmmm were I to make the uh the announcement to run,” and it was downhill from there. Kennedy cited the fact there were more “natural resources than any nation in the world.” That might’ve been the more sensible part of what he’d said. Jordan just laughed. He wants to be president because we’ve got rivers and mountains? So does Iran!

It was a bumbling response. Rarely had America been treated to such an inarticulate meltdown on national television, and it was made worse by the fact his late brother was remembered as one of history’s greatest orators.

Carter watched the entire interview smugly. He turned to Rosie, “He’s just not cut out for this.” An ounce of satisfaction clouded his tone. He did not feign disappointment. It was just as Carter had always predicted. Ted Kennedy can’t be president. “It just shows the whole country that this whole campaign is some crazy vendetta against me,” Carter continued. Rosie nodded in agreement.

“Disappointing,” she offered.

The interview solidified Carter’s impressions of Kennedy. Despite the polling, he harbored no doubts that he would win the nomination. None at all. He’d whip Kennedy’s ass. He can’t even answer a question about why he wants to do this. In Carter’s mind, the answer showed Kennedy’s greatest vice — the one he’d identified in Kennedy years ago when Carter thought he’d face him in the ’76 campaign: entitlement.

Ever since their joint Law Day appearance before the 1976 campaign, Carter knew that Ted Kennedy the Man was not the same person as Ted Kennedy the Myth. He was no Jack or Bobby, and the president was sure he’d beat him. Now, he felt his impression was validated. That night, he wrote in his diary, “[The interview] showed him not able to answer a simple question about what he would do if elected or why he should be president.” Carter described the special as “devastating” to Kennedy. [2]

He drifted asleep dreaming of his second term.


November 7, 1979
Faneuil Hall — Boston, MA

Joe Trippi watched nervously as his candidate stepped up to the microphone to formalize his entry into the campaign. The entire dynamic of the race had changed as a result of the now-infamous Mudd interview. Kennedy’s reason for running was unclear. If the hostage crisis wasn’t resolved quickly, it could produce a rally around the flag effect for Carter. The nature of the race was changing under their feet, and Trippi knew that was perilous for them because Kennedy’s strategy to win resembled his brother’s from 1968: Win big, win early, and force the incumbent out of the race.

Trippi and others had badly misunderstood Jimmy Carter in making their calculation. They viewed Carter, who had a long history of being underestimated by opponents, as weak and affable. They assumed his distaste for wheeling and dealing with Congress meant he didn’t have a stomach for a tough campaign. In fact, it was the opposite. While acquiescing to the demands of Congressional Democrats remained squarely out of Carter’s personality, winning over skeptical voters came naturally to Carter. In every campaign he ran, he positioned himself as the outsider — the underdog. America loves an underdog. And 1980 would be no exception, despite his obvious advantage of incumbency.

Years ago, when Hamilton Jordan and Jimmy Carter first plotted his path to the White House, they identified one threat that stood taller than the rest of them: Ted Kennedy. To think they’d roll over and let Kennedy take it without a fight — well, Trippi, Steve Smith, and the other boys on Kennedy’s campaign just didn’t know the president all that well after all.

Trippi applauded as Kennedy made his first attack on Carter, saying he would be a president who would “work with his colleagues.” He was reminding Democrats that Carter had failed to capitalize on impressive Congressional majorities. Good line. Good line.

Kennedy continued: “Only the president can provide the sense of direction needed by the nation. For many months we have been sinking into crisis, yet we have no clear summons from the center of power. Aims are not set. The means of realizing them are neglected.”

The Senator’s attacks echoed the crisis of confidence Carter identified months earlier, but while Carter had come to believe the crisis was the result of a series of national traumas, his opponent argued that Carter had done nothing to steer the country beyond them.

Very well, Kennedy thought as he wrapped up his speech. It was done. The applause washed over him. Onward to victory, right?

There was Joan. She was trying to stay sober for this. She wanted out — not just out of the campaign but out of the marriage altogether. He’d never really be able to thank her for sticking it out just long enough for him to campaign without the cloud of scandal. Well, the cloud of that scandal. He’d never outrun Chappaquiddick. Faneuil Hall was erupting in cheers, but every time he blinked he saw it: The bridge coming into view. The water crashing over the windshield. He heard the screeching of the brakes. Why didn’t I go back? Why did it happen to me? Would he ever be forgiven?

He put his arm around Ted Jr. and waved. It would all be over soon. And he would be President of the United States.

The stories of the Democratic candidates in 1980 could not have been more different. Carter was born into the impoverished South, raised in the midst of racial strife, and fought his way from Plains, Georgia (population 479) to the halls of power in Washington. Carter did not get there easily, and he would not give it up without a fight. Meanwhile, Kennedy, who had been born into political royalty and made his announcement by saying he had been “compelled” to enter the race. For those careful observers of diction, it demonstrated just how differently the candidates viewed their campaigns.

That is not to say that Kennedy or Trippi or anyone else on the campaign did not believe they were waging an important battle against the collapse of the Democratic wing of the Democratic Party. Quite the opposite. They knew the stakes were high, and they feared what a Carter second term might mean for the future of American politics, but the Kennedy campaign’s launch was met with uncharacteristic hesitation by Democratic voters — due largely to events outside the candidate’s control.

Carter’s approval rating more than doubled, surging to 61%, after the hostages were taken in Iran. By the end of the month, Kennedy would be trailing Carter for the nomination in national polls. Some would have the margin near 10%. Just before he’d announced the race, Kennedy was leading Carter by as much as 20%. No candidate could easily adjust to an overnight 30-point swing in the electorate, but Kennedy’s team seemed particularly ill-suited for the moment.


December 1, 1979
The White House — Washington, DC

The hostage crisis, now nearing the end of its first full month, began to weigh heavily on the Carter administration. This was not to be a quick one-or-two-day incident. The president was absolute in his devotion to the crisis and in ensuring a peaceful resolution.

The crisis presented yet another chance for the schisms in the Carter foreign policy apparatus to crack open. Carter, adamant that the crisis needed to be resolved without injury to the hostages, found himself aligned with Secretary of State Cy Vance. They were at odds with Zbigniew Brzezinski, the national security adviser who favored a blockade of Kharg Island, which would restrict Iran’s ability to export its oil and inflict immediate and severe damage on Iran’s economy. Then, he felt, Iran would be pressured to cooperate. Without some kind of action, Brzezinski argued, there was no incentive for Iran to come to the table.

On November 20th, at Camp David, Carter and his inner circle debated a number of possible options. Jordan was against the idea of a blockade, believing that it would escalate the tension. He feared that it could result in the worst-case scenario: The hostages being killed. Powell agreed that a blockade was too risky to the hostages.

The entire ordeal was made more complicated by the fact the Americans were not being held by the Iranian government but rather a group of Iranian student protestors. It was impossible to know how they would react to something like a blockade. Even if it did not make sense to risk bringing Iran into an armed conflict with the United States, the Carter administration could not have faith that they would act rationally.

Aside from Brzezinski, Stu Eizenstat was a vocal presence on the side of a blockade. Eizenstat represented a more moderate voice between the dovish Vance and the hawkish Brzezinski. While Zbig talked openly about “bombing the hell out of Tehran,” even if it meant risking the hostages, Eizenstat disagreed for the same reasons as Carter, Jordan, Powell, and others: It was not worth risking the hostages lives. But he also felt Vance’s negotiations would go nowhere without some kind of leverage. He urged the president to seriously consider mining the harbor or blockading it.

Vice President Mondale also came around to the idea of a blockade for the same reasons. He believed it would be impossible for negotiations to be successful if there was not some kind of threat to the Iranian regime. At present, they believed they could get away with anything, that American patience was infinite, and that if they waited and waited they’d secure further concessions. There was no reason to give up the hostages. Forcing some kind of action by strangling their economy could get them to the table.

But Defense Secretary Harold Brown saw it differently. He feared that the Soviets would act on the Iranian’s behalf and help them remove the mines or confront American ships during a blockade to gain favor with the new Iranian regime. With the Cold War still at the forefront of everyone’s minds, the idea of pushing the Iranians into an alliance with the Soviets proved too much for the Carter team to bear.

Brown recommended that the president move naval forces into the area so they would be ready for a retaliatory strike when the hostages were released through diplomatic means. But ten days later, when it became clear that the hostages would not be released, Brown recanted and instead encouraged the president to pursue economic sanctions and negotiation. Carter, who on December 1st had approved mining the harbors, reversed the decision and adopted Brown’s new take: Economic sanctions first, military later.

Carter’s decision not to mine the harbors or implement a blockade proved fateful, prolonging the crisis for months.

But the very next day, Carter received a political gift from an unlikely source.

In California, Kennedy lashed out at the shah. He said he’d committed “fundamental violations of human rights” and stolen “umpteen billions of dollars from his country.” Opponents seized the moment. Connally argued that Kennedy’s remarks would only boost the confidence of Ayatollah Khomeini, and Bush argued that Kennedy’s statement would endanger the hostages’ lives. Republicans weren’t the only critics. The editorial boards of many leading papers condemned the senator. And the Carter White House implied that Kennedy’s remarks showed a bias towards the hostage-takers’ position, which, they said, would encourage them to hold onto the hostages longer.

Kennedy trudged on while Carter stayed in the Oval Office, monitoring the crisis and avoiding the day-to-day activities required of a presidential campaign. His challenger remained on the trail, meeting voters, stumbling over his words, and shaking hands with the people of Iowa. Four years earlier, Jimmy Carter’s aggressive retail politicking in Iowa had produced a come from behind victory for the Georgia governor, and it eventually launched him into the White House. Kennedy’s experience was the opposite. It seemed every time he met a voter, he lost a vote.

Elizabeth Drew, the famed political reporter, said the candidate’s heart was clearly not in it. “He doesn’t know why he’s doing it, and neither do we,” she whispered to a colleague on the press bus.

Even on the small farms of Iowa, the ghost of Mary Jo Kopechne haunted Kennedy, putting the White House further from reach. In December, the Washington Monthly posted a piece about his womanizing. Carter, ever the good Christian, filmed an ad that raised the same issue, saying, “I don’t think there’s any way you can separate the responsibility of being a husband or a father or a basic human being from that of being a good president.”

When Kennedy had made rumblings of the getting into the race, Carter declared that he would “whip [the Senator’s] ass.” It was clear now, after just a month of formal campaigning, that the rambunctious peanut farmer had meant it.

Meanwhile, the Republicans had their own friendly fire. John Connally had grown particularly fond of hitting Reagan. He said that the front runner’s statement calling for the Shah to receive political asylum had been more offensive than the comments made by Ted Kennedy, and he urged Reagan to “come out of the closet” and debate him. [3] Reagan brushed the attacks aside, but Connally didn’t let up, hitting Reagan on his strategy of least resistance.

“I’m not sure we can nominate somebody who isn’t willing to defend himself,” Connally said. “Jimmy Carter is going to be on the debate stage against one of us. It should be a Republican we trust to take him on — not someone afraid of debating his own fellow Republicans. We need a candidate who can withstand a punch, and a candidate who can throw his own. I don’t know if Ronald Reagan can be that man.”

Connally was speaking to a room of Republican insiders in Washington — lobbyists and donors, Congressional staffers and RNC members. Some of them thought he had a point. What was Reagan doing? And why was Connally the only one out there making sense?

He highlighted a gaffe from the early days of Reagan’s campaign, when Reagan seemed to disagree with a much-needed bailout of the Big Three automakers that passed the House Banking Committee on November 14th. When asked to comment, Reagan seemed to oppose the measure before saying he favored a series of items that were already in the proposal. Connally made explicit mention of the incident before concluding, “Our president should be a ‘details man.’”

Connally left the event with checks for his campaign coffers.

Feeling the momentum of the race shifting, Connally decided to compete in Iowa in hopes of getting a respectable showing — afraid that waiting for South Carolina was too risky a strategy. Place in Iowa, skip New Hampshire, win South Carolina. The Connally team had its new maxim. Many Iowa voters had become partial to Bush after months of intense retail politicking. Connally couldn’t believe it. So, he got down in the mud. He started to sow doubt about Bush’s conservatism.

“I don’t really believe in nominating someone who campaigns against the base of the party,” he told diners in Cedar Rapids. “I’m not saying we go off the deep end here, but we have to respect the activists, the energized folks across the country who are going to deliver us a win in November. I think George Bush just ignores ‘em.”

When Bush’s team caught wind of Connally’s strategy, they released their own attacks on the other Texan. He was a snake oil salesman, they said — totally lacking in integrity. Bush’s team hung up leaflets and ran ads on the radio that hit Connally for being the “candidate of lobbyists and special interests.” George Bush, the ads said, was a candidate voters could trust. Trust. The word that had become so crucially important to presidential contests in a post-Nixon world. Oh, and by the way, their ads said of Connally, the guy used to be a Democrat.

But Eddie Mahe was pleased that Connally’s pivot towards social issues was working in his favor. Connally rivaled Reagan’s acting skills on the stump. At speeches across Iowa, he pounded the lectern and railed against the “sin of abortion” and the “loss of good American values.” “What happened to this country?” he asked one audience. “Where did things go wrong? Well, I’m running to restore our nation — the values that make our country so great. Where are the other candidates on this issue? If we are not talking about tax exemption for religious schools, if we are not fighting back against the radical notion that the definition of marriage should be changed — then we are not going to win this election. I have seen this country. I have heard its people. The Democratic Party represents a loss of our values, and we are on a Crusade — yes, a Crusade, my fellow Americans — to save this country.”

The social issues of which he spoke had never really excited Connally, but the prospect of winning always had. Since September, his campaign was working hard to cultivate these supporters. In South Carolina, in particular, Haley Barbour was meeting regularly with clergymen to earn their support. “The Christian vote has got to go Connally,” he warned, “or Bush will win.”

Perhaps the Reagan people were completely unfazed by the inroads Connally made with Evangelical voters. More likely, they were unaware of them.


January 8, 1980
The White House — Washington, DC

W. Michael Blumenthal had few joyous moments as Secretary of the Treasury under Jimmy Carter — a surprise given that it was a job that should have carried immense weight and notoriety. Instead, Blumenthal often found him on the outside looking in at the president and his Georgia mafia. His lack of influence had been perceived by others in Washington, and as the next election approached, Blumenthal harbored little desire to stay.

Blumenthal and Carter had long disagreed about what fell under the purview of Treasury Secretary. After one tiff, Carter had taken to his diary where he furiously recorded, “I called Mike Blumenthal to tell him I want Bob Strauss to be the anti-inflation coordinator, and he blew his top.” Carter continued to write, “He and I always have had a difference about the authority of the secretary of treasury. He thinks he ought to be my chief economic spokesman, chief negotiator with business, labor, and the Congress on any matter, and also my chief advisor.” Carter wrote that he preferred a decentralized structure that gave greater authority to traditionally weaker cabinet roles, like Commerce and Labor. Carter did not believe those Departments reported to Treasury. They reported, like Treasury did, to him. [4]

That particular blow-up between Carter and Blumenthal had come in April 1978. It was surprising to many that the Treasury Secretary had remained in the job so long. Now, however, he’d decided that it was time to go back to the private sector.

The president agreed to his request to a breakfast meeting. Hamilton Jordan joined them, only further offending Blumenthal, as the Treasury Secretary offered his resignation. Without hesitation, Carter accepted it and moved on. “What will you be doing next?” Carter asked, and just like that, the time had come to find a new Treasury Secretary.

The vacancy presented a political problem for the president. With just days to go until the Iowa Caucuses, and with the economy weighing heavily on the voters, Jimmy Carter needed a new Treasury Secretary at the helm. He wanted someone who could, with the trust of the American people, move into the role quickly and ably. First on Carter’s list was David Rockefeller, but Rockefeller sent back a quick reply: No. [5]

Carter proceeded to follow Hamilton Jordan’s advice and call G. William Miller, the Chairman of the Federal Reserve, and offered him the job. Miller said yes, which came as a relief to the White House. Miller had a much more cordial relationship with the Georgia mafia than many of his Washington counterparts and all agreed that having a friend at Treasury would position President Carter well going into the competitive election.

Now, however, Carter needed to find a Chairman of the Federal Reserve. There were three contenders, and the president was about to make one of the most consequential decisions of his presidency.

Carter’s first choice all along was Paul Volcker, whom Carter viewed as supremely capable of addressing the difficult economic situation of stagflation that had vexed the Federal Reserve for years. Volcker believed he had a solution. “I favor a tighter policy than Miller,” Volcker told the president in their interview. Carter did all he could to assuage Volcker’s concerns.

“I assure you, Mr. Volcker, that I value the independence of the Federal Reserve.”

But Volcker was unconvinced and left the meeting certain that the president’s advisors would not allow him to ascend to the post. [6]

Briefly, Carter considered asking back his former Commerce Secretary Juanita Kreps. It would have been an historic choice, nominating a woman to Chair the Federal Reserve at such a perilous time. Carter had long harbored a fondness for Kreps, one of the few cabinet secretaries he trusted completely, but personal matters precluded Kreps from returning to public life. Her husband had attempted suicide, leading to her resignation, and she feared that if she accepted the job as Chair of the Federal Reserve the time demands would again put her husband in jeopardy. She chose to remain at home.

Kreps’ refusal to be considered left one more candidate: Tom Clausen, the CEO of Bank of America. Clausen had been a part of the transition team for Carter when he took office, and the president appreciated his past work and his interest in the developing world. [7] Carter’s staff also preferred Clausen, believing that Clausen would be more considerate of the political realities when dictating economic policy. Of course, they all knew better than to raise such a matter with the president.

Walter Mondale paid the president a visit while he weighed the appointment, and Mondale expressed absolute support for Clausen — or, more accurately, unwavering opposition to Volcker.

“We know what his monetary policies will mean,” Mondale opined. “He is going to tighten the supply and jack-up interest rates. To put it simply: He’s going to cause a recession instead of getting us to better ground.”

Carter nodded, but he wasn’t entirely convinced by Mondale’s theory of the case. He believed that the economy was stalling — stagnating. It needed a jolt — a shock, even. Maybe Volcker was the guy to do that. But Walter Mondale knew that Jimmy Carter’s chief concern was helping the economy in a way that negatively impacted the least people. That’s why he argued that it was Clausen who would be the more responsible steward.

“Mr. President, the American people cannot afford a risky and, in my view, unnecessary recession all for the sake of economic experimentation. There are too many jobs — too many livelihoods — at stake for you to appoint a Federal Reserve Chairman who is going to play around with economic dictums. We need a steady and reliable hand. The American people have too much at stake.”

Carter appreciated Mondale’s advice, but the decision would not be made based on a single conversation with a single adviser. Carter thought intensely about the appointment. He knew the stakes were high, and he feared for the future of the American economy. He believed the moment called out for bold action — the kind Volcker would provide. But he recognized what Fritz had said, and he feared about plunging the nation into a recession when a less destructive path could be found.

Every so often, Carter allowed himself to ponder what might have been, and in this moment his mind drifted to one of his dearest friends, Bert Lance: The Man Who Should Have Been Fed Chair. Of course, it was out of the question now. The Lance Affair, contrived by the press as far as Carter was concerned, had shattered Carter’s image as a post-Watergate model of integrity. In their search to become the best next Woodward and Bernstein, members of the press had tarnished the reputation of a good man and stolen Carter’s political capital. It was surely one of the darkest hours of his presidency.

Dwelling on the subject was of no use, however, and the president — with his engineer mind — focused on the situation at hand. He needed a Chairman he could trust. He needed a responsible steward of the nation’s economy. He balanced that against his conviction that the economy needed a bold leader — someone equally as unafraid of risks as he was. Perhaps, at a different point in his presidency, Jimmy Carter would have been motivated to go with Volcker, but this Jimmy Carter had been to the mountaintop and he had seen the Promised Land. He worried about what radical swings in the economic policy would do to the families he met with when he drafted his Crisis of Confidence speech. He had seen what was possible when he surrounded himself with the wisdom of the people and loyal and trustworthy advisers. All of the turmoil of his first term had been because he had entrusted people who did not believe in him with being stewards of his mission. If he was going to get to the Promised Land, Jimmy Carter needed an able Fed Chair, but he did not need a loose cannon. He phoned A.W. Clausen and offered him the job. Clausen said yes, and in doing so may have saved the Carter presidency. [8]

>>>>>>>>>>>>

[1] Reaganland, 653

[2] White House Diary, 367

[3] Yes, he really did. Rendezvous with Destiny, 89

[4] White House Diary, 189

[5] As per OTL, Reaganland, 590

[6] His Very Best, 478

[7] His Very Best, 478

[8] IOTL, Carter very nearly offered the job to Clausen. When he phoned him to further assess his interest, Clausen indicated that his wife was not yet ready to move to Washington. By January, she is ready to make the trip ITTL.

 

[Vidal]

AN ASS-WHIPPING

“I’ll whip his ass!”
-Jimmy Carter​

January 21, 1980
Bush Campaign HQ — Des Moines, IA

An old adage was born after the 1980 Republican Iowa Caucuses: There are three tickets out of Iowa. The political world was shaken by the first-place finish of George H.W. Bush, a virtually unknown moderate Republican who was now emerging as the Ford-style centrist alternative to Reagan, especially with Howard Baker’s disappointing fourth place finish. In a rather distant second came Reagan, the front runner (or walker), whose approach thus far was largely built around staying out of the fray. John Connally, the former Texas Governor and Nixon administration official, earned the third and final proverbial ticket out of Iowa. He was close behind Reagan, surprising the punditry with just how many conservative votes he’d siphoned off from the Gipper. It was enough for Connally to declare victory.

“They said we’d finish fourth or fifth, and here we are — right at Reagan’s heels!” a gleeful Connally told a crowd in Charleston, South Carolina the night of the Iowa results. Indeed, the night had been promising for Connally. Most assumed that Connally’s star was fading. His third place finish — the delegate total rivaling Reagan’s — rejuvenated his effort.

The business interests who had funded most of Connally’s campaign but were starting to grow weary felt more confident in the campaign. In the days after Iowa, Bush and Reagan went to Manchester and Concord to earn votes in the first primary state. Connally went to New York, Miami, and Houston to raise money. His assessments of the race were candid and withering for the once-front runner.

“The way I see it, Reagan’s finished,” Connally said. “His staff will still wheel him out, powder his face, put a speech in front of him, and tell him to read it, but make no mistake: It’s bedtime for Bonzo. So the question is: Do you want a New England liberal named George Bush or John Connally, friend of the capitalist and the conservative alike?” He grinned. “I don’t think it’s a hard question to answer.”

The real winner of Iowa, however, was the man who came in first, once thought of as the asterisk in the field. George Bush’s improbable victory reminded many of Jimmy Carter’s shocking win just four years earlier. And look how it’d gone for Jimmy.

Bush’s standing in the national polls changed overnight. Before Iowa he was at a dismal 6%. Now, he was at 25%. The Reagan campaign was dismayed to learn that Bush had gained more than twenty points in a new poll of New Hampshire voters. Reagan was sitting atop a shaky, slipping lead.

Yet, with victory in sight, Bush pumped the brakes, cautiously tip-toeing around the Granite State, emphasizing that he had the “Big Mo,’” and promising voters he was “Up for the ‘80s” — a pointed reminder that Ronald Reagan wasn’t.

Heading into New Hampshire, Bush had two major boons on his side. The first was a phone campaign from Gerald Ford, who called allies in New Hampshire and told them candidly that it was time to get behind Bush. But more important was the cash John Connally was about to spend on the New Hampshire primary.

With all of his new fundraising dividends, John Connally thought about heading back into New Hampshire and giving the state a whirl, but Eddie Mahe had a different idea: Take the money and hammer Reagan on the airwaves, give Bush the win in New Hampshire, and then make it a one-on-one race in South Carolina, where Connally would be more naturally suited for the primary than Bush. And so, in the five weeks between Iowa and New Hampshire, primary voters in the Granite State could not watch television without a dark and gloomy ad questioning Ronald Reagan’s fitness for the job.

One of the more devastating ads showed Reagan himself at a Florida campaign event. It had happened after the Iowa loss and a tired Reagan said, “I believe one of my advantages is that I’m not running for reelection … to hell whether there’s a second term.” The ad faded to black as a narrator asked, “After the last four years, don’t we want a president ready to serve eight?” Connally’s ads lended a certain legitimacy to Bush’s new slogan.

Reagan fell further and further behind.

It wasn’t until a few days before the primary that Reagan’s luck began to change. The Nashua Telegraph had insisted that the final primary debate be a two-man show between Reagan and Bush, but the Federal Election Commission ruled that it was a contribution to the Reagan and Bush campaigns, and so Reagan’s team, already strapped for cash, decided to cover the costs of the debate. Both candidates agreed to keep the debate between them, but John Sears thought it was a mistake. At the last minute, he encouraged his candidate to invite the others and put Bush in an awkward bind live on stage. Reagan agreed, and Sears eagerly called the other candidates.

In South Carolina, a phone rang for John Connally, and Sears explained the entire plan.

Connally roared with laughter. “Brilliant strategy, but I ain’t coming. Fuck him over once for me,” he said of Bush. [1]

The night went just as Sears had envisioned. Reagan invited the other candidates out onto the stage while Bush sat awkwardly, unsure of what to do with the commotion whirling around him. Reagan, meanwhile, commanded the room. The crowd cheered him on and booed John Breen, the moderator, who was trying to shoo the other candidates off stage. Reagan blew into the microphone. “I am the sponsor, and I suppose I should have some right,” the candidate said as Breen tried to cut him off.

“Would the sound man please turn Mr. Reagan’s microphone off?” Breen asked. The crowd hissed.

Pursing his lips, Reagan stood up, too angry to keep sitting. “Is this thing on?” he asked. The audience cheered back. It was on. Reagan sat down and continued: “Mr. Green, you asked me…” he began to say.

“Would you turn that microphone off please?” Breen asked again.

With a thunderous voice, Reagan bellowed: “I am paying for this microphone, Mr. Green!” He’d again misstated the moderator’s name, but few noticed and those who did didn’t care. The cheers for the Gipper erupted through the audience of more than 2,000 primary voters. So, too, did the other candidates — Anderson, Baker, Dole, and the rest — who stood clapping while a dumbfounded George Bush learned a harsh lesson of campaigning in the television age: Politics was theater.

It’s hard to measure exactly how many votes Reagan won that night, but the record’s clear that the debate in Nashua rejuvenated the candidate himself, pushing him to maintain an aggressive campaign schedule that may well have made the difference in a close primary race. Reagan was outspent on the airwaves — no one could match Connally’s cash operation — but he worked hard in the final hours, and it was enough to carry New Hampshire, if only by four-and-a-half points.

• • •
​

When Ted Kennedy called his mother on the night of his loss in the Iowa Caucuses, she told him not to worry. “I’m sure you’ll work hard and it’ll get better,” she told him. [2]

Kennedy wasn’t sure, and in those disappointing hours after a crushing loss in Iowa, the heir of Camelot considered dropping out of the race for president. His campaign had not heeded the warnings of Joe Kennedy II, who told his uncle that there wasn’t enough retail politicking happening on the ground and that the people were moving back to Carter. The Senator, Steve Smith, Joe Trippi — they didn’t want to believe it. How could they lose to that bumpkin Carter?

But lose they did. Carter’s win in Iowa exceeded all expectations, including those of Hamilton Jordan and Pat Caddell. The president now held all of the momentum, and momentum was a difficult thing to try and overcome in a hotly-contested presidential primary.

Ultimately, Kennedy decided to stay in the race. Iowa would be his Oregon — the unexpected and devastating loss that would allow him to get up the next day, strike back, and assemble a winning campaign. On January 28th, he decided to reset his campaign with a fierce rhetorical assessment of the Carter administration in a speech at Georgetown.

Kennedy criticized the Carter Doctrine, a new policy announced by the 39th president, that stated the United States would defend its interests in the Persian Gulf — including by the use of military force if necessary. The Doctrine had been based on the Truman Doctrine. Zbiginew Brzezinski drafted it and and meant it as a warning to the Soviet Union that they should not continue beyond their invasion of Afghanistan.

Kennedy needled his primary opponent, arguing that Carter’s weakness in Cuba had contributed to Soviet aggression and argued that Carter was raising the stakes of the Soviet invasion for political gain, likening the invasion to the Berlin Blockade or the Cuban Missile Crisis. “Exaggeration and hyperbole are the enemies of a sensible foreign policy,” he warned. By the end of the speech, Kennedy had transitioned to a full bore attack on the Carter administration’s foreign and domestic policies and recommitted himself to the campaign.

It hardly moved the needle. Within a week of the speech, Carter remained atop Kennedy in the polls in New Hampshire — a state known as Massachusetts’ backyard. It was astonishing that Kennedy could not pull the numbers together to trounce Carter there.

On the eve of the primary, the President of the United States employed the Rose Garden strategy popularized by his predecessor. The Friday before, the American ice hockey team had performed the “Miracle on Ice” — defeating the Soviet hockey team in Lake Placid at the Winter Olympics. Just a day before New Hampshire voted, Carter welcomed the team to the White House for a televised ceremony.

Members of the team skipped up the steps and a grinning Carter shook their hands, hugged them, and patted them on their backs. “These are wonderful young Americans, and they have thrilled our nation, and we are all grateful for your tremendous achievements,” Carter said, while reminding the nation that the United States would be boycotting the 1980 Summer Olympics hosted by the USSR.

The photo op could only have helped Carter in a state of hockey fans, and after the celebration ended, Carter turned to his political team for an update on the situation in the Granite State.

Caddell assured him the polls looked good. Caddell was right. Carter beat back Kennedy on the Senator’s home turf: 50-37.


March 2, 1980
Heritage USA — Fort Mill, SC

The Carolina sun shone bright and hot, but John Connally was wearing an expansive grin nonetheless. He needed South Carolina if he was going to emerge from this dog fight as the nominee, and he knew now that he would get it. He could’ve kissed Haley Barbour that sonofabitch who arranged the whole thing. A brilliant kid, really. The John Connally of 1960 or 1964 would probably not recognize the nature of campaigning today — ducking in and out of Sunday services, shaking hands with snake handlers, grabbing a bite to eat with clergy instead of businessmen — but while the Connally of the 1960s would not recognize how campaigning was done, he would recognize the candidate: A man willing to do what he had to do to become President of the United States.

And now he was standing on a stage in a theme park preparing to accept an endorsement from a televangelist. Backstage, Haley Barbour beamed with pride. If John Connally became President of the United States, it would be this moment right here that had done it, and he — Haley Barbour — had orchestrated the whole thing. One day, it would be Barbour on stage, riding the emotions and enthusiasm of the Religious Right straight into the Oval Office, but like it had been LBJ’s turn before, it was Connally’s turn now.

While Reagan and Bush duked it out in snowy New Hampshire, Barbour was spending every hour in meetings with Jim Bakker. Jerry Falwell was criss-crossing the Evangelical pockets of the country and rounding up votes for Reagan. He believed in Reagan, he said, and the hesitation of last fall had disappeared. Some still had doubts that Reagan was up to the task, and some had been impressed by Connally’s use of their rhetoric, but Falwell wasn’t convinced. Reagan, he believed, was the real deal, and they had to get in line behind him. Barbour knew that if they were going to make John Connally president, they needed their own Falwell.

Jim Bakker had been reluctant to get too heavily involved in the election. He wasn’t apolitical, but he didn’t share Falwell’s conviction that making themselves legitimate in the eyes of the public came at the ballot. Bakker was more inclined to fill his pockets with the theme park, the television show, and the Sunday services. He wasn’t sure he needed a politician. Jim Bakker had been naive to the way the world really worked.

Haley Barbour, like a dog with a bone, had phoned Bakker almost daily in the early months of 1980. He wanted to see the Theme Park. He sat in on a taping of Bakker’s program. He even went to Bakker’s church every Sunday in January. They met for coffee afterwards one weekend, and Barbour spent time listening to Bakker. He saw the comparative lack of political fervor, and he heard what Bakker really needed.

“Mr. Connally has a number of friends in business,” Barbour explained. “We’re the best financed campaign out there.” He paused. Political wheeling and dealing may have been how John Connally got to the top, but it was a foreign subject for Bakker. “Charles Keating is a major backer of Mr. Connally.”

Bakker, drawing a sip of his coffee, nodded.

“Anyways, we need your support down here. If we let this thing go to Ronald Reagan without a fight, we’re looking at four more years of Jimmy Carter. Or worse — George Bush.” Barbour’s line may have fallen on deaf ears if Reagan hadn’t just scraped by in New Hampshire, failing to meet the expectations some had set for him. “He’s damaged goods after New Hampshire. He had one good moment, but it can’t sustain him. We need a well-financed conservative alternative to Bush or this whole thing is over.”

Bakker nodded again.

“Mr. Bakker,” Barbour began — Bakker wasn’t going to make it easy for him, “can we count on your endorsement of Governor Connally?”

Bakker agreed, and on that last Sunday before the South Carolina primary, he was hosting a major rally at Heritage USA in which he’d give John Connally his wringing endorsement. They’d had Sunday services together that morning (Connally sat front row), and now they’d come for the political rally that promised to upend the race for the White House. Jim Bakker couldn’t believe he was at the center of it all. But then again, maybe he could. After all, in one week Charles Keating would make two substantial contributions to Heritage USA and Heritage Village Church.

“I have met with John Connally, and I have looked in his eyes,” Bakker told the gathered crowd of at least 1,800 people. “John Connally is a God-fearing man, and he is a strong leader — unafraid to guide our nation forward, away from this malaise, and he’ll be equally unafraid to ask for the Lord’s help as he does it!” Eddie Mahe, standing next to Haley Barbour behind the stage, smiled. It was exactly what they needed

Connally shook Bakker’s hand and slapped his back as he pulled him in close for the photographers.

“It is a privilege to be here with all of you today,” Connally told the crowd, “and I am honored to have the endorsement of such a wise and Christian man — Jim Bakker and his wife, Tammy. Thank you both for your support today. It means the world to me.” The candidate talked briefly about the issues that these Christian voters wanted to hear about, lamenting the “decline of family values” and promising to defend the tax-exempt status of religious schools. Then, he turned into a harsh rebuke of the presumed front runner.

“I like Ronald Reagan a great deal,” Connally lied, “but we are going to be up against some dark forces this fall. Jimmy Carter and his Georgia Mafia will stop at nothing to hold on to power. I’m not sure if Governor Reagan spent too long in Hollywood, or if he’s just out of practice, but this moment demands a sharp and energetic campaign — the kind of campaign we’re running here. If we’re going to beat Jimmy Carter in November, you need to know that your nominee will do everything he can to win. That’s the most important thing: We have to win first. And if you want a president who can go on to do these great things — protecting our families and the institution of marriage — then you’ve got to want a nominee who can make it to the White House, not collapse on the finish line. I don’t mind telling ya that I’m that candidate.” It would be hard to state Connally’s theory of the case more plainly than he just had.

Reagan was incensed by the remarks. “Frankly, I’m surprised to learn that Governor Connally has any concern for these issues,” the candidate said. Ed Meese commented further, “Nothing in Governor Connally’s past suggests he will be a leader of virtue.”

Well, that was it. At a Thursday morning breakfast event, Connally wasted no time raising an issue that he’d heard about from Reagan’s time as governor. “I was governor of one of our largest states,” he told the audience, “and the deal is, when you’re governor, the buck stops with you. If a bill is going to become a law, that’s your decision. It’s also your decision who you hire for your staff. I think who you choose to surround yourself with says a lot about your character, and that’s why I have a hard time listening to Ronald Reagan travel around this state when he hired a number of homosexuals to be on his staff when he was Governor of California. You either care about good Christian values by living them, or you don’t care for them at all.”

Connally was dredging up an old story from 1967, when columnist Drew Pearson wrote of a “homosexual ring” in Reagan’s gubernatorial staff, and he alleged that there was a recording of an orgy among eight men, two of whom were Reagan staffers, that had taken place at a cabin near Lake Tahoe owned by some on Reagan’s team. Two of Reagan’s staffers were indeed gay and were let go from the office, amid a larger staffing shake-up, as a result of the story. Now, Connally raised the old charge in hopes of alienating Reagan from the Evangelical voters of South Carolina.

The Reagan campaign denied the allegations. Said a spokesman, “The implication that Ronald Reagan made a habit of employing homosexuals while Governor of California is patently absurd.” Voters, however, were soon inundated with a push poll, funded by Charles Keating on behalf of the Connally campaign, that asked them if they would be more or less likely to vote for Reagan if they knew he had gay men on his staff, or if they had ever heard stories about Reagan “engaging socially” with members of the “homosexual Hollywood elite.”

On March 8th, the Reagan campaign learned the hard way just how devastating a scorched earth strategy could be. John Connally trounced the competition in South Carolina, defeating Reagan by 11% of the vote. Connally’s numbers had been helped by Bush’s decision to forgo a serious fight in South Carolina. His campaign looked at the brewing conservative battle and determined they didn’t have room in the fight. They focused on states coming later in the primary season.

A demoralized Reagan described the contest as a “thumping” the next day when speaking with reporters. Connally, meanwhile, thanked Jim Bakker and moved on to Florida.


March 22, 1980 [3]
Camp David — Catoctin Mountain, MD

The president felt confident he was on the verge of victory in the Democratic primaries. So far, Kennedy had only managed to carry Massachusetts, and the president was eager to move on from the intraparty fighting and focus on the Republicans, where he and his team were growing increasingly unsure about who they would face. He was outpolling Reagan, Bush, and Connally, but the White House knew those numbers were soft. The public attitude toward the Carter administration’s handling of the hostage situation was changing, and Caddell warned that opinion would soon turn. These political realities and Carter’s intense desire to bring the hostages home safely, forced him to confront the possibility of a rescue mission of the hostages.

The Pentagon had been planning for such a rescue since the hostages were taken in November, but the realities of their rescue posed grave risks. The hostages were being held deep within Iran. The logistics of extracting them would be near-impossible.

The proposed mission involved helicopters flying into the country and landing at a location known as “Desert One.” There, they would refuel and travel to “Desert Two,” a mountainous location. At night, they would meet with a team of CIA agents and special forces already on the ground and drive into Tehran. The helicopters would fly to the Amjadieh Stadium where they would wait for the special forces and hostages to return. Then, they’d be flown from Tehran to Egypt. It was immediately clear to Cy Vance how many variables existed in the scenario — and how much potential there was for it to go wrong.

“Mr. President,” he argued, “the Pentagon is never going to tell you they can’t do something, so allow me: This mission will not succeed.”

Carter was angry. The situation had been weighing on him for months, and he wanted to deliver the hostages home. Vance’s diplomacy had not been working.

Carter pressed the Pentagon for answers. Why did they think they could overwhelm the hostage takers in the embassy? They argued that by this point, they were not fearful of an invasion of the embassy and their guard was down. They were not trained military professionals. They were no match for the Delta Force. Carter nodded in understanding.

Zbig asked the military what “the long pole in the tent” was — what was the most vulnerable part of the mission? David Jones, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, answered that the biggest variable was the number of helicopters. They felt they needed a minimum of six to carry out the mission. Carter authorized the use of eight.

The president wanted to know what kind of preparation the military had done for the raid. They told him that the forces had been practicing out West in the American desert with the same helicopters that would be used in the raid. They were prepared, able, and ready. The president started to believe that Operation RICEBOWL [4] was the way out of the crisis, but Cy Vance remained unconvinced and again made his case that the president had to continue the diplomatic route.

Vance argued that there were other Americans in Iran who could be taken hostage if the mission failed. Carter dismissed these concerns, arguing that they’d been warned to leave Iran multiple times and that he did not feel the same responsibility for them that he felt for the hostages who’d been taken.

The Secretary of State believed that the only way out of the crisis was for Iran to give in — for them to see there was no victory for them in holding the hostages indefinitely. He claimed RICEBOWL was rife with too many variables, and he went as far to threaten his resignation. The threat fell victim to the “Boy Who Cried Wolf” scenario. Vance had made such threats before and been bluffing. The president was not persuaded by them now.

“What would you have me do, Cy?” the president asked. “The negotiations are not working.”

With his back against the wall, Vance raised the question of a blockade or mining effort. Jordan groaned. They’d been down this road before, and he was certain that such provocation would endanger the hostages. Jordan believed a rescue mission was less of an affront to Iran because it was narrowly focused on the hostages and getting them home, but Vance pointed out that some versions of the proposed raid included diversionary airstrikes to throw the Iranians off the scent of the rescuers.

The president liked the idea of the targeted rescue mission, but Vance continued to oppose it and berated the Pentagon with probing questions. He wanted to know what would happen if something happened to one or two of the helicopters. That wasn’t a problem, the Pentagon insisted. The mission could be completed with six. What if the forces on the ground weren’t able to make it to Desert Two? Those who organized the mission said that was unlikely.

“How,” the Secretary asked, “do you intend to secure the air base at Nain without anyone in the neighboring town realizing it?” David Jones admitted that this was a sticking point, but argued that, because it was the weekend, there was minimal interaction between the town and the airfield. Vance was unimpressed. “You have to seal this base for 26 hours without anyone knowing. I don’t see how you can do it.”

Then, he proceeded to interrogate Jones about the inside of the compound where the hostages were being held. Jones admitted that they did not know exactly how the compound was configured, and that they weren’t sure where exactly the hostages were. For Vance, this was unacceptable. “What if you go in the wrong way, they hear you, and they start taking out the hostages?” The Chairman conceded that was a possibility. Mondale expressed similar concerns and asked if there was any truth to the claims that the place had been rigged with booby traps. Jones conceded he had no way of knowing.

Defense Secretary Harold Brown outlined the finality of the situation. “We need to do something, and this rescue mission is our best bet,” he argued. “Our other option, mining or implementing some sort of blockade, carry heavy risks to the hostages, and they could drive the Iranians into the arms of the Soviets.”

Here, Jody Powell interrupted. Earlier, he’d had a conversation with Stu Eizenstat, who questioned if the Iranians would really be so quick to embrace the Soviet given how anticommunist their belief system was. Brown was quiet. It seemed no one had considered that possibility before. [5]

Brzezinski brushed it aside, arguing that Iran would do anything to defeat the United States, even if it meant partnering with a regime that challenged their existing belief structure.

The president had heard enough. He wanted the Pentagon to continue gaming out the matter and taking the necessary steps to prepare for the rescue mission. He was still undecided, but he wanted the option on the table. Then, he told Vance to meet him in the Oval Office.

Once there, he asked his Secretary of State where he was willing to compromise. Did he favor a rescue mission or another military option? When Vance attempted to say neither, the president waved him off. “I trust your counsel, but I need an answer. Think about it, and prepare a memo for me,” he said.


March 26, 1980
Kennedy Compound — Hyannis, MA

Heading into the New York primary, Kennedy and his team knew it carried the potential of being the decisive contest. Kennedy had lost badly in Iowa. Then, he’d given an impassioned speech, criticizing Carter’s foreign policy and demanding that the press treat him fairly over Chappaquiddick. He went on to lose badly in New Hampshire, too, portrayed as his “backyard.”

It seemed that no matter what Kennedy did, he could not catch Carter. Even when Carter’s 1980 budget proposal was widely panned by liberal Democrats, they delivered him a convincing win in Illinois, a state Kennedy should have carried. With Illinois lost, the Kennedy camp read the writing on the wall. Their star had faded. Their campaign had imploded. Jackie Kennedy Onassis assembled members of the family to consider how they might approach Teddy about dropping out of the race. The family was stunned.

Those inside the campaign, the candidate included, decided to wait until the New York primary was over before making any such decision. The polls predicted a defeat akin to Illinois, but the Massachusetts senator thought better of the New York electorate. He campaigned hard for the Jewish vote, an area in which Carter was weak, and hoped to turn the narrative.

At the United Nations, Carter’s ambassador was weighing whether or to not vote in favor of a resolution condemning Israeli settlements in Gaza and the West Bank. Carter instructed him to vote in favor of the proposal so long as a paragraph about Jerusalem was cut from the text. Just before the vote, Donald McHenry scanned the resolution and saw that while the paragraph about Jerusalem was cut, the Holy City was still mentioned in the preamble. McHenry tried to phone Washington, but he couldn’t get ahold of the president. With the vote called, McHenry decided to play it safe and abstain from the vote. Had he supported the resolution, he may have thrown the primary to Kennedy, but instead Carter hung on to enough of the Jewish vote to prevail.

Kennedy’s loss in New York forced the end of his campaign.

Taking a long drag from her cigarette, Jackie broached the subject as delicately as she could. “Teddy, I think we have to consider this might be over.” The senator was in disbelief. His team was stunned. His wife, Joan, was comforting herself with drink and avoiding the subject altogether. Nobody knew quite what he would say.

It was clear to Kennedy that his odds were long. He had consistently lost big contests to a candidate who refused to campaign. He may have been more in tune with the party’s ideology, but they clearly favored the president in office now — the one dealing with multiple crises. Maybe the electorate worried about how Kennedy’s personal character would fair in a contest against a charming movie star or a ruthless businessman. Maybe voters weren’t really willing to forgive Chappaquiddick, as Kennedy had assumed they would be.

Steve Smith broke the silence that followed Jackie’s statement. “Senator, I think we’ve got to face the music. There’s no mathematical path to the nomination and a fight that continues is not good for the party, or for you — not when you can’t win.”

But this argument missed the point of Kennedy’s decision to enter the race in the first place. Surely, he wanted to win and become president, but it was about more than that for him. He did not view the campaign as simply an electoral effort. He viewed it as a movement — a cause. For Kennedy to drop out now, before the convention, would admit a blow to his liberal ideology. Kennedy was unwilling to concede the party to Jimmy Carter.

There were other factors to consider, however. His family needed attention. The money to fund the campaign was running out and was likely to disappear now that the nomination was mathematically out of reach. Running a campaign in the remaining states would mean an embarrassingly shoestring operation, especially for a Kennedy. He would be reduced to a footnote, a spoiler. If Kennedy wanted to preserve his honor, Smith argued, he needed to get out now, embrace Carter, and get back to work in the Senate. Maybe Carter would reward him with a nice speaking slot at the convention. (He wouldn’t, and both Kennedy and Smith knew this).

The Senator made the decision himself, finally embracing the logic of Smith and his family. He had to get out of the race now to preserve the family’s honor, but he would do so in a characteristically Kennedy way — with a big show.

Back in Washington, Kennedy convened a final rally on March 30th, where he addressed a packed auditorium full of Kennedy loyalists.

“Thank you very, very much. Well, this isn't exactly the party I'd planned, but I sure like the company,” he said at the start.

But then came the painful part: “I have withdrawn from the campaign,” Kennedy said, “but I have not withdrawn from my commitment to speak for those who have no voice, to stand for those who are weak or exploited, to strive for those who are left out or left behind.”

He continued, calling for the party to “unite now behind President Carter” to ensure that the Republicans did not win in November, and he finished his remarks with a poignant reminder for his deflated supporters: “For all those whose cares have been our concern, the work goes on, the cause endures, the hope still lives, and the dream shall never die.” [6]

Blocks away, at the White House, Hamilton Jordan popped a bottle of champagne. Carter had banned alcoholic beverages at White House functions — not because the president was a teetotaler; he just wanted to save money for the government. This champagne was a personal expense by Jordan, and so Carter permitted himself a little taste of the champagne — of victory.

They stood around with smiles — Jordan, Powell, Rafshoon, Donilon, and a few others. “To an ass-whipping!” Jordan toasted.

“To an ass-whipping!” the others said in unison.

“And to the one ahead!” Powell added.

And James Earl Carter flashed his signature grin. To an ass-whipping, he thought to himself.


April 11, 1980
The White House — Washington, DC

What few of Jimmy Carter’s opponents understood was that he was, at his core, a risk taker who did what the moment required. During his second campaign for governor, the one in which he was successful, Carter betrayed his personal moral compass and went South instead — blowing the dog whistle as loud as any in Dixie had done before. Yet, when he took office, he declared that the time for racial discrimination was over. It was a simple and genuine declaration, and yet it had caught so many by surprise given the campaign Carter had employed to get there.

Carter decided weeks earlier that time was up for the Iranians. The Hostage Crisis had gone on too long. Convening his national security team once more, Carter knew the time had come to make a decision. Vance was incensed, and he let the president know it. The point of the meeting was to decide on a course of action to bring the hostages home — a military course of action. Vance began by insisting that the president reconsider. The exhausted president ignored him.

“Cy,” he said, “if you’d like to weigh in on which option you believe strengthens your hand diplomatically, I welcome that input,” he said, “but the time has come for us to try something different.”

Vance could not believe that Brzezinski and the others had pushed the president into such a foolhardy position. He had no doubt that either option would endanger the hostages, and knowing that their safety was the president’s top priority, Vance made the point repeatedly as the others debated the merits of each plan.

Brzezinski, whom the president found himself listening to at an increasing rate, argued against the naval blockade or mining of the harbors. He believed that either operation would force the Iranians to seek aid from the Soviets, making the situation in the Middle East even more complex. They could not afford to let Iran become a proxy for the Cold War. Vance pushed back on the notion, though half-heartedly, and again argued for diplomatic resolution.

The conversation turned towards an outright rescue mission. Carter liked the idea, but he was nervous about its chances of success. Again, he ordered those around him to walk through it step-by-step. Again, they were met with blistering critiques from the Secretary of State who refused to see how the operation could go off so smoothly.

In Vance’s efforts to discredit the proposed Operation RICEBOWL, he unwittingly drove Carter towards another, even riskier, military option.

Carter pressed his advisors on how mining ports in Iran would work. Mondale cautioned the president against the idea, but Carter pressed on, demanding answers. Where would the mines be placed? What reason was there to believe the Soviets would so readily confront the U.S. military in open waters in defense of Iran? Wouldn’t starving Iran of its oil wealth force their hand in the negotiations, enabling Vance to bring home the best deal possible to free the hostages?

Harold Brown, the Defense Secretary, reported back on how it could work. He preferred the mining to an outright naval blockade. Once the mines were laid, Brown explained, the military effort was done. The United States would not be forced to maintain the sort of sustained naval presence required of a blockade, and the risk of confrontation with the Soviets would therefore decrease. He also agreed with the president that it would, within months, cripple the Iranian economy and force them to the negotiating table.

“Or they’ll just kill a hostage,” Jordan muttered.

The thought of losing a hostage made the president uneasy, but he’d begun to doubt Zbig and Jordans’ assertions that it was inevitable. After all, wouldn’t Khomeini know that by killing one of the Americans he would be signing his own death warrant?

Jordan and Mondale doodled on the papers in front of them as a silence fell over the room. Months had passed since the embassy was seized and the Americans were first taken. The time had come for a decision, and there was only one man in the room who could make it. Brzezinski’s head swiveled from side to side, searching the faces of his colleagues for any indication of what the president might do. Vance held his gaze on the president.

Carter was rubbing his hands against his forehead. He had always insisted that the buck stopped with him, and he knew now that this was the kind of decision only he could make. He had to do what was best for the hostages — what would get them home safely and quickly? Nothing, he feared, but that was not an option.

“We’re going forward with mining the ports. Finalize the plan, and I’ll prepare an address for the American people.” The Commander-in-Chief had made his decision, and he stood abruptly and left the room. He needed to tell Rosalynn.


April 24, 1980
The Oval Office — Washington, DC

“My fellow Americans,” the president began.

Chris Matthews was standing on the other side of the camera. He had never before written a speech that carried the significance this one did. Of course, he had not been alone. The speech was mainly written by Jerry Rafshoon, and the Pentagon had their fair share of edits, but in this moment — as he watched the president utter these consequential words, Matthews couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d changed the course of history. Perhaps this was naive. It was not his speech, after all, that would influence the final outcome of the Hostage Crisis — it was Carter’s decision, but then, too, so much of diplomacy came down to the words said by those at the table, and this address, which Chris Matthews had played a heavy hand in drafting, would set the tone for those negotiations moving forward.

“Now, on my order, American naval vessels are moving in to mine several key ports in Iran and Kharg Island. This action is necessary as Iran continues to deny the release of innocent American hostages who have committed no wrong against the nation. I informed our closest allies of my decision just hours ago, before formally giving the order.

“Any harm inflicted on the hostages will be met with the swiftest and most intense military action on the part of the United States, and any action taken against our Navy as they perform this operation will be interpreted as an act of war against the United States.

“We will remove these mines only when the American hostages — all of them — are released.”

Carter then sought to compel Iran to come to the table. “Allow me to be perfectly clear to the people of Iran: What happens next is entirely within the hands of your government. Should your government move quickly to safely release all Americans held in Iran, there will be no disruption to the Iranian way of life. It will only be if they delay in releasing the hostages that everyday Iranians will bear the burden of this decision. I hope, for your sake, that your government will respond with your interests in mind, just as our government is acting in the interests of the American people.”

When the speech was done, a nervous president thanked his team for their efforts. Rosalynn, who stood next to Matthews throughout the address, embraced her husband.

“That was really very good,” she assured him. “It’s only a matter of time now.” Carter hoped she was right.

>>>>>>

[1] As quoted in Rendezvous with Destiny, 148.

[2] True Compass, 375.

[3] Based on meeting minutes found here: https://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1977-80v11p1/d217

[4] Thank you, @Yes

[5] Granted, I have the benefit of hindsight but this is a fairly obvious question that Kai Bird raises in his biography of Carter. IOTL, no one mentioned this point. ITTL, Eizenstat, who was an advocate for a mining or blockade effort, raises the question to Powell before the meeting, and Powell, in turn, asks it.

[6] The speech opening is from Hillary’s 2008 concession in our timeline - which rivals Kennedy’s, in my opinion, for prolific addresses by failed candidates. The second part comes from remarks prepared by Steve Smith for Kennedy, according to pg. 217 of Camelot’s End, and the final part is obviously his famous convention closing.

 

[Vidal]

JUST SHORT

“Nobody said it would be easy. Nobody was right.”
-George Bush​

April 22, 1980
Hampton Inn — Philadelphia, PA

Two days before Carter’s announcement that the United States would mine the ports around Iran, Republican voters in Pennsylvania were tasked with making their choice for the presidential nominee who’d face Carter in the general election. Bush had all of the momentum. He’d won in Illinois, Connecticut, and Wisconsin, and Connally had edged out Reagan in Louisiana.

The Gipper’s campaign was in trouble. Since his departure from the campaign, John Sears painted a portrait of a lazy and ineffectual campaigner who was beyond his prime. Reagan wanted none of it and rather than get bogged down by the successive losses, he redoubled his efforts and campaigned hard in Pennsylvania. The same competitive schedule that had him shaking hands well into the morning of the primary in New Hampshire was replicated for the Keystone State. Unfortunately for Reagan, Bush wasn’t going to give up that easily.

Bush campaigned across the state at a series of well-financed rallies aimed at introducing himself to voters. His stump speech carried a new edge to it. Connally was besting Reagan from the right, Bush was doing so from the left. Bush saw his chance to knock Reagan out of the race for good in Pennsylvania.

Introduced by William Scranton, the state’s lieutenant governor, Bush tore in to the Reagan platform. “These are serious times,” Bush warned, “and we can’t afford someone who walks around making jingoistic comments about Castro and Cuba! Any serious diplomat knows that words can be the difference between war and peace. It matters what the president says. You know it, and I know it, so why doesn’t Ronald Reagan?” [1]

Bush was leaning in to a growing sense from the electorate that Ronald Reagan was a little too off-the-cuff, and after a series of gaffes in the days leading up to the Pennsylvania primary, many voters wondered if Reagan really was too old to make a good president. But Reagan remained even with him in the polls, and Bush was growing increasingly frustrated.

Early on in the fight for Pennsylvania, Bush and his advisers were sitting around reviewing the schedule for the next three days. When they were done, the candidate tossed down his papers and leaned back in his chairs. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was tired, and he was frustrated. It seemed that no matter what he did, Reagan kept apace. He was particularly annoyed that voters were buying Reagan’s tax cut platform. Bush was a traditional Republican, in the mold of Bob Dole and others, who believed in emphasizing a balanced budget over lower taxes. This new supply-side economics that Reagan espoused was bullshit, and Bush didn’t understand why other voters didn’t see it.

“A 30-percent tax cut?” Bush bemoaned. “It’s irresponsible.”

“He won’t be able to pass it, and nobody will ever see that money,” a Bush aide said.

“You’ve got to take it on, boss,” another said. “He’s lying to people.”

“The math doesn’t add up,” Bush agreed, “but I can’t sit there and take out a calculator for the voters.”

Peter Teeley, the campaign press secretary, bolted upright. “I’ve got it,” he said. And a new attack line was born.

The next day, Bush debuted the hit at his first appearance of the day at Carnegie Mellon University. He started off by accusing Reagan of making “phony promises,” and then he went in for the punch: “Governor Reagan is running on a platform of voodoo economics,” he cried. The crowd laughed with delight. He followed it quickly: “And you deserve better!”

Every day, Bush sounded more like the man who could beat Jimmy Carter — and more like a president. He promised not to conform to the “popular appeal,” and he kept hitting Reagan for making promises he couldn’t keep. “That’s how we got into this mess,” he told his audiences. His strategy focused on the Philadelphia suburbs, while Reagan tried to win over voters in the more rural towns.

He took the blows from Bush and did little, rhetorically, to fight back. Instead, he kept preaching about his 11th Commandment. He also favored smaller events where he could grip and grin, as opposed to Bush’s more formal rallies. He went to local farms and even participated in a horse auction in Lancaster. His campaign was running out of money, and he needed a win in Pennsylvania to get back in the game. It didn’t help that he had been widely expected to carry Pennsylvania before the last two weeks. [2]

It was not to be for Reagan, and his campaign suffered another devastating loss. Bush’s resounding victory there knocked Reagan further behind, and Bush sounded confident in his victory speech: “Your message has been heard loud and clear, Pennsylvania! The Republican Party can’t nominate someone who overpromises and under-delivers. We need a candidate who is going to tell the truth. This is a time for promising proposals, not phony promises, and that’s exactly what I’m going to say when I accept the Republican nomination for president!”

The loss shocked the Reagan campaign, who quickly tried to re-work their path to the nomination. Privately, Dick Wirthlin considered whether or not Reagan should just get out of the race, but as every actor knew: There’s always a second act.


April 29, 1980
Galleria Shopping Center — Houston, TX

The wisest decision the Reagan campaign made post-New Hampshire was to skip the Texas primary. It was clear that it would be a home state duel between Bush and Connally, and given the fact that both of them needed to win there, it promised to be a bruising and messy race to the bottom. Reagan’s name remained on the ballot, but instead of spending time or money there, he campaigned in Arizona, Goldwater’s home state, which was a winner-take-all primary, and he looked forward to North Carolina, the state that launched his 1976 comeback, Tennessee, California, Mississippi, and Ohio.

Before Texas, Reagan was sitting with 291 delegates, Connally had 149, and Bush led with 324. Texas was rich with delegates, 82 to be exact, but it wasn’t even half as many as California had, and Reagan needed to make sure he had momentum going into his home state so he could run up the score there. So, Bush and Connally were left to duke it out in the Lone Star State.

Connally campaigned ferociously, hoping to take advantage of the lack of a race on the Democratic side so that ancestral Democrats would come home to him. Bush, meanwhile, was campaigning heavily on the fact that Connally could not mathematically win the nomination. It wasn’t exactly true. If Connally won Texas, he’d usurp Reagan as the candidate of the Right and head into Indiana, North Carolina, Mississippi, and West Virginia as the clear front runner, but Bush didn’t need to give the details.

He also ran strong against Connally’s character. The hits were thinly veiled. He talked about needing a president who wouldn’t “say one thing and do another,” and he raised doubts among Republican loyalists, who had spent many years in the Texas political wilderness, that John Connally was a man they could trust.

“I ran for Senate here ten years ago,” Bush said to scattered applause. Many Republicans remembered — it had been the first time they had hope at the federal level. “And while I was out making the case for why Texas should break with its tradition and send a Republican to Washington, John Connally hand-picked the Democrat and helped block us from winning the majority.” Republicans in the room nodded. They remembered.

“Now, if you listen to John, he’ll tell you he’s as Republican as anyone in this race. But how can we believe him? He only became a Republican to take a job in the Nixon White House. How are we supposed to believe he’ll stay a Republican when he gets back there?”

Connally hit Bush just as hard. “Look, George Bush is trying to earn a job that he can’t get appointed to,” he said, “but the hard part about facing voters is they have long memories. And y’all know what I did here as Governor, and that’s why you should trust what I’ll do as president. What did George Bush do in all those fancy appointed jobs that his Daddy got for him? He sat on his butt all day.” [3]

And the next day, like they were two kids on a see-saw, Bush shot back. “I was proud to serve this country, and I did it honestly. I would think that John Connally would appreciate a man who served in government office with integrity, but I suppose its too foreign a concept for him.” His remarks carried a bite — and a little bit of his adopted Texas twang.

Connally’s Texas operation had him going out into rural countries, walking in to general stores, and shaking hands with everyone he could find. He traveled the state tirelessly. This was his real home, not some phony staging ground or adopted residence. Texas was home, and he’d be damned if he was going to lose it to a Yankee.

After long days of shaking hands, Connally would ask his staff how it was going. He and Bush were about even on money — and both of them had more funds than Reagan. For every 30-second spot for Bush, there was a 30-second spot for Connally. The candidate demanded they outspend Bush. “I’m not losing this goddamn state!” he barked.

Connally held rallies in the lead-up to the voting, and at one of them he decried the “Democrat-controlled” Congress and their efforts to undermine America’s energy production. He said, “The Democrat-controlled Congress has not done anything except make it harder to mine and burn coal, harder to drill for oil, harder to build nuclear power plants!” The line drew in enough applause, and Connally rode the energy straight into an attack on Bush. He was angry that Bush had come here and started tarnishing his name.

“The press likes to tell ya this is an excitin’ race because it’s between two Texans,” he said with a laugh. “That’s the honest to God truth — that’s what they’re saying. The other day a reporter asked me, they said, ‘Governor, what do you make of the fact there are two Texans competing for votes here?’ I looked that young man straight in the eye and I said, ‘Two Texans? Who’s the other one?’” The line drew laughs. “I don’t know about y’all, but I don’t know too many Texans who did their learnin’ up in New Haven.

“My Daddy wasn’t a United States Senator. I suppose if he had been, I could’ve moved down here to Texas and started buying up oil fields, too, but I had to work hard for my money. I had to work hard to become Governor of this state. I had to work hard to represent us in Washington in the cabinet. So don’t tell me there are two Texans in this race. When I was walking to school every morning at sunrise, George Bush had some chauffeur picking him up and driving him to whatever prep school it was he went to.

“The press’ll do whatever they need to do to make it look like there’s a real race here, and it’s gonna be close — I know that — but make no mistake: There aren’t two Texans running here. There’s a Texan, and there’s a pampered prep schooler who’s hot as hell he can’t just get appointed to this job like he did the last four or five he had.” His supporters were on their feet cheering him on. This was the Connally they’d remembered.

When Bush read what Connally had said in the paper the next morning, he decided to hit harder. They could keep going back-and-forth with speeches and comments to the press, but Bush decided to film a straight-to-camera appeal. It was him walking outside in a Texas oilfield, and he was going to finish this debate once and for all.

“You’ve heard what John Connally’s said about me — that I’m not a real Texan.” The wind was blowing in his hair while a jacket-less Bush walked through the field, his tie waving in the breeze like a flag. “All I know is I was proud to move my family here because Texas offered us a shot at the American dream. Like so many of you, I got my start in the oil business. What did John Connally do? He got in bed with the Arabs and helped them rack up their oil profits at the expense of Texan oil producers.

“And now, John Connally is running against a Democrat-controlled Congress. Well, when I ran for the United States Senate as a Republican, it was John Connally who hand-picked the Democrat in the race and ensured Democrats kept their Senate majority.

“Like you, I’m tired of politicians who say one thing and then do another. America needs a president. Not a chameleon. I hope I can count on your vote on May 3rd.”

Connally was irate when he saw the ad, but the campaign had little time to respond. He watched in disbelief as George Bush edged him out. Reagan carried 19% of the vote, enough to rob Chameleon Connally of his first-place finish. The press coverage of the primary was devastating to Connally, and the National Review spelled it out for conservatives in the remaining primary states: “If George Bush is going to be stopped by a conservative, it must be Ronald Reagan. He is the only one left with a path to the Republican nomination.”

While Bush and Connally dragged each other through the nastiest primary Texas Republicans had ever seen, Ronald Reagan was carefully building up his campaign apparatus in the remaining primary states. He felt rejuvenated without Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum (as some in the Reagan camp had taken to calling them) nipping at his heels, and the more relaxed Reagan performed well on the stump.

“I don’t know if any of you have read what’s happening in Texas,” he told one crowd. “The way George Bush is telling it, John Connally’s a good-for-nothing-Texan-liar, and the way John Connally tells it, George Bush is a good-for-nothing-Yankee liar!” There was light laughter, and then Reagan hit them both: “Bush has taken to reminding voters that John Connally was once a liberal Democrat. That’s true, ya know,” Reagan said, “but my staff and I have been having this debate, and I’m hoping maybe you fine people can help us settle the question of what’s worse: The fact that John Connally was a liberal Democrat, or the fact that George Bush wants to govern like one.” It was almost like Reagan forgot that he, too, had been a Democrat. The voters in the room didn’t care. They loved it.

After his loss in Texas, John Connally considered ending his campaign, but he did the math out and realized there was a decent chance that they wouldn’t head into the Convention with a clear nominee. If he could keep siphoning delegates from Reagan, he could take the fight to Bush at the Convention and win. And so, after a humiliating loss in Texas, John Connally packed his bags and went to North Carolina.

Reagan’s head start and Connally’s Texas-sized loss altered the dynamics of the state, however, and Reagan, energized by the fact the nomination had come back into view, kept up a frenetic schedule. Connally’s heart was out of it, and he chose instead to plaster the state with ads instead of any serious retail politicking.

The result was exactly as Reagan hoped: On May 6th, Reagan scored big victories in Indiana, North Carolina, and Tennessee. He now led Bush 469-399. Connally trailed behind at 216. The next big prize would be Michigan, and then it came down to California, where Reagan was confident he’d put any question of who the nominee would be to rest.


June 3, 1980
Century Plaza Hotel — Los Angeles, CA

Ronald Reagan loved coming home. There were 452 delegates at stake in the June 3rd primaries, and if Ronald Reagan could win 348 of them, he would become the Republican nominee for president. It sounded harder than it would be. California, his home state, had 171 delegates. Mississippi, where he was expected to win comfortably, was winner-take-all, and it had 25. The other delegate-rich states were New Jersey and Ohio, and Reagan was leading in the polls in both states.

The results started to come in from the East Coast when the sun was still up in the West. And the early returns provided reason to worry.

Dick Wirthlin came in to Reagan’s suite in the Century Plaza Hotel to give him a sense of what they were seeing. Rhode Island was breaking overwhelmingly for Bush. That had been expected. But New Jersey was another story. Reagan had led in all of the polls there, but it looked like he and Bush were running dead-even. Connally was siphoning off some of Reagan’s votes on the right, and it looked like he might deny Reagan a victory. With its 70 delegates, New Jersey had been crucial to the night’s strategy.

Stu Spencer asked Wirthlin to breakdown the delegate math for them. What happened if Reagan lost New Jersey?

Wirthlin didn’t know. If Reagan’s loss in New Jersey was indicative of an underperformance in Ohio and California, then it meant that they were going to go to a brokered convention — just like they had in 1976. If it was a fluke, and Reagan held up impressive margins in California and in Ohio, then he could probably find the delegates he needed to become the Republican nominee outright. It was too early to say.

Reagan looked nervously at Spencer. Am I going to lose this? his eyes seemed to ask.

“Hold off on telling Nancy,” the candidate said, and he rose to go to the restroom. He couldn’t believe it was happening again. This was exactly how Jerry Ford must’ve felt when Reagan had cobbled together enough victories and close-seconds to deny Ford the nomination going into the Convention. Now, the unholy alliance of Bush and Connally had conspired against him, and if past conventions were any indication, the powers that be would have their last laugh when the party met in Detroit.

Reagan cleared the room of everyone except Spencer when he emerged. He wanted to be alone. It had been a long campaign, and he was exhausted. He second-guessed every strategy decision he’d made. Should he have just kept Sears? Should he have dumped Sears sooner? Why hadn’t he been more careful on the campaign trail to avoid the gaffes that had embarrassed him and raised enough doubts among the Right about his ability to beat Carter? Should he have even run in the first place?

The networks quickly called Mississippi for him, but it was hardly comforting. He had to win Mississippi. A short while later, they also called Ohio for him, but it wasn’t immediately clear how many of the state’s 79 delegates he’d take. He needed sixty.

Nancy got to the suite in time to be there for Ronnie when they called New Jersey for Bush. It had been an upset, and it had dramatically altered the dynamics of the race. Once again, the Republican candidates were left to wonder what lay next for them. Was it going to be an open convention? Or could Reagan sew it up with California?

There were other contests that night, and Reagan took them: Montana, South Dakota, and West Virginia. Bush had locked him out of New Mexico, though, and the path to the nomination came down to the allocation of delegates in Ohio and California.

Around 8:00pm on the West Coast, Wirthlin came in to explain the math to Reagan and Spencer. “It looks like we’re somewhere between 50 and 60 delegates in Ohio,” he said, “and it’s too early to know what it’ll look like in California, but if we’re on the low-end of that in Ohio — if we get 50 in Ohio, that means we need 180 delegates out of California.”

Reagan looked puzzled and glanced at Spencer and then back to Wirthlin. “I thought California had 171?” [4]

“It does.”

“So, you’re saying we can’t win?”

“Not if we only get 50 in Ohio. If we get 60 there, then we need 170 out of California.”

Reagan rolled his eyes. “Damnit, Dick, give it to me straight. What’s the math here? Are we going to end this thing tonight or not?”

“Governor, it looks to me like we’re going to be just short tonight.”

Reagan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He paced around the room haphazardly. “Alright,” he said. “Alright. We’ve done this before. We know what we’ve got to do at the Convention, but I don’t want to say that tonight. I want to go out there, and I want to project confidence. Even if tonight goes as well as it could for him, Bush is going to be some 300 delegates away. He doesn’t have a chance.”

“I think that’s right,” Wirthlin confirmed. “I want to go out there, and I want to declare victory.” And so, Reagan gave the ballroom a ten-minute warning. He was coming.

The networks called California for Reagan quickly, but they rushed to remind viewers that the size of Reagan’s victory there would determine whether or not he sewed up the Republican nomination that night. It was too early to say. Too early for them, but not for Reagan.

Barbara Walters was in the middle of explaining the math when she was interrupted. “I’m sorry, Barbara, but we’ve got to go to the Century Plaza Hotel where Governor Reagan is about to address his supporters.”

The screen cut to Ronald Reagan, beaming, with his wife Nancy’s eyes locked in a gaze behind him. Ron Jr., Patti, Michael, and Maureen were behind him, too.

“Thank you,” he said. “What a night!” The supporters cheered.

Reagan thanked his family, the volunteers, and the voters. He thanked George Bush and John Connally for “making this race with [him]” as if they’d merely been the supporting cast in his production. He sounded off on his familiar talking points about values and tax cuts, and then he delivered the line that was meant to end any doubt about who would be facing Jimmy Carter that November: “We don’t know exactly how tonight’s going to shake out,” he said, “but we do know this: When all the votes are cast, when all the delegates are allocated, there will only be one campaign with any viable mathematical path to the Republican nomination, and that is our campaign —” Here he was drowned out by supporters, but he pushed forward, “ — and we are going to go to Detroit organized and ready to prevail against the smoke-filled rooms and secret handshakes that would seek to deny the Republican voters their choice of a nominee!”

Watching from their suite in Biloxi, where they’d failed to deny Reagan a Southern victory, Haley Barbour turned to his candidate, John Connally, and asked what he made of Reagan’s speech.

Connally grinned. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said in a slow drawl, “but I think it’s bedtime for Bonzo.”


June 20, 1980
The Monocle — Washington, DC

It was hard to imagine a scenario in which Ronald Reagan did not emerge from the Convention as the Republican nominee for president. Bush and Connally fell significantly behind in the final stretch of the campaign, and Reagan’s resounding win in California had put him within thirty-two delegates of the nomination. Neither George Bush nor John Connally were willing to go down without a fight, but not everyone in their inner circles felt similarly.

Pete Teeley told Bush that he should approach Reagan and offer to release his delegates in exchange for the vice presidential nomination. It made sense, but it was exactly the kind of backroom dealmaking that would doom a Republican ticket in November. Connally would cry foul and wreak havoc at the Convention. Besides, Bush didn’t want to be Vice President. He believed that he could sew up the Republican nomination on the second ballot.

He seemed to forget that many Reagan Republicans were loathe to consider him for the White House, but he remembered stories of the 1952 Convention, where the Party faithful, locked out of power, had come to their senses and nominated the electable candidate, not the one who stirred their deepest passions. The delegates would turn to him, he assured his team, and to explain why, his campaign unveiled yet another slogan: “Bush Beats Carter.”

“The problem,” Jim Baker reminded Bush, “is that John Connally has enough delegates to sway this thing to Reagan.”

“Hell, Jim, so does Howard Baker.” [5]

“My point is, if we want to ensure this thing goes to the Convention, then we have to make sure Connally is on board.”

Bush leaned back in his chair and rubbed his forehead. “What are you suggesting?”

“I need to talk to Mahe,” Baker said, referring to Connally’s campaign manager, “and make sure that we are both on the same page about this. There’s a real chance we can deny Reagan the nomination, but we’ve got to be coordinated in our approach, and we have to go about it in two ways. First, we go for the unpledged delegates and do whatever we can to convince them Reagan can’t win in November. That’s fine, but there are over a hundred of them, and Reagan only needs thirty-two. It’s anything but guaranteed.

“What we really need to do is open the convention,” Baker explained. He’d been on the president’s team during the 1976 Convention fight with Reagan. He’d learned the rules of the National Convention inside and out, and Bush felt lucky to have Baker on his team in this fight. “So if we go to Connally, and we both do whatever we can to get the Convention open — well, some of Reagan’s delegates from the earlier states might not vote for him on the first ballot. They might be worried that Reagan couldn’t close the deal, and they might turn to us or to Connally.”

“But what if this throws the nomination to Connally?”

“An open convention only helps us,” Baker reasoned. “If the nomination goes to multiple ballots, there’s no telling what will happen. Connally could emerge as a compromise candidate. Hell, Ford might jump in. He thought about running this year. So, we’ve got to try and win early, and the only way to do that is to free Reagan’s delegates so we can tell them what they need to hear so they vote for us.”

Bush nodded. He would do whatever he needed to do. Deep in his stomach a feeling had been growing that he was the man for the moment. He was the man who could beat Carter. He was tired of being mocked by Reagan and by Connally when he was clearly the superior nominee. All of Connally’s talk about his appointments burned in him a desire to win — to prove Connally wrong. He could win a fair fight, and Detroit in the Summer of 1980 would be a fair fight.

• • •​

Jim Baker entered the Monocle on D Street on July 20th at 8:48am. He was twelve minutes early. He pulled back his chair, unbuttoned his suit, and took his seat at the table. George Bush is a good and decent man. It’s why he was here on a July morning to make sure he found the votes to make his friend president. There just weren’t many George Bushes left in politics.

They played golf together and spent more time being friends with one another than they did talking about current affairs. Baker was mostly apolitical, but he considered himself a Democrat if anything at all, and his wife worked in Republican politics, including on George Bush’s Congressional campaigns. That was how the two met. Baker originally thought about running to succeed Bush in Congress when he ran for the Senate in 1970 — that election in which John Connally had conspired against them. But Mary was sick with breast cancer, and she died in February of 1970. Jim Baker didn’t have it in him to run for Congress.

But George Bush knew that his friend needed something to do, and so he tried to put him to work on his Senate campaign. They’d talked it over, and George Bush talked about what it was like to lose Robin, his daughter, and how when that happened he’d put all his time into politics, and how the community inherent in politics had given him a sense of strength. Bush asked Baker to join his campaign, and Baker said yes.

Baker had the tactician mind required to operate a campaign behind the scenes. He worked on Nixon’s campaign, and he managed Gerald Ford’s operation in 1976 — the one that beat Reagan. In between then and now, he’d run for office himself (with Bush as his campaign manager no less), but he was more at home behind the scenes. He was intent on beating Reagan once again — not because he thought Reagan posed some ideological threat to the Republican Party or the country, but because he loved George Herbert Walker Bush.

Mahe was nearly ten minutes late to the meeting, so Baker wasted no time on pleasantries.

“Ed, your guy doesn’t have the votes,” he said as Mahe took his seat. Making a show of it, Baker unfurled his napkin and placed it on his lap.

“And neither does yours, Jim,” Mahe said back.

Baker nodded and grinned. “And that’s why we’re here.” He reached out his hand and Mahe grabbed it. The time had come to make a deal.

Perhaps if Connally had fared a bit better in the primaries, the conversation would have been about how he could take up a role as Secretary of Defense if he threw the nomination to Bush and secured him the nomination, but even combined, Bush and Connally could not have denied Reagan the nomination. Instead, they had to bleed him from both ends until one of them could come out on top. Besides, Mahe couldn’t imagine a scenario in which John Connally played second fiddle to Poppy Bush.

“You and I both know the math,” Baker started. “Reagan needs thirty-two votes. He can probably find ‘em in his sleep. Hell, even Baker’s got more delegates than that. So, the way I see it, we’ve got to open the Convention. If we can get enough Reagan delegates worried that their guy can’t beat Carter, we can get them to vote to change the rules — let them vote for whomever they want on the first ballot. If we do that, and Reagan’s down about a hundred, then we’ve got a fight on our hands. Either of our guys could win.”

“But why should we get involved? John could easily be Reagan’s Secretary of Defense — Hell, he might even be the running mate.”

Baker wasn’t going to indulge in Mahe’s bluff. “Ed, if that’s how you feel, then there’s no point in continuing. If you’re done bullshittin’, I’d appreciate us getting down to business here.”

Mahe glared at Baker. He had half a mind to get up and walk out, but he also knew that there was no real political future for his man. John Connally had underperformed this entire primary campaign. Hell, he’d lost Texas to Bush. If he was going to emerge from Detroit as a relevant figure in the Republican Party, he was going to have to emerge from Detroit as the Republican nominee for president.

Mahe quickly ran the numbers in his head. It was a long shot, but if you polled the Reagan delegates, the majority of them likely preferred Connally to Bush. If Reagan was shaky — denied the nomination on ballots one and two — John Connally was in the prime position to play a compromise candidate. It wouldn’t be fun — or easy — but what was it Bush had said? Nobody said it would be easy. Nobody was right.

The reality was John Connally had nothing to lose, and that put Ronald Reagan in a very dangerous position.

“Alright,” Mahe confessed. “Tell me what you think we ought to do…”

>>>>>>>>

[1] Two notes here. Scranton stayed neutral IOTL, this time, with Reagan on his heels, he decides to get involved to help Bush. Second, this is not a verbatim quote but it does mirror the attacks Bush made against Reagan IOTL.

[2] Assessment of the Pennsylvania primary is based largely on Rendezvous with Destiny’s account of it.

[3] Yes, he basically said that. Reaganland, 625.

[4] There is some question about the California delegate situation. Wikipedia lists its delegate count at 171. The Washington Post puts it at 168. Contemporary press reports say it was winner-take-all, but the Wikipedia page notes 25 delegates to Anderson from the state. For the sake of consistency, I based numbers off of the Wikipedia delegate counts, and I think it’s plausible in a scenario where Reagan stumbles out of the gate, as he does ITTL, that his campaign could’ve been out-maneuvered on the question of proportional allocation of delegates.

[5] This is not technically true. Baker has 31 delegates going into the convention. Reagan needs 32.

 

[Vidal]

THE TEXANS’ LAST STAND

“A chess tournament disguised as a circus.”
-John Connally

​

July 13, 1980
Detroit Plaza Hotel — Detroit, MI

We just need an open convention, he thought to himself. If we can open the convention, I can be the nominee. The former president believed it in his heart of hearts, and that was precisely why, on the eve of the Republican National Convention, Gerald R. Ford was calling friends and supporters — and delegates. Ford was on the phone with Congressman Dick Cheney, his one-time Chief of Staff, asking him if he thought there was a path to the nomination.

“Frankly, I don’t know,” Cheney said. “Right now, Bush and Connally have this unnatural alliance, but it seems to be holding. There’s a lot of skepticism about Reagan right now — people feel like he blew his lead and can’t be trusted to win against Carter. Maybe he does have an electability problem. You, on the other hand, closed on Carter during a tough campaign. But, Reagan will say you’ve already lost to him once before. So will Bush and Connally.”

The president nodded. “But are people really okay with Bush or Connally as the nominee? Do they really see either of them sitting behind the desk? I figure we get their delegates and some of Reagan’s.”

Cheney wasn’t quite sure where the 38th president was getting his math, but he had an idea. Wishful thinking. “I don’t know if it’s that easy. Again, I think there’s a path — especially if we’re deadlocked after a ballot or two. There’s a path for you to come in as the elder statesman and save the party from the in-fighting. But I think we need to be deadlocked first.”

Ford nodded in understanding, but he did not intend on taking Cheney’s advice. He removed his pipe from his mouth, thanked the Congressman for his time, and turned to Betty. “I think I have to do this,” he said. His wife agreed.

Ford’s next calls were to Dean Burch and John Marsh. Both men had advised Ford as he weighed a 1980 campaign last year. Both men agreed that if Ford wanted the Republican nomination, he would have to go through the primary process. Now, he was calling them to say he was going forward with it anyway. “There’s no clear nominee,” he explained, “and I think the people see that Reagan can’t win this thing. They want someone else. And who are they going to pick? Reagan’s people hate Bush because he’s too moderate, and they hate Connally because he’s a snake. I’m the unifier,” he explained.

There was wisdom to the former president’s assessment of the field, but at his core Gerald Ford was a politician — a man who had tasted the powers that come with the Oval Office. The thirst for that power could distort a man’s thinking — allow him to overlook reality, like the fact he’d be starting without a single pledged delegate, and ignore the animosities against him, like believing not a single Reagan delegate could prefer Bush or Connally to him.

Burch and Marsh, loyal to the end, agreed to sign on.

• • •​

Four floors up, on the sixty-ninth floor of the hotel, Ronald Reagan and his team were going over their strategy once more. The candidate himself couldn’t quite believe the situation he was in. How did it all gone so wrong? He had started the race as the clear frontrunner, and somehow, bit by bit, his lead evaporated. People thought he was too dodgy, they thought he couldn’t win — this bothered him the most. If they’d just pull the lever next to my name, I’d be the president, he thought to himself. With all of these frustrations mounting, the candidate was — above all — tired. He had been here before, just four years earlier, and the nomination had escaped his grasp. He would not let history repeat itself. He would be the Republican nominee for president.

There were two hopes for denying Reagan the nomination. His team was working to close out both avenues. The first way was through convincing enough of the uncommitted delegates to vote for Bush or Connally on the first ballot to deny Reagan the nomination. Then, the Convention would head to a second ballot where delegates were mostly free to vote for whichever candidate they wanted — even a candidate to whom they were not pledged.

The second hope for the Bush/Connally faction was to challenge the rules. Ironically, the rules had been changed four years earlier by Ford and his team when they were worried about a drive to Reagan on the floor. The Bush/Connally faction hoped to remove the provision of the 1976 rules that required delegations to be recorded in accordance with the primary results of their states, thereby allowing delegates to be free to vote for the candidate of their choice. [1] Reagan’s team wanted to shut that vote down in order to ensure they held onto all of their delegates. Because of his lead with the pledged delegates going into the roll call, Reagan would only need to win over a smaller portion — thirty-two of the 115 unpledged delegates. If Bush and Connally succeeded in their mission to allow for an open convention, then the Reagan team would have to start from scratch and delegates weary of the fact Reagan had been unable to wrap the nomination up on his own might jump ship for Bush or Connally — or even for Gerald Ford, as some rumors suggested.

The Reagan delegate operation was missing a crucial figure: A national political director. The Reagan campaign, in the post-Sears era, had left the important position open. Regional political directors, who came to take on the role of delegate management, were not reporting to a central figure who had the candidate’s ear. Some were out on their own, inventing and then following their own dictums. Some reported to Casey, others phoned Meese or Wirthlin. The Reagan camp — the “fellows” as Reagan called them — were just learning how costly that vacancy might become.

“How are we on the Rules question?” Casey asked.

At the same time, Meese and Wirthlin provided different answers. Meese was worried, he said, because of some difficult reports out of the Southern delegations. Reagan had taken Georgia, Mississippi, and Tennessee, but Connally had fared better in the earlier Southern states: South Carolina, Alabama, and Florida.

“I just got off with Tommy,” Meese explained, referring to Tommy Thomas, the Reagan team’s lead guy in Florida, “and he told me that Connally’s been working them hard. Took them all out to a big fancy dinner and told everyone our guy was running out of steam.”

Wirthlin brushed it aside. “We did better in the later states when Connally’s path closed off. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It doesn’t matter. People are worried because we didn’t wrap this thing up on our own and we’re back here at another divided convention. They feel like this was our campaign to lose and we lost it.”

Michael Reagan, the candidate’s adopted son, spoke up. “Who isn’t being loyal? Let’s call ‘em. I’ll talk to them and remind them why they’re on this campaign. Maureen can, too.”

Maureen agreed. She wanted to get all of their delegates together again before the vote tomorrow for a rally to keep them energized. She volunteered to introduce her father — her speeches during the campaign had been widely praised and some wondered if she might have her own political future ahead of her. Casey didn’t think the idea was necessary, and he was worried it would make the Reagan campaign look scared — insecure.

“I think it sends the exact right message: That we have the most delegates. We have the energy. We have the momentum. And if all our delegates are unified, we don’t have to worry about this rules challenge, and then we only need thirty delegates to wrap this up.”

“Thirty-two,” Casey corrected. Maureen nodded. She should have been more exact.

Reagan’s staff was not particularly worried. There were 115 delegates out there. Reagan needed less than a third of them, and given he was the only candidate within striking distance of the nomination, it seemed unlikely these unpledged delegates would go Bush or Connally’s way and force a second ballot. No Republican Convention had gone to a second ballot since 1948, and if the 1980 convention became the first in 32 years, it would devastate the party in its match-up with Jimmy Carter.

The candidate, however, remembered his confidence about the nomination in 1976, and he did not want to take anything for granted now. He could not afford to lose. Standing up from the circle of advisors, he gave plain directions: “Tell me who I need to call, and I will. Tell me who needs attention, and they’ll get it. If someone on the ground says we should be worried, we should be. I’ve had this stolen from me once before, but it won’t happen again.” There were no real directions in his statement, and the circle around him sort of nodded. But something in Reagan’s gut told him he couldn’t be sure of the outcome. He had this nagging feeling that it was all slipping away, that the guys in the room didn’t understand the urgency, and that he needed a fighter to get the campaign organized.

“Get me Roger Stone,” he said.

• • •​

George Bush wasn’t sure what to make of the whole situation. He was holding on to 573 delegates — too few to win the nomination outright on the first ballot, and probably even on the second ballot. For that reason, he was nervous about the stalking presence of Gerald Ford, the former president who somehow believed that the presidency would find him once more by accident as it had the first time. He had just listened to his son, Jeb, explain the dynamics at play.

Some of Bush’s New Hampshire delegates — who had been Ford delegates at the Convention four years earlier — heard that the ex-president was considering a campaign from the floor. Dean Burch had called the delegate directly, and — as Jeb had heard it — implied that the nomination would soon be Ford’s for the taking. So the logic went: The challenge to the rules was doomed to fail and so the only hope would be to stop Reagan on the first ballot. It could be achieved, but at that point the unholy alliance of Bush and Connally would cease, and the Bush delegates would never vote for Connally and the Connally delegates would never vote for Bush. Therefore, a new unity candidate was needed or Reagan would be nominated anyway. If Ford got into the race and the Bush delegates ran to him early, he could sew up the nomination on the second ballot.

Bush rubbed his crinkled forehead. “How, exactly, does he think he’ll win over Ronald Reagan’s delegates?”

Jeb shrugged. “That’s not clear.”

Bush ground his teeth together. How could Ford be this stupid? The fate of the Republican Party is hanging in the balance, Bush believed, and Gerald Ford is about to drive the ship into the iceberg all in the name of vanity. It had been a long road to Detroit and now, staring at the finish line, the improbable candidate, once described as an asterisk, looked around the room. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked helplessly.

James Baker resumed control. “We have a plan, and we stick to it.” The plan had always been to open the Convention. They had to convince conservative delegates that it was worth turning on Reagan in the name of electability. The Bush camp was guilty of its own wishful math. Would Reagan delegates really come to him on a second ballot, even if the convention were opened?Nonetheless, Baker reminded the room in case the plan had been forgotten: “We open this convention.”

The campaign manager provided no further explanation and left the room. He could be forgiven for his hasty departure — he had an important meeting.

Ten minutes later, Baker was sitting in a car outside a different hotel waiting for someone to come out the front door. Baker looked anxiously out the window. Then, he spotted him: Young with thick black-framed glasses and a receding hairline. It was Eddie Mahe. Connally’s campaign manager climbed into the car.

“Jim,” he said.

“Eddie. We’ve got a situation.”

“What’s going on?”

Though their candidates could hardly have held such a cordial conversation, they were both paid to deliver a victory — and that meant making deals and amassing the information needed to get across the finish line. In a divided three-way Convention, Eddie Mahe and James Baker needed each other.

“Ford’s thinking about getting into this thing.”

“Jesus Christ,” Mahe said, rolling his eyes. “What for?”

“He thinks our delegates will never unite and that the only way to beat Reagan is to put together a united front from the start.”

“You know we need the open Convention as much as you do,” Mahe responded. It was a lie. Connally needed the Convention opened more than Bush did. If he had any chance of getting the nomination, they needed to steal at least 100 Reagan delegates out of the gate. They thought they could do it, too, if they could just win the procedural vote.

“You’ve got to get your men in line,” Baker barked. “There’s no room for error on that first vote.”

Blood boiled under Mahe’s skin. He didn’t need the reminder — he knew full well what was at stake. “I’ve got it, Jim. How about you keep your guys from creaming their pants over Jerry Ford? Can you do that?"

Baker didn’t appreciate that kind of language. They may have been making sausage, but it was for the highest office in the land. This was a dignified process, and there was no room for such analogies.

“We’ll handle Ford. Make sure your people stay in line. If we can remind our delegates that yours also want the open Convention, we’ve got a real fight on our hands. How are you doing making inroads with the cooks?” It was Baker’s term for the leaders of the Religious Right.

“You know John’s never sold them that he’s a true believer, but I think some at the top realize that Reagan’s damaged goods.”

“Well, good. Sell ‘em on it.”

Again, Mahe resented the implication that he needed any training. Some had viewed the Connally campaign as a disappointment, but Mahe thought he’d pulled off the unthinkable: Positioned Connally as the compromise candidate at a brokered convention just a few years after his party switch all while his candidate harbored a reputation as an ethically lax Texan six years removed from Watergate. He didn’t need Jim Baker’s advice.

• • •​

Perhaps, with his 248 pledged delegates, John Connally was the only one who thought he could emerge from the Convention as the Republican nominee for president, but his confidence had trickled down to his loyal cadre of staffers, among them: Campaign Manager Eddie Mahe and Haley Barbour, the Southern coordinator who had risen to become one of Eddie Mahe’s most trusted men on the staff. He was helping to coordinate the national delegate effort for Connally as Republicans gathered in Motown to choose their nominee.

John Connally was no easy boss during that 1980 campaign. He cussed at his staff and demanded a lot of them. Barbour didn’t mind it one bit. To him, Connally was just the same as his football coach back home in Mississippi had been. He liked Connally and thought he’d make a damned good president. [2]

So when Haley Barbour got news that his delegates were hearing some things about John Connally and the kind of campaign that Jimmy Carter would run against him, he wasn’t afraid to go to the candidate himself to learn how to proceed.

It all started with a phone call that Barbour received from one of the Connally delegates in Louisiana. The delegate had been out at a bar with a number of his colleagues when one of the Reagan guys approached him and said that the Connally delegate should “stay put” on the vote of opening the convention and oppose it. Why? The Connally delegate had asked innocently.

Apparently, the Reagan guy said they’d gotten word from a reporter that there were “more questions than answers” about that 1974 trial Connally had faced when he was accused of accepting a bribe to fix the price of milk. “And the Carter guys have all of the details,” the Reagan man had told this delegate. Naturally, the insinuation made the Connally delegate nervous and so he asked what else was out there. He didn’t get a straight answer. But it seemed to him that if he opened the Convention, the Reagan guys would release whatever they had about Connally — or maybe the reporters would do it themselves — and then any hope of a conservative nominee might be dashed as delegates rallied around Bush as the safer option. And no Connally delegate wanted the nomination to go to Bush.

Barbour sensed immediately what was happening. The Reagan camp knew that while the Bush and Connally camps had a mutual desire in denying Reagan the nomination, they would each rather see Reagan win than the other guy. If the Reagan camp could convince the Bush delegates that opening the floor would help Connally more than Bush, and if they could convince the Connally delegates that opening the floor would help Bush more than Connally, they could keep everyone where they were and concentrate on winning the thirty-or-so delegates they needed on the first ballot.

Barbour laid it out for Mahe and the candidate.

“Sonofabitch,” Connally muttered. “I mean seriously, fuck him.”

Barbour nodded. It was a dirty trick. “I’m sure Roger Stone is behind it,” Barbour said, correctly identifying the mysterious “Reagan man” — or at least, the guy who had given the Reagan man the instructions.

“Fuck him, too,” Connally said. Stone should always have been on his team. He was the true heir to Nixon, not Reagan.

“How do we want to proceed?” Barbour asked. “I think we’ve got to reassure our delegates of our path to the nomination if it goes to a second ballot or an open convention.”

Connally waved him off. Maybe part of him knew that this was all for not. Maybe part of him just wanted to see it all burn.

“He’s a B-list Hollywood actor, and he’s going senile. How about we remind folks of that?”

It wasn’t really a direction, and Barbour looked nervously at Mahe. What was he supposed to do with that? Connally answered the question.

“Get me a list of delegates. Start with mine — the ones who are waffling. And then get me some of his.”

As soon as Barbour was back with the list, Connally sat down and started calling: “Let me level with you,” he told one of his delegates from Texas, “we don’t have to worry about Bush. When this thing goes to the second ballot, I’m going to pick up all of Reagan’s people. They see it, too. He’s losing his goddamn mind. One of his staffers called Eddie the other week and said he didn’t even recognize his own daughter. What? Who? No, not Maureen. The other one. Yeah. Anyway — they’re scared shitless that he might actually win this thing. Stick with us, and we’ll have a spot for you in Washington. Yep. Alright. Thank you.”

“They’re telling our folks some cockamamie story about the trial — you’ve heard it, too?” Connally asked another delegate, looking up at Mahe as if to say Fuck Reagan. “Well, it’s horse shit. I want you to know that. It’s total horse shit. They’re desperate because they’re afraid they’re going to be the guys who throw this nomination to Bush — stick us with another New England Ivy League wannabe jock instead of getting us the conservative we deserve. Yeah, that’s right. Anyway, I’m just calling to tell ya what we’re hearing from Reagan’s folks: His people are ready to bolt. I’ve heard he’s called something like 100 or 150 of his delegates, and he ain’t got one name right yet. He’s totally losing it. Just gone. It’s sad, really. Anywho — I need you to be with me. Stick with me on the first two ballots and stick with me on the rules change. We’re gonna win this. Yep. Alright, thank you, and there’ll be a desk for ya in Washington. Okay.”

The sun started to set outside Connally’s hotel room, but the candidate kept planted in his seat and flipped to the next page of calls.


July 14, 1980
Joe Louis Arena — Detroit, MI

CBS’ coverage of the 1980 Republican National Convention began on July 14th with an interview of a Reagan delegate. He was from Ohio, and this was his fourth Republican National Convention as a delegate. His first had come 28 years earlier.

“What was that Convention like?”

“Oh, it was a lot like this one. I’ll tell ya that.”

“How so?” asked the reporter.

“Well, back then the powers that be got together and did everything they could to stop the conservative from winning at that Convention. Robert Taft. I was a Taft delegate. I was 35 then, and I’m telling ya: I’ve never forgotten what that was like.”

“And you’re with Mr. Reagan now?”

“You bet. I was four years ago, too, when the powers that be conspired against him. Well, not this time. We’ve got the votes.”

“Do you, though? There’s an effort to open the convention. What do you make of that?”

“If they rob Ronald Reagan of this nomination, I will never vote for another Republican again.”

It was an extreme example, but the Ohio delegate encapsulated a feeling many of Reagan’s people held. They’d been here before. Some of them had been there for Robert Taft. Some had been there for Barry Goldwater. Many of them had been there for Ronald Reagan in 1976. They weren’t willing to lose this time.

Connally’s team had overestimated the number of Reagan delegates who could be swayed based on logical arguments. Maybe they had a point that Connally had more fight in him, but Reagan delegates were quick to point out that it was Reagan who was less than 100 delegates shy of the nomination. Connally trailed Reagan by nearly 700 delegates. How was he the more electable candidate?

For many of them, it just didn’t matter anyway. Ronald Reagan was their man. Just like Robert Taft had been their man. Just like Barry Goldwater had been their man. When Ronald Reagan spoke, he spoke from their gospel. When he told them that he would make America great again — that meant something to them. It meant different things to each of them, but it meant something to every last one of them. Sure, Connally’s mention that a “desk would be waiting” in Washington meant something too to a few of them, but most didn’t care. They were Reagan’s people. And this was his moment.

Before they proceeded to the roll call, where the Bush and Connally campaigns would need to find delegates to deny Reagan the nomination, they would have their chance to open the convention. Combined with Howard Baker’s 32 delegates, Bush and Connally had 852 votes to throw it open — if all their people stayed in line.

So, now, Bush and Connally’s teams had until 2:00pm to get their votes counted and re-counted to make sure they could throw the Convention open.

Haley Barbour was on top of it for the Connally campaign. The candidate had done a number of calls the evening before to shore up his wavering delegates, and when Barbour checked in with them that morning, they assured him they’d be there for the rules vote. Now, he needed to reach out to his Southern Reagan delegates and convince them that opening the Convention was a good idea. He had a list of 30 or so whom he thought were on the fence. They’d been worried by the Gipper’s shaky performance and his inability to sew up the nomination. Barbour was ready to win them over, and he had permission to offer whatever was needed to get their votes.

At first, things went well for Barbour. He walked the floor and ticked through his list. Some of the Reagan delegates from Alabama were primed to switch to Connally so long as their kids could get a tour of the White House when he won. That wasn’t any problem. But when he reached out to one of his Georgia targets, he realized that the sonofabitch-good-for-nothing-idiot-of-a-son-with-the-stupid-name had thrown the whole thing to shit.

Barbour pulled aside his contact in the Georgia delegation, where he received the bad news straight from the source.

“Haley, listen to me, it’s done.”

The floor was loud with various conversations and backbench legislators giving speeches from the podium. “What?!” Barbour barked. This time, he’d actually heard the man, but he didn’t understand what he’d meant.

“Last night, at one of the Bush parties, some of the Bush delegates were with Jeb.”

“The son?”

“Yes, Jeb. The son. And Jeb told them that when the Convention opened, they had the votes to take the nomination.”

Barbour knew where this was going. Part of the complicated balancing act had been convincing the Bush delegates and the Connally delegates, both of whom would’ve rather seen Reagan emerge as the nominee over the other Texan, that only their candidate had a path to the nomination. And if the Reagan conservatives thought that opening the Convention would help Bush more than it would help Connally — well, then there was no prayer for Haley Barbour and his briefcase full of job descriptions.

“Listen to me,” Barbour yelled over the dull roar of the Convention floor, “there’s no way Bush can sew this up. You’ve got to listen to me. You’ve got to go back and explain it to these fuckers like they’re five goddamn years old. Okay? You tell them: After the first ballot, Gerald Ford is going to get into this thing, and you tell them that he’s goin’ to split the Bush delegates. Now, we’ve got a four-way fight on our hands, alright? And John Connally is going to emerge from that fight because he’s the only one who can take the Bush people, take the Ford people, and take the Reagan people. Nobody else can be a compromise candidate.”

“Ford is getting into this?”

“Yes. Ford will get into it if the Convention is opened. I’ve heard that.”

“From who?”

“From people close to Cheney.”

“God, Haley, now I can’t even join you. We can’t let that bastard be the nominee.”

“What?”

“I said, we can’t nominate that bastard again. There’s just no way to do this and make sure we nominate Connally.”

Barbour stamped his foot. “You’re not listening to me, damnit! If we hold the line — if we open this Convention — the delegates get split four ways. The only one who can bring them back together is John Connally.”

“What?”

“I said Connally is the compromise candidate on a second ballot or a third ballot. We win this thing if the Convention is opened.”

“But what happens if he doesn’t get it on the third ballot? What happens if everyone says ‘Fuck it, let’s go with Jerry. He only lost by a handful last time.’”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I’m asking: When it comes down to the third ballot, is Bush going to back y’all if you have more votes than he does?”

Barbour clenched his eyes shut. His head was pounding. They hadn’t thought of this. Somehow, in the weeks of planning and back-and-forth conversations, they hadn’t considered what would happen after the Convention was opened. And then Jeb Bush started running around shooting his mouth about how his Daddy would be president as soon as they opened the Convention. Well, fuck, the only thing these conservatives wanted to see less than a second term for Jimmy Carter was a first term for Poppy Bush. Goddamnit. Goddamnit.

“I’ve got to go. I’ve got to talk to Bush’s people,” Barbour said, and he broke off and went to find Jeb Bush.

• • •
​

The rumors started as a murmur the evening before, but by the time the delegates arrived at the Joe Louis Arena that morning, many of them had heard it loud and clear: If the Convention opened, Gerald Ford would throw his hat in the ring. Dan Rather, had heard the buzz all morning, but he hadn’t been able to get a good enough source — until 11:45 that morning, when Senator Schweiker, the man who (some said) had cost Reagan the nomination in ’76, told him to his face that Gerald Ford was a candidate for president.

Walter Cronkite cut to a breathless Rather on the floor.

“Dan, what are you hearing about the possibility that former President Ford is going to get into this?”

“Walter, the situation here on the floor would give an aspirin a headache,” Rather started. “But I can tell you this: I’ve heard from Senator Schweiker that Congressman Cheney told someone else who then told Senator Schweiker that Gerald Ford will throw his hat into the ring if the Convention delegates vote for an open Convention when they start the roll call at 2:00 this afternoon.” [3]

“And what are you hearing from the delegates?”

“Some of them are excited. They think Gerald Ford’s the perfect candidate to unite this party and take on Jimmy Carter. A lot of the Bush delegates are ready to jump ship.”

If Gerald Ford thought he could toss around the idea of another presidential campaign and the Republican delegates would come running to him, he was experiencing a very different reality now that news of a campaign-from-the-floor had broken. Just as his inner circle had told him back when he considered jumping into the primary fight, winning from the Convention floor was a retired tactic, and it was not likely to happen again.

Many of the Bush delegates were loyal to Bush, and they didn’t want to risk fracturing the moderate voting bloc when the alternatives were Connally or Reagan. Ford called many of them, and some were receptive to the ex-President’s message, but more of them politely said they weren’t interested. They had come here for Bush, and they were sticking with him. If Ford wanted to be president, he should’ve got into this thing awhile ago and helped the Party avoid the inevitable mess that would come with a Reagan nomination. That was his chance. Now, it was Bush’s.

After the news broke, Cheney called Ford directly to apologize for any confusion. He hadn’t meant to break the story. Ford said it was no bother — he was grateful the news was out there.

“Mr. President, with all due respect, I think you should go out there and say that I was mistaken. I think you should say you’re not interested in the job.”

“Why would I do that, Dick? I think we can win this thing.”

“I don’t think you can, and I think if you’re serious about stopping a Reagan nomination, the best thing you can do is enthusiastically endorse George Bush.”

Ford would hear none of it. He had a path to the nomination, and he wasn’t going to close it off to help George Bush. “I appreciate your advice,” he said curtly, and then he hung up the phone.

• • •
​

“Listen to me, the guy had Billy Graham and Jackie Kennedy testifying for him. There was no way that he was getting convicted, but if you honest to God think that John Connally wasn’t $10,000 richer after Jake Jacobsen got through with him, I’ve got a bridge to sell you.”

“Jimmy Carter won in 1976 because he told everyone they could trust him. Now, we know he was full of shit, but if you stick him up against John Fucking Connally — the guy who barely got off for taking a $10,000 bribe, we’re looking at a 1972-style landslide for the peanut farmer.”

“Of course he took the bribe, and he probably spent it on hookers.”

With each delegate, Roger Stone’s version of John Connally’s 1974 corruption trial got more dramatic. By the time he got to the Wyoming delegation, he’d probably be accusing the former cabinet secretary of murder.

And George Bush? Oh, Roger Stone had a lot to say about George Bush — his family was close with Hitler, he fucked every secretary who ever worked for him, he funded Planned Parenthood. The last one may have been rooted in some truth, but for the most part, Stone wove a web of conspiracies that mucked the waters and raised serious doubts about George Bush and his family.

Now, wearing a bright striped shirt and flashy suspenders, Stone traveled the Convention floor meeting with delegates and remind them to stick with Reagan on the rules vote and the first ballot. He wasn’t worried about the second ballot. There wouldn’t be a second ballot.

It didn’t matter what he heard, Stone had an answer.

Ford was entering the race? On the second ballot, Connally would join forces with him, sign on as his running mate, and that would be it for Reagan and that would be it for conservatives’ one shot in years to win the White House.

Connally said Reagan couldn’t finish the race? Bullshit. Who had gotten this far? If it hadn’t been for Connally’s dirty tricks in South Carolina, this nomination would’ve been wrapped up months ago.

At 1:59pm, he phoned the top brass on Reagan’s team. “We’ve got 1,294 votes against the rule change. I got half of Connally’s guys and some of Bush’s. We’re fine.” He hung up the phone before they could say anything else. A minute later the roll call began.

Haley Barbour knew it was over from the very first state. Nineteen of Alabama’s delegates voted for the rules change. There should have been twenty-seven.

At the end of the roll call, Chairman Brock banged the gavel down — its thud reverberating throughout the hall. “On the question of suspending the rules and permitting delegates to cast their ballots freely on the first ballot, the ayes are 655 and the nays are 1,294. The motion fails.”

And with that, the Bush/Connally axis’ best chance to deny Reagan the nomination had failed. Now, they needed to convince the unpledged delegates to throw the Convention to a second ballot.

Jeb Bush, who had been on the ground of the convention talking to delegates, promising jobs in the administration, and courting the few wavering Reagan delegations, felt totally defeated. “It was just the most depressing moment of my life,” he recalled later. “I stood there in disbelief, and I really felt that the Republicans had just thrown away our best chance to defeat Jimmy Carter. I knew then that he’d be reelected.”

There’s no way to know what would’ve happened if the Bush and Connally campaigns had gotten their way. Had the convention been opened, Bush faced the longest odds. Though he’d come in second in the delegate count, he was the least likely to grab delegates from Reagan or from Connally. It was more likely that Connally delegates would go to Reagan, and that’s why a number of them turned on their man at the eleventh hour. The threat of a Ford challenge had scared enough of the more conservative delegates into voting to keep the rules. Better Reagan than Ford, they thought — it was the mindset that had frustrated Haley Barbour as he tried to whip the votes for the open convention for Connally. Some of Bush’s delegates were also worried that if the Convention opened and Ford got in, a lot of their fellow Bush people would jump ship, splintering the moderates and clearing the way for Reagan or Connally. They stopped seeing how an open Convention would help Bush. Perhaps if Ford had not teased the idea of a candidacy, Connally’s delegates would’ve voted in unison for the open convention. Maybe, too, the guarantee of not having Ford nominated would’ve encouraged some Reagan delegates to open the floor for a Connally nomination.

The Reagan camp’s triumphant victory on the first real test of its organization was a good sign for the campaign moving forward. Their delegates were in line, and that meant that after they left Detroit, they would head out to their homes — in Ohio and Texas, New York and Arizona, Florida and Montana — and knock on doors, call voters, put up yard signs, and campaign hard to make Ronald Wilson Reagan the 40th president. First, they just had to find those 32 delegates to put them over the edge.

• • •​

Haley Barbour didn’t find Jeb Bush until after their dreams of an open Convention had been gaveled into oblivion.

“Jeb!” he shouted. “Jeb! Get your ass over here.”

Poppy’s son turned around and saw Barbour climbing over chairs to get to him. “Haley,” he said with a sigh. They’d come up short. “I can’t believe it,” he said.

“What the fuck were you doing running your mouth and telling every goddamn conservative South of the Mason-Dixon that we were going to make your Daddy president if the Convention got opened?!”

Jeb was flabbergasted. “Of course I told our people that we were opening the Convention to nominate Dad. Why else would they have voted for it if they didn’t think that was possible?”

“You said you had the votes. That’s not the same thing as saying, ‘We can get there in an open convention.’ My people heard you running your mouth and they said, ‘Fuck it, I’m not giving him that path.’ Now, we’re over here trying to find enough idiots to vote against Reagan on the first ballot.”

“Haley, settle down.”

Barbour’s face was red. “You just waltz in here and act like you’re some kind of political mastermind. Well, your Dad ain’t held a job he couldn’t get appointed to, and you’re not going anywhere either. None of you have any goddamn political sense. You should’ve let us take Texas so we had something to prove to the Reagan people on the fence. We ran ads in New Hampshire every goddamn hour against Reagan, and you people still couldn’t beat him. It was embarrassing, Jeb, and now you’ve fucked us both over.”

“Haley, we were never in the business of nominating John Connally. We’re in the business of nominating George Bush. And if you don’t understand that, then I don’t think you’re the political mastermind you think you are.”

Jeb may have been on to something. The Connally people were badly outnumbered, and while they provided a convenient ally for the Bush camp, there was never any reason to believe that Jeb Bush or Jim Baker or Poppy himself would’ve done anything to help Connally get closer to the nomination. Throw the Texas primary to him? Bush needed that just as much as Connally did. And Bush had a better chance of winning the nomination; he had more delegates. If Connally and Barbour and Mahe had been serious about stopping Reagan, they should’ve gotten behind Bush after Texas, not doubled down on this idea to throw open the Convention. At least the way Jeb saw it.

His dreams of sitting across from President John Connally in the Oval Office were fading quickly, and so — filled with frustration — Barbour didn’t respond with words. He just spat at Jeb Bush’s feet and glared at him, hostile breath cascading out of his nostrils.

“I’m going to find the votes.”

• • •​

Nancy paced frantically behind him, gnawing at her fingernails, but Ronnie was relaxed. The nomination was his. As far as he was concerned, Bush and Connally’s best chance at throwing the Convention their way was to open it. Now, Reagan needed just 32 delegates to put him over the finish line, and who would want to risk this thing going to a second ballot? The grim reality of what a messy brokered convention might mean had begun to set in among the delegates, just like it had in 1976. There would be no second ballot.

Most on Reagan’s team did not replicate his easygoing demeanor. Instead, they were frantically calling their floor leaders and demanding updates. Ed Meese was on the phone with Roger Stone the entire time — the Northeast political director had predicted the rules vote exactly, and now he told Meese that he needn’t worry: Reagan would have more than 1,000 delegates on the first ballot.

On the floor, the Connally and Bush leaders were trying desperately to find the votes, but just after dinner, the roll call began, and things began to fall into place for Reagan. He clinched the nomination with 1,046 delegates.

When the gavel came down and the nomination was announced, he jumped from his seat with glee and embraced Nancy. They had finally done it. In 1968, they’d nearly hobbled together a coalition to deny Dick Nixon the nomination on the first ballot. Like Bush and Connally, however, the Reagan and Rockefeller camps distrusted each other too much for it to work. Eight years later, his own political miscalculations had made him fall short of the nomination, but at that Convention Ronald Reagan had positioned himself as the next leader of the Republican Party.

In one of those dramatic moments — the kind that live on in political lore — Gerald Ford, crowned the nominee after one of the bloodiest battles in modern Republican history, invited his recently-defeated opponent to the podium to deliver a speech. Like he had in 1964, Ronald Reagan electrified the audience.

He closed his speech with an anecdote. He had been asked, he said, to write a letter for a time capsule that would be opened in one hundred years — on the Tricentennial anniversary of America. As only Reagan could, he talked about riding along the coast and looking out at the Pacific Ocean and the Santa Ynez Mountains. He talked about the beautiful summer day. He asked the delegates to think about the assignment themselves. What would they write?

“You’re going to write for people a hundred years from now who know all about us,” he said. “We know nothing about them. We don’t know what kind of a world they’ll be living in. And suddenly I thought to myself, ‘If I write of the problems, they’ll be the domestic problems of which the President spoke here tonight,’ the challenges confronting us: the erosion of freedom that has taken place under Democrat rule in this country; the invasion of private rights; the controls and restrictions on the vitality of the great free economy that we enjoy. These are our challenges that we must meet.’

“And then again there is that challenge of which he spoke that we live in a world in which the great powers have poised and aimed at each other horrible missiles of destruction, nuclear weapons that can in a matter of minutes arrive at each other’s country and destroy virtually the civilized world we live in.”

With a confidence not commonly held by a man who just lost a presidential nomination, Reagan pressed forward: “And suddenly it dawned on me: Those who would read this letter a hundred years from now will know whether those missiles were fired. They will know whether we met our challenge.

“Whether they have the freedoms that we have known up until now will depend on what we do here. Will they look back with appreciation and say, ‘Thank God for those people in 1976 who headed off that loss of freedom? Who kept us now a hundred years later free? Who kept our world from nuclear destruction?’” Dry eyes in that humid Convention hall? There were few.

“And if we failed,” he continued, “they probably won’t get to read the letter at all because it spoke of individual freedom and they won’t be allowed to talk of that or read of it.

“This is our challenge and this is why, here in this hall tonight, better than we’ve ever done before, we’ve got to quit talking to each other and about each other and go out and communicate to the world that, we may be fewer in numbers than we’ve ever been, but we carry the message they’re waiting for.

“We must go forth from here united, determined. And what a great general said a few years ago is true: "There is no substitute for victory.” [4]

Immediately, Reagan was interrupted with the regretful cheers of a stunned Convention. The camera showed open-mouthed delegates, sitting with the weight of his words, as they rose from their seats (if they’d been sitting in the first place), and brought their hands together in rapturous applause for the Nominee Who Could Have Been. Now, he was Ronald Reagan: The Nominee Who Is, and once more, he had the unenviable task of uniting a divided Party.


July 15, 1980
Detroit Plaza Hotel — Detroit, MI

Briefly, a new question confronted the delegates. Who would they choose to serve as vice president? Reagan had floated the idea of throwing the nomination for vice president to the convention, but after the Bush and Connally campaigns pursued the open convention vote, they decided not to risk Reagan ending up on a ticket with either one of them. Some on Reagan’s team had insisted that he should choose Bush and get the whole thing over with, but Nancy Reagan would have none of it. She had felt so betrayed by Bush’s stubbornness — his unwillingness to concede defeat — that she wanted him nowhere near a Reagan administration. “When Ronnie wins,” Nancy told Ed Meese, “George Bush is going to have to find a nice corporate board to sit on.” The idea of locking Bush — a career public servant — out of the cabinet struck some on Reagan’s team as absurd. But Nancy would not entertain the idea of a Bush vice presidency, and so neither did her Ronnie.

The list of possible running mates was short, though. Bob Dole had run as Ford’s running mate four years earlier, and it had been a disaster. He was out. Crane had gotten too personal in his attacks on Reagan’s age during the primaries. He was also too ideologically similar to Reagan. He was out. Some in the Party hoped Howard Baker would join the Reagan ticket, but the candidate himself was skeptical, and Paul Laxalt was absolutely apoplectic about the idea. Baker’s support of the Panama Canal Treaties was automatically disqualifying, he believed. After all, the Treaties had been a defining issue for Reagan in the run-up to his 1980 campaign. How could he suddenly elevate the Republican who had worked hardest for their adoption? Besides, Baker didn’t want the job.

Interestingly, that logic was not applied to Gerald Ford, the former president, whom Reagan and his team considered for a potential running mate. With the rest of the list scarce, Reagan had authorized some on his campaign to begin negotiations with Ford’s people. Would the former president accept a spot as Reagan’s vice president? It would be a first, but Ford’s path to the presidency had been unelected in the first place, making him uniquely able to go back to the vice presidency without losing face. Running — and serving — together would require a unique arrangement, and that’s what the Reagan and Ford teams were discussing. For Ford, Henry Kissinger, Alan Greenspan, John Marsh, and Bob Barrett negotiated. Ed Meese, Dick Wirthlin, and Bill Casey negotiated for Reagan.

Three other candidates loomed in the background as the campaign entertained the Ford possibility. The first was Congressman Jack Kemp of New York. He’d become a poster child for the New Right thanks to the Kemp-Roth tax bill, which Reagan had essentially adopted as his platform. The bill provided for the most substantial tax cuts in modern American history as a remedy to the economic malaise Republicans insisted wasn’t getting better. Many Reagan staffers on the ground were eager to see Kemp join the ticket. Among them was Roger Stone, the political director for the New York/Connecticut region for Reagan. Kemp was also actively seeking the role. An independent group, Republicans for Victory, had raised $70,000 in an effort to draft Kemp onto the ticket. They distributed bumper stickers and copies of Kemp’s book. While the effort made the New York Congressman a bit uneasy, he didn’t intervene to stop their campaigning. [5]

But Reagan was hesitant. First, some on the campaign wondered whether or not Kemp provided enough ideological diversity to the ticket. And if they could get away with picking Kemp, why not just take Paul Laxalt? That was who Reagan really wanted after all. Laxalt had been by his side the entire campaign, and Reagan pined for that kind of loyalty in a running mate. But his team told him no: Laxalt was off the table.

There was also the matter of the rumors. When John Connally had dredged up the allegations of a “homosexual ring” in Reagan’s gubernatorial administration, his team had spared one key detail: One of the young staffers who owned a piece of the lodge where the orgies had taken place was none other than Jack Kemp, then a quarterback for the Buffalo Bills, and the article made note of an “athlete” who had participated in the seedy affair.

Kemp dismissed the assertion, and exhaustive investigations had failed to turn up any evidence that he was involved in the orgies that transpired at the lakeside cabin. In fact, he’d never even been to it despite owning part of it. Still, some on Reagan’s team wondered if rumors of homosexuality would be a bridge too far for their friends on the Religious Right. Wirthlin, in particular, was motivated to seal the deal with Ford so they could avoid the mess of a Kemp nomination.

Another possibility was Congressman Guy Vander Jagt. He was on the House Ways and Means Committee, giving him important access to the Party’s leaders and donors, and he was slated to give the Keynote address to the Republican Convention. The problem was he still hadn’t delivered it. The elongated rules vote and first ballot had delayed the entire agenda, and Vander Jagt was expected to give the speech in primetime on July 16th — and by then, Reagan and his men wanted a running mate. Without a boost from a nationally televised address, Vander Jagt was too unknown to join the ticket. Reagan wanted a running mate who would help him leave Detroit with an excited Republican Party behind him. Vander Jagt didn’t have that ability.

And finally, the Reagan campaign was considering Indiana Senator Dick Lugar, who occupied a coveted spot on the ideological spectrum — firmly between the Bush moderates and Reagan conservatives. In theory, his politics and his youth should have sealed the deal for Lugar, but the Reagans and the campaign staff had their doubts. During his time in the Senate, Lugar had developed a reputation for off-the-cuff remarks that could require the candidate to clean them up afterwards. The Reagan team was worried about Lugar making these same slip-ups on the campaign trail, distracting them from the fight against Carter.

For want of a better option, the Reagan team vigorously pursued the idea of a joint ticket with Gerald Ford.


July 16, 1980
Joe Louis Arena — Detroit, MI

Bill Casey had come up with the idea for a “Dream Ticket” — the unification of the Ford and Reagan wings of the Party. He was only more invested in the idea after it became clear that Reagan would not have time to unify the Party against Carter before the Republican Convention. Bush and Connally’s quixotic efforts to rob him of the nomination had wounded the Party and the Reagan team’s general election efforts. If Reagan could get Ford on board, he’d be able to unite the Party and drum up enough excitement and energy to come out of the Convention with momentum. The entire narrative of the post-Convention election would be turned on its head. Casey badly wanted to deliver the ticket for his boss.

Inside the room, however, the idea of the so-called dream ticket started to resemble a nightmare. Kissinger had a list of demands that would need to be satisfied in order for Ford to join the ticket. He wanted to control a number of cabinet appointments, including State and Treasury. (Kissinger would be happy to take State, and Greenspan would be the Treasury Secretary). Ford would oversee an “executive office” of the White House, overseeing the Office of Management and Budget and the National Security Council. As Greenspan explain it, he would oversee the day-to-day operations of the administration. For all intents and purposes, Kissinger and Greenspan envisioned a co-presidency. [6]

The whole thing got more complicated when word leaked out onto the Convention floor that Ford’s team was negotiating for a spot on the ticket. George Romney, who had served as a Bush delegate, was now on ABC News saying he thought Ford was the “best possible running mate” for Reagan. When Bush heard the comment, he seethed. He’d been trying to backchannel with the Reagan folks to let them know he was happy to come together and serve as the running mate, but they’d been blocked every which way they tried.

Jeb was stationed in the lobby of the Detroit Plaza Hotel, waiting for someone on Reagan’s team to come out, but the Reagan people were hunkered down on the 69th floor while the Ford people were one floor above. Nobody had any reason to head to the lobby. The younger Bush walked away disappointed after two hours.

The situation in the room was falling apart. Reagan’s people didn’t want to give Ford so much authority, and the Ford people kept cutting things off to run back and ask the ex-President what he thought of the latest offer. Time was ticking.

Reagan, however, had no idea how things were going up on the 69th floor, and so, as he walked into a luncheon that afternoon, reporters sought answers he wasn’t really in a place to provide. When one asked if he wanted Ford to be his running mate, Reagan smiled, “Oh sure. That would be the best.” Now, it had come straight from the top of the ticket: Reagan/Ford. [7]

Casey became less married to the idea of a Dream Ticket as the negotiations wore on. “It doesn’t matter,” he said about who Reagan chose. “They’re all the same. It’s not worth all of this.”

Dick Wirthlin disagreed, citing polling data that the only running mate who produced a tangible bump for Reagan was Ford. “We need him. We need him in Ohio, Pennsylvania, Michigan — we need him.” Casey went back into the room to try and finalize the deal, reassured that they had to emerge with a Reagan/Ford ticket.

Casey didn’t like what he heard when he went back in the room.

“You’re asking for everything to go through him?” Meese asked.

“Yes,” Kissinger replied. “Information would flow through the Office of the Vice President and then through to the White House.”

“What about the West Wing staff? They would report to the Office of the Vice President?”

Casey couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Reagan’s staff would report to Ford?

“That’s right. The Vice President would be aware of everything being discussed amongst the president and his team.”

“If we do that, can we get rid of the veto power over cabinet appointments?"

“No, that’s not negotiable. He would not need to make appointments for all cabinet positions, but he would like to retain a veto power over anyone disagreeable.”

Casey grabbed Meese and pulled him out of the room.

“What the fuck are we doing here, Ed? We’re signing away the whole fucking presidency. The only thing left for Reagan to do will be look at the schedule for the tennis courts!”

Meese frowned. Casey was right. This was turning into a Ford presidency with a Reagan figurehead.

Casey continued, “We don’t even know if Ford cares about half the shit these guys are asking for. It’s ridiculous. We can’t do it, Ed. We can’t give away the presidency like this.”

Meese went back into the room, but Casey didn’t. He needed to find another suitable running mate for Reagan.

That evening, Ford threw the whole thing into a chaotic tailspin when he said publicly, in an interview with Walter Cronkite, that he would be comfortable serving as Vice President with Reagan so long as “I would play a meaningful role, across the board. I have to have responsible assurances.” Ford and his wife both said they wouldn’t view going back to Washington in this way as a demotion. It was all part of being in public service.

That night, the negotiations took on a new feeling. Ford backed off on his demands to oversee the National Security Council, and Kissinger took himself out of the running for State. That meant President Ronald Reagan could name whoever he wanted to State (unless, that is, co-President Jerry Ford vetoed the choice). They were starting to make headway on a deal. Aides were typing and re-typing a power-sharing agreement. Wirthlin, excited that he was getting the nominee of his choice, leaked to the floor that the whole thing was “almost ready.”

Lynn Sherr of ABC News broke the story first. “An aide who is very involved in these negotiations has told me that the Reagan campaign is almost ready to announce Gerald Ford as their running mate, and that they will do so tonight here at the Convention.”

Well, Wirthlin had spoken too soon. When he came into Reagan’s suite to give the boss the good news, Reagan was eating jelly beans and staring at the television screen. “Ford just told Cronkite he wants a co-presidency,” he said. “The guy doesn’t want to be Vice President. He wants to be president again.” Wirhtlin was shaking his head. Of course, he thought. Didn’t Reagan understand what they’d just been negotiating for days?

Then, Wirthlin listened as Sherr broke the news in front of Reagan. “Tonight?!” he yelled. “We’re doing this tonight?”

“I thought we were there,” Wirthlin said, without admitting he was the source of the leak.

“Get in there and hammer out a deal,” Reagan said, and Wirthlin went back into the room. Across town, a mournful Jeb Bush left his family’s suite to cry in his room — any hope of his father becoming Vice President now seemed over.

At 10:00 that night, Reagan had enough. “We said we were naming a nominee tonight,” he told his staff, as if the idea had originated with him. “We need one. Ask Ford if he wants the job. If he doesn’t, find me a new man.”

Casey took great pleasure into going back into the room with Kissinger and the rest of Ford’s men. “Mr. Secretary,” he said. “We’re done negotiating. Does the former President want to join the ticket or not?” Kissinger said he’d have to go ask Ford. He came back ten minutes later with his answer: No. There would not be a Dream Ticket.

Reagan took it all in stride. “That’s fine,” he said when Casey delivered the news. “Who else do we got?”

“I have Rumsfeld’s number,” Meese volunteered. Reagan shrugged. Rumsfeld seemed fine.

“Anyone else?”

“There’s always Bush,” Wirthlin said.

“George Bush will not be the running mate,” Nancy Reagan chimed in. That was the end of that discussion. What about Connally? Casey jokingly thought to himself.

Roger Stone, the man who had counted the delegates exactly for the procedural vote, had snaked his way into the room here in an effort to steer them away from the Ford nomination. Now, he had his opportunity.

“Governor, I’ve been on the floor all day with these delegates, and your people have had one name that they’ve repeated over and over: Jack Kemp.”

Reagan thought about it for a moment. “I like Kemp. Anyone disagree?”

Wirthlin said he was worried that Kemp was too ideologically similar to Reagan — that he would cost them votes with independent voters. Stone brushed the concerns aside. “He’s a rough and tumble guy from Buffalo, New York. Working class folks love him.”

“What about the homosexual thing?” Lyn Nofziger, the communications man, asked.

“Will the press really cover that?” Reagan asked. “We can’t do that to Jack.”

“They won’t get into his private life,” Meese guessed. [8]

“Bill,” Reagan said to Casey. “Get me Jack Kemp.”

• • •​

Just before 11 o’clock that night, the news had reached the Convention floor that the nominee would not be Gerald Ford after all. Instead, that night, Reagan would come down with a different nominee, who would be nominated and voted upon the next morning. Nobody could confirm who the new running mate was. When one Indiana delegate noticed that his home state Senator Dick Lugar had slipped off and hadn’t been around for the last hour or so, he pulled Lynn Sherr aside. “I think it’s Lugar,” he said. “Nobody’s seen him for the last hour.”

Sherr started asking around on the floor. Was it Dick Lugar? Had anyone seen Lugar? Nobody had seen him. In truth, he’d gone back to his hotel for dinner with his wife, but that didn’t stop the rumors from swirling. Sherr didn’t have enough to report the nominee was Lugar, but she had enough to raise the question on air.

“Ted,” she said, “we can’t say for sure who Governor Reagan is going to announce at the Convention, but I can tell you that just before word came down that it wasn’t Ford, Senator Lugar left the Convention Hall — possibly to take a phone call from Reagan. Nobody from the Indiana delegation has seen him for quite some time. We don’t what that means, but it’s very possible that Governor Reagan is preparing to announce Dick Lugar as his running mate.”

“That seems like conjecture, Lynn,” Ted said back. He was trying to be a voice of reason in an otherwise messy and chaotic evening.

“It’s all I’ve got to go on, Ted. The Reagan people haven’t let slip who the nominee will be.”

Then, she reported that Governor Reagan was “minutes away” from leaving for the Convention Hall. On the other side of the arena, Dan Rather broke more definitive news: The nominee would not be George Bush, he said. He’d just gotten off the phone with a senior Bush aide who said that Reagan had not called Bush to offer him a spot on the ticket.

When word reached the floor that Governor Reagan was in the Hall, an eighteen-minute long euphoric demonstration gripped the delegates. “California, Here I Come” echoed through the arena and delegates blared their airhorns and chanted “We Want Reagan!” They got their wish. Just after midnight, Reagan stepped out onto the podium to an even louder explosion of cheers. Even the Connally delegates couldn’t control their excitement. Many of the Bush folks had left when they got word that Bush wouldn’t be the running mate.

The cheers went on for another twelve minutes before Reagan could speak. The whole time, he and Nancy stood at the podium grinning. When the euphoria died down, Reagan thanked the delegates for his nomination and confirmed he was there to name a running mate. Cheers broke out over the Hall once more.

The Indiana delegation was obnoxiously loud, blowing their airhorns and waving hastily-made “Reagan/Lugar” signs. All around them, other delegates were wondering if they knew something the rest of them didn’t.

When he could finally be heard again, Reagan continued, “I have asked, and I am recommending to this Convention, that tomorrow, when the session reconvenes, that Jack Kemp be nominated for Vice President of the United States.” Before Reagan could finish, the delegates had erupted once more. It was Kemp! An Indiana delegate reached over and grabbed his friend’s Reagan/Lugar sign. He reached for a sharpie from his back pocket, bit off the cap, and crossed out Lugar’s name. He shoved it back at his friend. It now read Reagan/Kemp.

The young New York Congressman walked out on stage and joined Reagan. More than 10,000 red, white, and, blue balloons descended from the ceiling as an hourlong demonstration took hold. The delegates danced and shouted. “RAY-GAN-KEMP” chants broke out among various delegations. They stomped and blew their airhorns some more. After a few minutes, Reagan and Kemp walked off stage, but the delegates carried on.

The next morning, they would meet again to formally nominate Jack Kemp as the running mate, but one Texan wasn’t going to go down without a fight.


July 17, 1980
Joe Louis Arena — Detroit, MI

John Connally was miffed that the whole conversation about a running mate never seriously included him. He’d been within a hair (he thought) of the nomination. Why wasn’t he given his due? And he wasn’t prepared to let the Reagan team get away with the slander around his 1974 corruption trial — the insinuations that he’d been guilty. It was all too much for him. He didn’t have any allegiance to this Party, and he was perfectly content to burn it all down.

No respectable reporter would’ve posed the question directly to Jack Kemp. Was he a homosexual? But the beauty of a nominating Convention is that Connally didn’t have to rely on reporters to get the word out for him — everyone who needed to know about the rumor was all packed into the same room. Once more, Connally called upon Haley Barbour to help.

Barbour had breakfast on Thursday morning with Robert Grant, the Chairman of Christian Voice. Grant had been solidly with Reagan throughout the primaries, but he’d always been cordial to Barbour, paying the Connally camp their due. While some, like Falwell, had dismissed Connally from the start and ignored the campaign’s calls, Grant had kept a line of communication open.

“Mr. Grant,” Barbour said, “I want to be very direct with you because we don’t have a lot of time. We’ve got to stop the Convention from ratifying the Kemp nomination.”

“I suppose you want Reagan to pick your boy?”

“Honestly, I don’t care who it is so long as he doesn’t choose Kemp. You see, I don’t know if you remember the whole scandal about a homosexual ring in Reagan’s office when he was governor.”

Grant looked at Barbour. He had heard the rumors, of course, and like most Reaganites he’d dismissed them. Barbour better have come with something better than this.

“Well, Mr. Grant, you’ll remember that while some of the accusations had been trumped up — rather unfairly, I might add,” Barbour said, as if he hadn’t played a part in exaggerating the charges, “we do know some things were true. There were homosexuals on the governor’s staff, and they did facilitate these — these — well, there’s no other word for it: these orgies. They facilitated them in a lakeside cabin —”

Grant cut him off. “I remember. What’s your point?”

“Well, Jack Kemp was on the governor’s staff at the time, and he was a part-owner of that cabin. And if you go back and read the initial column that started this whole mess, you’ll see that Pearson names an ‘athlete’ as a participant in the sexual acts.”

Grant choked on his steak and eggs. “Did Reagan look into this?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Grant, but I’m more than a little concerned about this. We can’t have a homosexual as the second most powerful man in this country,” Barbour said, “and who knows what would happen if word of this got out before the election. Certainly, your voters wouldn’t be able to vote for a ticket with a homosexual on it.”

Grant stood up from the table abruptly. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got to talk to Reagan’s men about this. Thank you, Haley. I won’t let them know it came from you.”

Haley nodded. He went back to his car where a young intern named Ralph Reed was waiting for him. “Did you get the flyers?”

Reed nodded at the backseat where several boxes were stacked up fresh off the printer.

“Let’s go,” Barbour said.

• • •​

“What the fuck is this?” Roger Stone asked. He was staring at a bright pink printout with a photo of a young Jack Kemp on it. In bold black letters the flyer said: ASK JACK KEMP ABOUT HIS LAKESIDE CABIN. Stone looked around in disbelief. There was one on every chair. Half of the delegates were already holding them and murmurs were sweeping the floor. What did it all mean?

Stone knew well what was happening. Someone — the Bush folks or the Connally folks — had latched on to the rumors about Kemp’s sexuality. It was disgusting.

Ronald Reagan had already been confronted with the news when his first phone call of the day was from Senator Jesse Helms of North Carolina. Helms, a darling of the Religious Right, was concerned about Reagan’s pick. “Governor, I don’t know how to ask you this, but did you pick a homosexual for a running mate?”

Not this again, Reagan thought to himself. He told Helms the rumors were bogus — that no investigation had ever turned up evidence that Kemp was gay. “We did a whole internal review after that mess,” Reagan explained, “and there was never any evidence that Jack Kemp participated in those parties.”

“Well, this is bigger than me now,” Helms admitted, “but I’ll do my best to keep our people in line.” What did Helms mean? Was Jack Kemp in danger of losing the nomination vote?

Reagan’s team was thrown into chaos. Bill Casey was barking at Stone on the Convention floor, telling him to count votes and get his people in line. Ed Meese was phoning the delegation leaders and telling them they had to hold the line. Wirthlin was thrown into it, too, walking the floor and trying to find out if there was a draft movement taking hold for a different candidate.

Comically, Jeb Bush thought this might be his father’s chance to win the nomination and so he ran down to the floor to try and round up votes, but the archconservatives who were afraid of accidentally nominating a closeted gay man were not interested in nominating George Bush. Instead, they had another name in mind.

“Hey, where’d you get that?” Bush said, grabbing the young Ralph Reed as he ran by.

“What?”

“That button?”

Reed looked down at his button: Reagan/Helms. “Oh, they’re everywhere!” Reed said before he continued on.

The vote on the running mate was supposed to begin at 10 o’clock. By noon, it had been delayed twice, and the networks had no choice but to report the newest drama: Reagan didn’t have the votes for Kemp.

“Well, Walter, all I can say is put on a pot of coffee, this won’t be over for awhile. It seems that this morning concerns about Jack Kemp’s personal life took hold of the delegates. Twice now, the Party officials have delayed the vote on a running mate. We’re not sure if that’s because Reagan doesn’t have the votes, or if he’s reconsidering his nominee. It’s a mess.”

Neither conjecture was entirely true. Reagan was sure he had the votes to get his running mate approved, and he wasn’t interested in reneging his offer, either, but his staff couldn’t get ahold of Jack Kemp. They wanted to make sure he was still up for the job.

Finally, at 12:45pm, Kemp called Reagan and apologized for the whole mess. Reagan offered his own apology and made clear he still wanted Kemp on the ticket. The Congressman said he would be honored, and that he was looking forward to the campaign ahead. That was enough for Reagan. Nancy had a pit in her stomach — she wanted Reagan to call the whole thing off and go with Lugar or Rumsfeld. Reagan would have none of it. He’d made his choice, and he wasn’t going back now.

By 1:30pm, the vote on a vice presidential candidate had begun, and when it was over, 1,733 delegates voted for Congressman Jack Kemp of New York. Two hundred eleven delegates voted for Senator Jesse Helms of North Carolina, eighteen delegates voted for George Bush, and one voted for Anne Armstrong. Kemp had won comfortably, but the number for Helms was noticeable.

That night, Ronald Reagan accepted his Party’s nomination after one of the most dramatic Conventions in modern history. There had been a fight over the rules, the possibility of a second ballot for the nominee, rumors about a co-presidential ticket, and, finally, an effort to stop Reagan’s choice of a running mate because of rumors of homosexuality. There would never be another convention like it. Weary from the last four days, Reagan took to the podium uncertain about the race to come.

Reagan quoted Franklin Roosevelt and trumpeted an elongated version of his campaign slogan to make America great again. He closed:

“Can we doubt that only a Divine Providence placed this land, this island of freedom, here as a refuge for all those people in the world who yearn to breathe freely: Jews and Christians enduring persecution behind the Iron Curtain, the boat people of Southeast Asia, of Cuba and Haiti, the victims of drought and famine in Africa, the freedom fighters of Afghanistan and our own countrymen held in savage captivity.

“I’ll confess that I've been a little afraid to suggest what I'm going to suggest — I’m more afraid not to — that we begin our crusade joined together in a moment of silent prayer.” [9]

John Connally cursed at the screen in his hotel room. That sonofabitch. Crusade! That was Connally’s word.

>>>>>>

[1] It’s a little difficult to know exactly what the OTL convention rules were, but I was able to base my understanding on the possibility for an open convention based off of this July 1980 Washington Post article. Of course, the context is different ITTL. While IOTL, Reagan wanted the rule changed so that Bush and Anderson delegates could go to him on the first ballot, he would want to keep his contingent together ITTL while Bush and Connally would want the open convention so they can have a fighting chance at the nomination.

[2] The Lone Star, 576.

[3] This is a little bit of a play on Lynn Sherr’s breaking the news that the ticket IOTL would be Reagan/Ford: “We heard form Senator Schweiker that Senator Laxalt told someone else who then told Senator Schweiker that it would be Gerald Ford!”

[4] This is the closing of what might be Reagan’s greatest speech, his 1976 Convention address: https://www.americanrhetoric.com/speeches/ronaldreagan1976rnc.htm.

[5] Per OTL, according to Shirley’s Rendezvous with Destiny (329)

[6] Reaganland, 805.

[7] Rendezvous with Destiny, 352.

[8] The recent POLITICO article about gay men on the Reagan campaign had me seriously thinking about if I should use that to blow-up the Republican National Convention. The thought of Connally getting his hands on the notes McCloskey had in an effort to deny Reagan the nomination was just too good, I thought, to pass up. But ultimately, part of Jimmy Two is meant to show the defeat of Reagan just as much as it is to show the victory of Carter, and it seemed difficult to imagine how Reagan would survive that, or, if he did, it seemed all but certain that he would not choose Jack Kemp as a result.

So, ultimately, we can say, if you believe the entire article, that the events preceding the Convention unfold differently enough that McCloskey does not put the pieces together in time to bring them to Connally — or the Washington Post — before the Republican National Convention.

In OTL, Kemp was dismissed in part due to the concerns about his sexuality. ITTL, he obviously still makes it on to the ticket. Some may ask if this is too forced, but I don’t think so. The haphazard process that was Reagan’s running mate selection inspires very little confidence in the operation. It seems that even when he was the presumptive nominee weeks ahead of the convention, Reagan’s team had done little actual vetting or had few discussions about a running mate. Keep in mind that ITTL, there would be even less attention paid to the idea of a running mate because they’d have to make sure the nomination was sewed up first. It’s possible that this might’ve led to an earlier negotiation with Ford about his joining the ticket, but nonetheless, that part stays similar to OTL.

So, Ed Meese makes a mistake. The clock is ticking. Ron and Nancy have ruled out Bush because of how bitter the primary contest got — dragging out this long. Something about not rewarding bad behavior and all the rest. Without Bush, there’s no real obvious option. The idea of putting Baker on the ticket is flawed, as pointed out, and so the choices are Rumsfeld, Lugar, and Kemp. They go with Kemp here. Just as IOTL, it could easily have been any of them. Such was the way Reagan handled his veep selection process.

Some were probably nervous about if rumors of his sexuality would come up, but they needed a running mate and he didn’t seem any worse than Lugar, with his history of gaffes, or Rumsfeld with his ruthlessness and cunning — so why not Kemp? Besides, they were told by their delegate-counting savant that there was an energy on the floor for Kemp (regardless of how reliable that report was). So, we get the ticket: Reagan/Kemp.

[9] From Reagan’s OTL address: https://www.presidency.ucsb.edu/doc...on-the-republican-national-convention-detroit

 

[Vidal]

THE TIDE TURNS

“I could have wiped Iran off the map with the weapons that we had, but in the process a lot of innocent people would have been killed, probably including the hostages, and so I stood up against all that advice…”
-Jimmy Carter​

July 12, 1980
Unidentified Location — Bonn, West Germany

Carefully, the Carter administration had spent months ratcheting up the sanctions against Iran and weakening their bargaining position. By July, the mining of the harbors around Iran had prevented much of their ability to export oil — crippling their economy. The United States had embargoed all shipments to Iran save food and medicine, and Iranian assets stored in the United States remained frozen.

Outwardly, Khomeini continued his tough rhetoric against Carter and the Americans, but his grip on the Iranian electorate was slipping. He could assure himself favorable election returns by killing a hostage, but he also knew that would bring on the full wrath of the American military. Instead, he wanted to give the hostages back and repair the Iranian economy in time to curry favor.

The United States was also receiving intelligence that in the aftermath of the decision to mine the ports, Khomeini moved in to ensure that the militants did not harm the hostages. Publicly, the militants appeared in control of the situation, but in reality, Khomeini knew that letting them get their way would mean a bloody and costly conflict with the United States.

By late-June, Khomeini had reached his breaking point. The sanctions were taking their toll, the mining of the harbors imperiled Iran’s economy, and the militants who had seized control of the embassy were getting ready to turn on Khomeini. He was also facing a threat from his neighbor. Saddam Hussein had just launched a surprise invasion of his nation. An air invasion followed by a sustained ground assault was now 72-hours old, and Khomeini was in desperate need of military equipment to stave off the attack.

Backed into a corner, the Ayatollah Khomeini authorized Sadegh Tabatabaei to initiate negotiations with the Americans. Tabatabaei reached out through the Germans, and now, Warren Christopher (“Chris” as the president called him) was on his way to negotiate an agreement to bring the hostages home.

Warren Christopher and his team arrived in Bonn for negotiations with the Iranians on July 12th. He knew that the Ayatollah Khomeini’s position was weakened, that the upcoming Iranian elections threatened his hold on power, and that the devastating invasion of Iran was costing him resources and lives. Warren Christopher should have had all the leverage, but the Iranians knew that even more than they wanted the mines gone from their harbors, Jimmy Carter wanted the American hostages returned home.

Christopher greeted the Iranians as they arrived and thanked them for opening channels for negotiation.

Tabatabaei returned the pleasantries and began to outline their requests. First, they wanted an assurance that the United States would not interfere in Iranian affairs. Christopher was pleased. That was easy enough. The president had no ambition to meddle in the internal disputes of foreign nations, particularly not in the Middle East.

They also wanted a return of Iranian assets that had been seized or frozen after the hostages were taken. Again, Christopher felt this was a reasonable demand. The more difficult request was that, within this, they wanted a return of the Shah’s assets. The Shah’s family had wisely moved many of their assets outside of the United States, fearing this exact scenario. The Deputy Secretary of State explained this to Tabatabaei who seemed unmoved. A demand was a demand. If America wanted its hostages, Iran wanted the money they felt had been stolen from them.

Their final demand was the most obvious: America needed to move swiftly and immediately remove the mines from the Iranian harbors. [1]

The provisions were the most reasonable the Iranians had proposed up until this point — a sure sign that the internal economic situation was worrying the Ayatollah Khomeini in the lead-up to the August elections. Bluster could only go so far. He would either need to kill a hostage, securing favorable returns at the ballot box and ushering in a wrath of American military force, or he would need to come to some kind of an agreement that he could make out to be a win for the Iranian people — some way for him to say he had conquered the Americans diplomatically.

Christopher contained his excitement about the state of negotiations. There was a path, but he also knew it would be long, winding, and its outcome was anything but guaranteed. After the first meeting, the Deputy Secretary of State phoned the White House to speak directly with the president.

“He reiterated the parameters they’d mentioned in writing,” he explained. “A return of Iranian assets, an agreement not to meddle in their domestic affairs, and immediate removal of the mines. We talked about the Shah’s assets, and I explained many of them had already been moved offshore. We’ll need to figure out something on that — maybe a promise to help them locate the assets. They won’t move on it completely.”

The president was thrilled.

Christopher stayed in Europe to meet with allies about the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan while Tabatabaei returned home to speak with Khomeini. It seemed possible, even likely, that an agreement could be reached.


July 28, 1980
The White House — Washington, DC

It’s quite possible that if James Earl Carter, Sr. had lived some years longer, his son would never have become President of the United States. At the time of his father’s death, Jimmy Carter was pursuing a military career and quite content to work on submarines. He’d already escaped death once, and he did not yearn to return home to Plains, Georgia — the quaint town that would soon become so associated with his identity. Jimmy Carter the Peanut Farmer? It wouldn’t have happened if his father had lived a few more years. Instead, Billy Carter was being groomed to take over the family business. But while we plan, — well, Carter knew the saying well.

On July 22, 1953, James Earl Carter, Sr. died of pancreatic cancer, and his son Jimmy was called upon to return home and take care of the family’s business. Billy Carter was just 16 years old, too young to take on the responsibilities of the peanut farm. Instead, that job fell to Jimmy, who, back in Plains, immersed himself in the community just as his father had until one day he found himself on the school board, then the State Senate, and then he was living in the Governor’s Mansion.

All of this complicated the life path that Billy had envisioned for himself when he was a boy. Ever since James’ death, he’d been a little directionless. He used to joke with reporters, “My mother joined the Peace Corps when she was 70, my sister Gloria is a motorcycle racer, my other sister, Ruth, is a Holy Roller preacher, and my brother thinks he is going to be President of the United States! I’m really the only normal one in the family.” [2]

Carter’s presidency provided his brother with a certain celebrity that appealed to him, having lived in Jimmy’s shadow for years. In 1978, he took a trip to Libya that was widely panned after he said he wasn’t worried about the political repercussions of the trip with the Jewish community because there were “more Arabs than Jews.” [3]

The next year brought a precipitous decline for Billy. His income disappeared, he drained his savings, and he wound up in rehab to treat an addiction to alcohol. Then, the Libyans offered him a sum in excess of $200,000 for his help in selling oil. It would be embarrassing enough for the president’s brother to be doing work on behalf of a foreign government, but it was made worse by the fact that Billy had not registered as a lobbyist. Billy quickly registered when the story became public, but the damage was already done.

The story took on a life of its own. Around the same time, Brzezinski had utilized Billy in the negotiations over the hostages. Carter had been involved in approving the backchannel, and now the press reported that Billy, while being paid by the Libyans, was helping with the hostages. Carter was forced to admit he’d shared cables from the State Department with Billy. Some on the fringes began to wonder if the president and his family were compromised.

As Carter would later write, the whole thing was unpleasant, especially for a president trying to get on with winning reelection.

The Carter team gathered in the White House to debate whether or not Carter should testify in the Senate inquiry. Over at Foggy Bottom, American diplomats were working towards the release of the hostages. It was a potential breakthrough in the standoff that could be overshadowed by an unseemly scandal involving the president’s brother. Carter’s men were divided over what to do.

“We cannot let this thing consume us,” Powell said, unsure why nobody else saw things exactly as he did. “If it is a drip-drip-drip of more embarrassing revelations, we’re dead. Whoever heard of a president wanting to face the voters while his administration was under Senate investigation? We’ve got to cut the head off the snake. Testify and move on.”

Carter did not match his press secretary’s temper. He understood that every day reporters hounded Powell for answers, but Powell’s frustrations over the story were clouding his judgement. In Carter’s estimation, sending him before the Senate committee would only escalate the stakes of the investigation. He’d met for hours with Billy, who was now sober, and who had clearly outlined what had happened. Carter had little doubt that his brother would be able to handle the questioning.

“If I get involved, it looks like I’m trying to shield him. Billy can stand on his own two feet.”

“Mr. President, with all due respect, sir —”

Carter waved him off, sparing Powell the embarrassment of raising questions about Billy’s sobriety. “That’s not going to be an issue. He’s sober — he’s been sober.”

Jordan wasn’t sure where he stood. He thought Powell made sense, but he also wanted to spare the president of facing a Congressional inquiry head-on.

“We don’t know what this hearing is going to be like,” Carter continued. “Are they even organized? Do they have enough information to ask substantive questions? Or is it going to be a circus? If you’re going to put me in front of Bob Dole, we’ve got to know the answers to these questions. We’ve got to know what they’re going to ask.”

Jordan nodded at the president’s point and moved in to end the debate. “Nobody’s called on the president to testify. We don’t need to offer it, but if they call us, we’ll figure it all out then. Right now, let’s get the leadership here, tell them what we know, and call it a day.” That was exactly what they did, and shortly after the leadership left the White House, the president got the most encouraging news of his presidency since the Camp David Accords.


July 29, 1980
The White House — Washington, DC

The Shah’s assets had proved the biggest difficulty for the negotiations over the release of the hostages. Tabatabaei had been too forgiving in the initial meeting. When he returned to Iran, Khomeini was unwilling to accept that the Shah’s assets would go unreturned. Christopher tried to impress the difficulty of returning them, but it fell on deaf ears. After much progress, the negotiations had slowed considerably.

Finally, after a week of silence, Christopher offered a compromise: The Americans would be willing to help Iranians locate the hidden assets, and the Americans also included assurances that some $240 million in military equipment that Iran had purchased but never received from the Americans would be included in the return of Iranian assets. Now, Tabatabaei had an offer with which he could return to the Ayatollah Khomeini.

On July 27th, news broke that the Shah had died, and the State Department was again thrown into uncertainty, wondering how the news would impact the negotiations. They got their answer soon enough. The Iranians added another demand: They wanted an assurance that there would be no further legal action taken on behalf of the hostages. Again, Christopher brought the addition to Cy Vance and the president. Both agreed it was a reasonable request. Christopher should proceed with the agreement.

Carter was in the president’s study just off the Oval Office working with Jerry Rafshoon and Chris Matthews on his address to the Democratic National Convention. The speech took on an unprecedented importance for Carter. He kept refusing drafts as they were brought to him. Frustrated, his speechwriting team asked for guidance.

“This contest is going to be between two individuals with beliefs totally different from one another. I can’t think of any two nominees in my lifetime for whom the differences have been so stark. The speech has to say that. This isn’t a normal election,” Carter said, his frustrations mounting. “No matter if you’re a woman, or a farmer, or a minority, or an educator, or a senior — the choice could not be clearer. We’ve got to raise the stakes.”

Rafshoon nodded. “Yes, sir, Mr. President.” As he started to scribble notes onto his pad, Hamilton Jordan barged in.

“Mr. President, we need to get to the Situation Room.”

They walked through the door, and Carter took his seat at the table. Warren Christopher was on the phone. Cy Vance had already come over for the call, and he sat across from the president, arms crossed and brows furrowed.

“Mr. President,” Christopher began.

“Chris, what is it? Do you have news?”

“Mr. President, I have just heard from Tabatabaei. It seems — Mr. President, they’ve accepted the terms. They’re prepared to release the hostages.”

Carter leaped from his seat. “Chris, that’s great!” He put his hands on his hips and grinned ear to ear. He looked up at Jordan and Vance who smiled back. “You’re sure now?” the cautious peanut farmer asked. He needed reassurance.

“Mr. President, they said they are ready to send the hostages back. We need to finalize the agreement, but it looks like we can get them home as soon as next week as long as we’re ready to de-mine the harbors.”

The president could not believe his ears. The men and women who had been trapped in Iran for more than 250 days were coming home. He was relieved — ecstatic, even. He would never admit it out loud, but a part of him also recognized that his political fortunes were turning. The mess of the Republican Convention had laid bare that Party’s divisions. He was running against who he believed to be the weakest of his potential Republican competitors. And now, the hostages — the millstone that had weighed down his reelection efforts — were coming home. There was cause for celebration.


August 4, 1980
Rhein-Main Air Base — Frankfurt, Hesse, West Germany

Rumors about a release of the hostages soon trickled out over the town. Jordan, Rafshoon, Powell — they couldn’t contain themselves. Nine months earlier, the militants seized the embassy and took the hostages. Now, they were prepping for Carter to greet them at Rhein-Main Air Base in Frankfurt and welcome them home. Reporters furiously pursued them, but they could not get the confirmation they needed. In a different era, they may have reported the rumors, but this was too serious. Breaking the news early might mean the death of a hostage.

On August 2nd, Walter Cronkite cut in to Guiding Light to make the announcement Americans had long awaited: “Good afternoon, this is a CBS News special report. We are receiving word from the White House that President Carter will address the nation from the Oval Office, where he will —” Cronkite paused. He’d been waiting many days to break this news. “—announce that the United States has secured the release of the Iranian hostages, and that they will be coming home.”

That night, Carter confirmed what Cronkite had reported hours earlier: “I am pleased to announce that we have negotiated a release of the Americans held in Iran. They will soon be on their way to Germany, where I will meet them at Rhein-Main Air Base, and welcome their release. We will return to America together, aboard Air Force One.”

Jordan nodded his head on the other side of the camera. It was like the night they’d won the Iowa Caucuses — things always seemed to fall into place for Jimmy Carter. It had been a difficult four years, but now the second term was in sight.

Carter spent most of his time on the plane discussing the details of the welcome home ceremony. In Germany, Carter would give brief remarks and Americans would receive the first images of the freed hostages. They would then fly back together on Air Force One, and Andrews Air Force Base would host an elaborate welcome home ceremony. Carter would speak again, praising their bravery, and reminding Americans of the importance of patient and deliberate negotiation.

The hostages would be united with their loved ones, and they’d be welcomed to the White House the next day for breakfast with the president and Mrs. Carter. Every possible moment would be captured by television cameras. Jimmy Carter may not have made decision for political reasons, but he did do everything he could to exploit a good campaign moment. His entire primary campaign had been won by the crisis and his deliberate attention to it. Now that they were home, the four-day spectacle of events would help seal his reelection just as the Democrats prepared to unite in Madison Square Garden for their Convention — another traditional opportunity for a bump in polling numbers.

Back home, Pat Caddell was monitoring focus groups and survey data. The president was a strong leader. The president was trusted. The president was able. The president had been right all along. The data told him that reelection was within their grasp.

The president waited on the tarmac as the hostages disembarked their plane. The airplane door had a banner that read “Welcome Back to Freedom,” and the 52 hostages smiled and waved as they exited the aircraft, reveling more in their freedom than their celebrity. It had been exactly nine months since their capture.

Carter didn’t know what to expect, but any distrust between the former hostages and their president melted when the first one off the plane embraced him. Each of the successive hostages did as they stepped off the stairs. Carter spoke briefly to reporters, saying that the hostages and him were going to be alone. The hostages where shepherded into a room where they received medical evaluations. Carter waited with them.

One of them asked why the Shah had been allowed into the United States in the first place. Carter tried to explain the decision — what he’d been told about the Shah’s health and how the United States was the only place he could receive treatment. He did not mention David Rockefeller or Henry Kissinger or the political pressure. He spoke in humanitarian terms. He was doing what he thought would save another man’s life.

The man who asked the question nodded his head and did not press Carter further. He wished that Carter hadn’t done it — that he’d stood up to the shadow cabinet of foreign policy thinkers who had forced his capture, or that Maggie Thatcher had taken the Shah in herself. He wished that after the Valentine’s Day attack on the embassy, Carter had sent in reinforcements to secure the embassy. Any of this might have spared the man his 274-day capture. But none of that mattered right now. Carter had gotten them their freedom back, and he’d done it without further harm happening to any of them.

Before the return flight to the United States, Carter addressed the nation again: “It is impossible for any of us to imagine how these brave Americans felt on their plane here. They are hostages no more. They are prisoners no more. Together, we are returning to the land we all love.” [4]

After spending some more time with the hostages and showing them around the plane, Carter settled in to take a nap on Air Force One. His mind — always racing towards the next thing — drifted to the upcoming Convention speech he would give. Kennedy had been denied any major speaking slot. Carter had defeated him, and the Massachusetts Senator hardly had the delegates to force much else. It didn’t take long for these thoughts to drift into their original encounter, which had come on one of the finest days of Carter’s career: The Georgia Law Day Speech.

It was May 1974. Carter watched himself welcome Ted Kennedy to the Governor’s Mansion. He never had much like for Kennedy, even then. He had already been planning his presidential campaign and assumed that Kennedy would be his biggest threat. Their conversation lacked the camaraderie that Kennedy enjoyed with other Democratic politicians. Carter was short — cold, even. The disdain between them cemented when Carter, who offered Kennedy a ride on the governor’s plane the next morning so they could go to the University of Georgia Law School Law Day celebration together, revoked the invitation. Kennedy had to drive himself there for an event they were both attending.

As Kennedy spoke at the event, delivering the keynote address, Carter realized that his remarks resembled Kennedy’s too much for him to give his prepared speech. He ran to an adjacent room and scribbled notes on a paper. He would use these notes to deliver one of the defining speeches of his political career.

It’s possible that the 39th president would never have advanced past the asterisk status in the history books if it had not been for Hunter S. Thompson’s presence in the audience that day. He’d come to interview Kennedy, but in between trips to his car for a taste of bourbon, the Gonzo journalist found himself stirred by a politician. Surely, it couldn’t be the case, but alas, it was.

Carter cited Reinhold Niebuhr and then — nearly in the same breath — said, “The other source of my understanding about what's right and wrong in this society is from a personal, very close friend of mine, a great poet named Bob Dylan.” But aside from endearing himself to Thompson with this cultural reference, Carter continued to deliver an impassioned speech about morality and the law — and the true meaning of justice.

With the same ease with which he drifted from Niebuhr to Dylan, the governor swayed back to Niebuhr: “One of the things that Niebuhr says is that the sad duty of the political system is to establish justice in a sinful world. And he goes on to say that there's no way to establish or maintain justice without law. That — that the laws are constantly changing to stabilize the social equilibrium of the forces and counter forces of a dynamic society and that the law in its totality is an expression of the structure of government.

“Well, as a farmer who has now been in office for three years, I've seen it first hand, the inadequacy of my own comprehension of what government ought to be for its people. And I've had a constant learning process, sometimes from lawyers, sometimes from practical experience, sometimes from failures and mistakes that have been pointed out to me after they were made.”

He reminded the audience of his commitment to racial equality. His first speech as a Georgia State Senator, he told them, was against a literacy test that the state had imposed. Characteristically, Carter invoked that he was representing the “most conservative” district at the time. And he reminded them of a proud Southern Democratic tradition. Southern Democrats had a lot to regret — to be embarrassed by, as Carter himself had said just earlier in the same speech. But he reminded the audience of their populist roots. It was the tradition that Lyndon Baines Johnson invoked as president, and it was one that Carter invoked now: “I remember the thing that I used in my speech, that a black pencil salesman on the outer door of the Sumter County Courthouse could make a better judgment about who ought to be sheriff than two highly educated professors at Georgia Southwestern College.”

He told the lawyers gathered that day the story of a woman who had been taken advantage of, who had signed away her 50 acres mistakenly. Exasperated, he conceded that maybe that had happened to her was technically correct under the law. “But I, my — my heart feels — feels and cries out that something ought to be analyzed, not just about the structure of government, judicial qualification councils, and judicial appointment committees and eliminating the unsworn statement — those things are important. But they don't reach the crux of the point, that I, that now we assign punishment to fit the criminal and not the crime.” It was a bold statement.

Almost flippantly, he continued, “You can go in the prisons of Georgia, and — and I don't know, it may be that — that poor people are the only ones who commit crimes. I don't think so. But they're the only ones that serve prison sentences.”

That day, he was fearless. Near the end of his remarks, he accused the lawyers, without much of a veil, of being a corrupting force in Georgia’s politics: “We had an ethics bill in the state legislature this year. Half of it passed, to require an accounting for contributions during a campaign, but the part that applied to people after the campaign failed. We couldn’t get it through to require the revelation of payments or gifts to officeholders after in office. And the largest force against that ethics bill were the lawyers.”

His cadence that day was labored. He was thinking as he spoke. He repeated words and stammered as much as Ted Kennedy had done in his Mudd interview, but the difference was Carter had something to say, he was just finding the words and the tone to confront a group of lawyers about their profession. It was a brave speech. Thompson would later claim it was the “most eloquent thing” he’d ever heard from “the mouth of a politician.” Perhaps he meant it. But for Carter, the speech was true to form. He did not seek to praise the lawyers and win their votes. Instead, he lectured them. He forced them to confront inadequacies in the judicial system. It was a righteous speech and asleep on the couch of Air Force One, Carter couldn’t help but feel it had played a role in his being there. He’d shown up Kennedy twice, and now the only thing that stood between him and a second term was Ronald Reagan — a B-rate actor who lacked the sophistication Carter felt was necessary for the job. He may have been dreaming of days past, but when he woke, he’d be focused on the task ahead. His mind was resolute, his determination fierce: He would not lose. He would become the first Democrat since FDR to win two full terms. He would win in November.


August 14, 1980
Madison Square Garden — New York, NY

Carter entered the Democratic National Convention with the strongest approval rating of his presidency — 82%. The early days of August 1980 were filled with a sense that things were finally on the up for Americans. The year had begun with uncertainty, but Americans had prevailed at the Winter Olympics, and now they’d brought the hostages home from Iran. Perhaps this new decade would bring them out of the national malaise Carter identified in his July 1979 speech. Among the Democratic faithful gathered in Madison Square Garden, the feeling that the election had been won was euphoric. They may have overestimated how long a hangover of good feelings could persist, but on the Convention floor, they were buoyed by their confidence.

The news of the hostages had wiped Billygate right off the front pages. Senator Dole had been eager to make the charges stick, but nobody paid them any attention. In the ten days since their release, Americans had watched Carter welcome them home, an interview with one of the hostages who thanked the president for getting them home safely, and the images of hometowns welcoming the hostages back. America was coming back together.

A viewer of the 1980 Democratic National Convention would not have the sense that this was a party that — one year ago to the day — was prepared to toss out their incumbent president in favor of a challenger by a margin of nearly 50%. There was no indication that the Party had just come through four years of bitter internal squabbling. In fact, there was little mention made of either of Carter’s two primary challengers. Jerry Brown didn’t speak at all, and Ted Kennedy gave an early evening address on the opening day of the Convention. It was a clear rebuff of the Massachusetts senator, but Kennedy had neither the delegates or the will to make the moment into anything more. He gave a terse speech focused on the need to continue a fight for Democratic values. It wasn’t clear if that meant supporting Jimmy Carter against Ronald Reagan.

Carter paid Kennedy’s mediocre effort at healing the party little attention. He and his team had little reason to believe that a major overture to Kennedy was needed. The Massachusetts senator — the Prince of Camelot — had one just a single primary against the incumbent. John Connally had entered the Republican National Convention with more delegates than Kennedy brought to New York. During the workshopping of the president’s convention speech, Rafshoon humorously suggested they begin, “It’s good to be in New York — the state that killed Kennedy’s campaign, and now where we’ve decided to bury it.” Jordan’s laugh had echoed through the West Wing. When he told the president about it, Carter jokingly suggested leaving it in.

Carter himself had trouble believing that at one point the Party had been against him as he stood there, listening to the enthusiastic cheers of the delegates. When they finally dulled their roar long enough for Carter to begin, he spoke of the Party’s history of progressive leaders.

It started out fine enough. “Fritz and I will mount a campaign that defines the real issues, a campaign that responds to the intelligence of the American people, a campaign that talks sense. And we're going to beat the Republicans in November,” he told the delegates to sustained applause.

“We'll win because we are the party of a great President who knew how to get reelected — Franklin Delano Roosevelt. And we are the party of a courageous fighter who knew how to give 'em hell — Harry Truman. And as Truman said, he just told the truth and they thought it was hell. And we're the party of a gallant man of spirit — John Fitzgerald Kennedy. And we're the party of a great leader of compassion — Lyndon Baines Johnson, and the party of a great man who should have been President, who would have been one of the greatest Presidents in history — Hubert Horatio Humphrey.” [5]

Carter’s speech that night lacked the memorable turn of phrase that would endear other acceptance addresses to the history books or the public conscience, but he preached of party unity, of healing wounds, and he raised the stakes of the election. “The Republican tax program offers rebates to the rich, deprivation for the poor, and fierce inflation for all of us,” he told delegates, “and just in case you were confused about where the Republicans stood on this giveaway for the rich, they nominated two thirds of the Reagan-Kemp-Roth tax plan for president and vice president.”

He also referenced his own recent foreign policy triumph in hopes of exploiting an already-clear gap among voters: They trusted him far more on foreign policy than they trusted his opponent. “If the last nine months taught us anything,” Carter said, “it’s that we should never underestimate the power of the pen.

“We did not bring the hostages home through blustering talk of war. The hostages are home safe tonight because cooler heads prevailed. I shudder to think at what the outcome might have been had we not been so focused on their safety.

“The Republican nominee advocates abandoning arms control policies which have been important and supported by every Democratic President since Harry, Truman, and also by every Republican President since Dwight D. Eisenhower. This radical and irresponsible course would threaten our security and could put the whole world in peril. You and I must never let this come to pass.” [6]

The speech did what Carter needed it do do: He brought the Party together and reminded them that he would rise to the challenge of defeating Reagan. He didn’t need their love; he needed their votes.


September 8, 1980
Dallas Love Field Airport — Dallas, TX

The release of the hostages and the tame Democratic Convention had put the Republicans on their heels. Now, Reagan and Kemp were trying to adjust the electorate’s attention to the economy, where Carter remained especially vulnerable, but it seemed that wherever he went a pesky rumor stalked the Republican vice presidential nominee.

As the plane made its descent, Jack Kemp was sparring with his staff. Dick Wirthlin was traveling with Kemp that day to try and get a sense of why he was underperforming out on the campaign trail. They were locked in an argument about the rumors of Kemp’s secret gay past.

“I don’t know why he doesn’t go out there and say it’s all nonsense,” Kemp humphed at Wirthlin. He’d been frustrated by Reagan. The top of the ticket had not returned his calls. Rumors swirled that he regretted choosing Kemp. The New York Congressman saw his political future flashing before his eyes — he would be finished if this campaign didn’t end in victory.

“We don’t want to give it oxygen, Congressman. If we go out there, and we start responding to these rumors —”

Kemp interrupted. “I’m responding to them every day. Every stop, we get some stupid question about why I won’t come clean. It’s been two months — we’ve got to put it behind us.”

“The polling doesn’t suggest that it’s breaking through to mainstream voters. The press is asking you about it, but they’re not writing about it because we aren’t giving them the story.”

Kemp rolled his eyes. “This is my reputation, Dick. My goddamn reputation! They’re saying I’m some closeted homosexual.”

The wheels made impact and the men jostled in their seats. “Congressman, you have a speech to give. We can talk about this on the way to the next stop.”

The plane touched down, and Kemp was greeted on the tarmac by George H.W. Bush, who had agreed to campaign for the ticket in Texas. His best hope now was for a spot in the cabinet. Kemp and Bush shook hands in the airplane hangar and Bush introduced the “next Vice President of the United States.”

Kemp gave his stump speech: Chastising the Carter administration’s economic policy, accusing the president of “running on raising taxes,” and promising Americans that he and Reagan would deliver a better jobs market and bring down inflation. Then, he jumped in the car and was off to a fundraiser in the city.

Kemp and Bush were scheduled to get lunch after the rally, and when they arrived at the restaurant they were bombarded by reporters. “Congressman Kemp, do you have any response to the recent article in Esquire that alleges you engaged in homosexual conduct while you were a member of Governor Reagan’s staff in the 1960s?”

He was supposed to ignore the question, but his conversation that day with Wirthlin indicated to him that the Reagan men didn’t have his best interests at heart. He’d read in one paper that they’d discussed moving him to HUD after they won the election, perhaps nominating Bush or some other Republican for the vice presidency in his stead. He had to look out for himself.

“Let me say this once and once only,” Kemp started. Behind him, a squeamish Bush tried to nudge himself out of the shot, lest he appear to be standing behind Kemp in any recording while the nominee said whatever it was he was about to say. Wirthlin, too far away to interrupt, looked on in horror. “I am not a homosexual, and I have never — not once — engaged in homosexual conduct of any sort. These are lies spread about my character, and I am not going to stand for them.

“Yes, there were homosexuals on the staff — two of them, in fact — and Governor Reagan — he was the governor at the time — moved swiftly to take care of the issue. I owned a cabin with these men, but I never went to it, and I was never a part of their … activities.” Kemp began to turn away, but then worried that maybe he’d gone too far. He didn’t want to give the impression that he lacked compassion for gay people, but rather he just wanted to set the record straight on his own sexuality.

Leaning back towards the cameras, Kemp continued, “Of course, I believe in civil liberties for homosexuals. I just am not one. I don’t behave in that way,” and then he went into the restaurant. George Bush couldn’t help but feel that if Reagan had just sucked it up and chosen him, this whole campaign would be going a lot smoother. He dutifully followed the Kemp entourage into the restaurant.

Reagan, who was campaigning in North Carolina, got a phone call from Wirthlin.

“There’s a mess here, and we’re going to have to clean it up,” he began. Then, he explained Kemp’s statements. At first, Reagan wasn’t too worried, but then Wirthlin explained how Kemp had left it with the press.

“Civil liberties for homosexuals? What does he mean?” Reagan asked, looking around for answers from Meese or any of the other staffers traveling with him. None of them had any clue, but they knew it wouldn’t go over well with a certain bloc of voters upon whom they were relying in this election.

The next morning, they were proven correct. All three networks carried Kemp’s statement on the evening news, and the Moral Majority crowd was irate. Jerry Falwell called Reagan himself.

“Governor, what on earth did he mean when he said civil liberties for homosexuals?!” the words dripped out of Falwell’s mouth as if speaking them aloud would sentence him to a lifetime in Sodom or Gomorrah.

“Well, I don’t know, Jerry. I don’t agree with him.”

“He’s your running mate, governor, and I’m going to have a lot of people on the ground who don’t know what to make of this. God forbid something were to happen to you — would this man support rights for these homosexuals?”

Reagan was quiet. Why was he forced to defend Jack Kemp? Nancy looked on worryingly, thinking, I knew he’d be a mistake. In reality, Nancy had been so blinded by the disloyalty of George Bush and keeping him off the ticket that she failed to voice any reservations about Kemp.

Falwell filled the silence himself. “And what about this cabin? Is the man a faggot, governor?”

Reagan’s head was spinning. These were his people, why were they turning on him? “Absolutely not, Reverend. You know this is just some cockamamie rumor started by some San Francisco liberal who is trying to make a splash. It’s absolutely based in nothing. When I was governor, we did a full investigation of this, and nothing ever turned up about Jack. I would not have asked him to be my running mate if I knew him to be a homosexual.”

“Well, you’ve got to walk back his statement about civil liberties, governor, or on Sunday I’m going to have a congregation full of people who don’t know what to make of this ticket.” Falwell hung up the phone.

With a sigh, Reagan said, “Get me Kemp.”

• • •​

The next day, Kemp followed the orders of his running mate: Walk back the statement, and as if he’d intercepted his own pass, he charged straight in the opposite direction.

He was at a press conference in Washington, ahead of leaving for an event in Ohio, when Kemp tried to fix his mistake. “I want to be very clear about what I meant,” Kemp said, “because I am a man of conviction. I stand by what I said — that homosexuals are entitled to some civil liberties. We all are under the Constitution, but there are limits. We have to draw the line somewhere. For anyone to twist my words and say I support —”

The reporters had no interest in waiting. “Congressman, give me an example,” one of them asked. “Where do you draw the line?”

Cameras flashed and Kemp raised is finger to his lower lip to think. “Teaching,” he said matter-of-factly. “I would draw the line there. I would not let them teach in schools. I think a school board should have the right to choose what type of example we have for our children in public schools.” [7]

The answer set off a firestorm of controversy. Two years earlier, California had defeated, by a 58-41% margin, the Briggs Initiative (Proposition 6). Had it passed, the Initiative would have banned gay teachers in public schools. The ballot question had many prominent opponents. Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford were among them, but perhaps a more influential voice of opposition was none other than Ronald Reagan, who, in a public letter released before the election, argued that a child’s teachers were unlikely to influence their sexuality.

Kemp’s statement delighted Falwell, who was a fierce supporter of Proposition 6, but it infuriated the Reagan campaign as it was now forced to walk back another of Kemp’s statements, and would be doing so at the expense of their base of supporters.

The Carter campaign jumped immediately on the comment. Conveniently, Carter was campaigning in California that day — a sign of his campaign’s confidence in the wake of their post-hostage release/convention bump. “And I just heard today that the Republican ticket is now embracing an idea that California voters soundly defeated just two years ago. That’s right. Today, Jack Kemp said he would ‘draw the line’ at letting gays and lesbians work in our public schools. And I say to that: We draw the line at sending Ronald Reagan and Jack Kemp to the White House!” Not only did Kemp force Reagan into an awkward predicament with his base, he’d given Carter an issue around which he could rally his.

Reagan was cornered by a reporter later that day, and while he’d been briefed on the matter, he was hoping to talk to Kemp before addressing it. “I haven’t talked to him, no,” Reagan admitted, before clarifying his own stance. “I said then, and I am saying now, that I think that goes too far. Of course, I don’t support the teaching of a homosexual way of life in our classrooms, but that Initiative was a threat to Constitutional liberties — of privacy. That was my position then, and that’s what it is now.” With an edge, he finished, “And that’s all I’m going to say on the matter for right now.” [8]

Kemp again tried to clarify his remarks again the next day. “What I meant to say was that I believe each municipality has the right to make their own determinations,” he said. “We do not need mandates — one way or the other — coming down from the federal government. Let school boards decide. Let parents decide.”

A reporter from the Post followed up with the only logical question: “Congressman, you’re a parent. If the school board in your hometown were considering a measure about this, what would you ask them to do?” In reality, Kemp had already given his answer the day before, hadn’t he? But repeating it would solidify the difference between him and his running mate.

“My opinion doesn’t matter,” he answered, and then he was whisked away by staff into the next event, leaving reporters dumbfounded.


September 16, 1980
Ebenezer Baptist Church — Atlanta, GA

The Kemp drama continued Carter’s streak of good luck: A messy Republican National Convention, the release of the hostages, a perfectly adequate Democratic National Convention, and now a rogue running mate who forced the Republican ticket into uncomfortable binds on controversial issues. Reagan reiterated, again, his opposition to an outright ban on gay teachers. Jerry Falwell said he was “disappointed” by the nominee’s remarks but reminded his congregation it was important to come around and support the Reagan/Kemp ticket. Then, on September 12th, Tim Kraft resigned as campaign manager for Jimmy Carter over allegations had used cocaine. What happened next threw the narrative of the race into another tailspin. Democrats said it was unfair — that the press, bored by the prospect of a runaway Carter victory, manufactured a crisis. Republicans said it was only natural that pious Jimmy Carter would put his foot in his mouth.

For weeks, while reporters wrote of Kemp’s gaffes and did interviews with the returned hostages, another drama was bubbling to the surface. Ronald Reagan had gone to the Neshoba County Fair in Mississippi, on August 3rd. The fairgrounds were near Philadelphia, Mississippi, a small town that was known for being the site of one of the most notorious lynchings at the height of the Civil Rights Movement. Reagan went there and in a brief speech blew the dog whistle once held by Richard Nixon during the employ of the Southern Strategy: “I believe in states’ rights; I believe in people doing as much as they can for themselves at the community level and at the private level, and I believe that we’ve distorted the balance of government.”

Well, Carter was outraged, and he said so. Surrogates for Carter’s team reminded the press that Reagan had been endorsed by the Ku Klux Klan (and pointed out it had taken weeks for Reagan to disavow their support).

Then, Carter went to Tuscumbia, Alabama, for a rally for his campaign, and Ronald Reagan — convinced that his invocation of states’ rights had been totally divorced from the context it had carried for more than a century in that region of the country — accused Carter of racism, saying that the president had opened his campaign “in the city that gave brith to and is the parent body of the Ku Klux Klan.”

Well, Carter was furious at that, too. To say nothing of the fact that the birthplace of the Klan was widely known as Pulaski, Tennessee, Carter was enraged that he had been accused of racism. This was the same Jimmy Carter who, for years while growing up, was raised by Black caretakers, who spent time in the fields with Black workers in the South, who went to the theater with young Black children at a time when most white children refused to be seen with their Black peers, let alone associate with them. Carter had spent his life making sense of the peculiar region in which he’d been reared, and he was an imperfect vessel for the New South.

After a defeat in one gubernatorial election, he ran again, this time from a playbook that Reagan and his team would’ve recognized. Then, when he won, he did an about-face on the voters who thought they knew what Carter was promising. He told them bluntly in his inaugural that the era of racial discrimination was over.

Jimmy Carter was not innocent when it came to race. Few white men in the nation were, particularly those who had come of age in the South. But Jimmy Carter, who harbored a deep love of humanity, who had spent most of his life surrounded by Black Americans, was not going to let Ronald Reagan call him racist. And now, in the Ebenezer Baptist Church, he was ready to take Reagan to task for the implications that the Republican candidate was making — and in doing so, he again flipped the narrative of the 1980 election.

“You’ve seen in this campaign the stirrings of hate,” he told the congregation. Heads nodded. “And the rebirth of code words like ‘states’ rights’ in a speech in Mississippi! And a campaign reference to the Ku Klux Klan relating to the South. That is a message that creates a cloud on the political horizon. Hatred has no place in this country.” Those in the congregation took to their feet, and Carter continued, “Racism has no place in this country!”

No sooner had Carter left the church than the press was asking if it had been Carter who had gone too far in calling Reagan racist. The Carter staff was apoplectic, but this was a time when candidates didn’t accuse their opponents of racism. Powell pointed out that Carter didn’t say Reagan was racist. The reporters didn’t care. He asked how it was different from when Reagan accused Carter (incorrectly, he might add) of kicking off his campaign in the birthplace of the KKK. It just was, they told him. And now, once more, there was a real race for President of the United States.

Carter’s remarks did not entirely erase his lead over Reagan, but the Reagan team moved in quickly to capitalize on it. The candidate decried Carter’s assertions. Nancy Reagan appeared in a new ad, where she spoke of how offended she had been by the president’s words. Even Jack Kemp was allowed to speak to reporters — for the first time in a week. He said he “couldn’t believe” Jimmy Carter would “stoop so low.” It was, verbatim, the talking point that had been prepared for him.

Journalists wondered aloud and in print if Jimmy Carter was just too mean to be reelected. Too arrogant. Too smug. Most Americans just wanted the election to be over.


September 30, 1980
Rancho del Cielo — Goleta, CA

Ronald Reagan sat in his chair, facing forward at the television, a blank stare plastered on his face. He was not unthinking in this moment, he was simply overwhelmed by what to think. He’d always known that he was surrounded by gay men on his staff. It was never much of an issue for Reagan. He was a product of Hollywood. He’d been surrounded by gay men his entire career. It wasn’t his lifestyle, but he didn’t much care if others chose it.

He knew, though, that his path to the presidency relied on religious voters in the South who would have to turn against one of their own in favor of a Hollywood-type, and if that was going to happen, there could not be any ambiguity about where Ronald Reagan stood on the issue of gay men living out lives in American society.

When he’d chosen Kemp, he’d known that there were rumors and questions, but he felt he had few competent running mates to choose from, and he thought the old maxim that reporters stayed out of the private lives of politicians would shield Kemp from any gossip. If Kemp had just kept his mouth shut, that may have happened, but that fateful trip to Dallas produced two errors that now consumed Reagan’s path to the White House.

It was Kemp’s second statement that produced the first firestorm. His peculiar statement about civil liberties about gay men invited an unnecessary and unwanted debate about the role of out gay men in public life, and it had forced Reagan and his running mate to break on an important issue among the Religious Right: gay teachers. Reagan did not believe they should be banned. He’d made every effort to staunch the bleeding and give a wink-and-a-nod to the base, but there was an election to win, and he couldn’t afford to alienate the center. Kemp seemed to think it was fine as a matter of public policy. Now, instead of keeping the attention on the mediocre economy, the Reagan campaign was spending too much time talking about an issue on which Reagan departed from the religious voters he needed to win the presidency.

But now, it was Kemp’s first unforced statement that imperiled the Reagan ticket. He’d denied, in public and on the record, that he had ever engaged in homosexual conduct. Now, Kemp was on the record about the issue, and that meant that if reporters found evidence to the contrary, Kemp lied. And lying was fair game. This was the post-Nixon, post-Watergate world. Politicians who lied deserved to be exposed — no matter what they lied about.

Lyn Nofziger received a heads up from a contact at ABC that Nightline was going to air an episode in which they interviewed a man who claimed to have engaged in sexual intercourse with both Jack Kemp and Ronald Reagan. Nofziger had convinced the ABC producers that the statement about Reagan was simply beyond the pale, and they’d agreed not to air it. Instead, they would note that the man they interviewed claimed to have had sex with “other high-profile male politicians,” but that the Nightline team had found no other corroborating evidence about such activity. Nofziger didn’t like the implication that the statements about Kemp were credible, but he had to take what he could get.

In the forty-eight hours before the Nightline special, the Reagan team was debating what to do. Wirthlin was, perhaps, the only one contemplating the great irony that a television program born from relentless and damning coverage of the Iranian Hostage Crisis — which, at one point, was threatening to engulf the president’s chances at reelection — was about to air a television special that could potentially doom the Reagan campaign.

Lou Harris, a pollster who was following the trends of the Religious Right, reported to the Reagan inner circle that they had exactly one option if they wanted to win the election: Drop Jack Kemp from the ticket. Nancy Reagan voiced her support for the idea.

Reagan feared that doing so would only validate the Kemp rumors, and he himself noted the tragic outcome of the McGovern campaign. Axing Tom Eagleton from the ticket did nothing to help them on their way to a 49-state blowout.

Instead, Pete Hannaford, a senior communications advisor on the campaign, decided that Kemp should do an interview himself, with his wife by his side, denying all of the allegations. Kemp was eager to take on the fight, but he refused to let Joanne sit beside him. The embarrassment, he argued, was not worth it. Hannaford speculated that her absence would raise questions, but Kemp disagreed. “I can’t make her sit through that,” he insisted, and so they agreed that Kemp would participate in a brief interview that would air after the salacious accusations, and he would deny, once again, that he was gay or had ever engaged in sexual activity with men.

Now, Reagan and his wife, Hannaford, and Bill Casey sat around the television set at Rancho del Cielo as the Nightline episode began.

Ted Koppel began: “As long as he has been prominent in the world of politics, questions about his private life have dogged Jack Kemp. Years ago, as a member of his now-running mate’s gubernatorial staff, Jack Kemp was a part-owner in a Lake Tahoe cabin said to have hosted homosexual gatherings. Mr. Kemp has long denied that he ever attended the cabin, but he was identified in contemporary reports as having attended at least one of these events. It was a scandal that threatened the Reagan governorship and ultimately led to the firings of two homosexual staffers in the Governor’s office.

“Those rumors and that tawdry speculation came back to life this fall as Mr. Reagan selected Mr. Kemp to serve as his running mate in the upcoming presidential election. For years, the story has languished because no one was willing to come forward, publicly and on-the-record, and speak about the behavior in which Mr. Kemp allegedly engaged.

“Tonight, that changes.

“William Seals, Jr. was just 17-years-old when he volunteered on Ronald Reagan’s first gubernatorial campaign. He now says that he was a participant in the homosexual gathering at the Lake Tahoe cabin in 1967. He alleges that at that party he had relations of an adult nature with Mr. Kemp.”

At this point, Nancy Reagan rose from the couch in disgust. “This is just ridiculous,” she said. “It’s improper. I can’t believe they’re putting this on television.” She retreated to her bedroom. Reagan was forced to keep watching as the television changed to show William Seals, Jr., whom Reagan remembered, sitting in a chair in front of a dark background, ready to expose Jack Kemp and imperil the prospect of a Reagan presidency.

Why is he doing this to me? Reagan thought to himself. Why does he want to do this?

Seals’ statements were matter-of-fact, and he avoided coloring in his anecdotes with too much detail. He looked reserved. His hair was neat, his shirt pressed, and his tie was straight. He looked like any church-going man. And that was the problem.

“You say that a sort of homosexual party occurred at the Lake Tahoe cabin, in which Mr. Kemp was a partial owner?” Koppel asked.

“Yes.”

“And how do you know that?”

“I was there.”

“Mr. Kemp has long denied that he was at the party. Is he telling the truth when he says that?”

“No, he is not. Jack Kemp was absolutely there. He and I went to bed together.”

“I apologize for pressing the issue, but would you mind being more specific in what that expression means? I think it means different things —”

“I had intimate relations with Jack Kemp.”

“At the time, in California, such an act was against the law.”

“That’s correct.”

“So, you’re alleging that you and Mr. Kemp engaged in an illegal — an — that you and Mr. Kemp engaged in conduct that was not sanctioned by the law while at the cabin in Lake Tahoe?”

“Yes, I am.”

Reagan was dismayed. Hannaford, sitting beside him on the couch, shifted uncomfortably.

The interview continued for a few minutes before a commercial break, and when the program returned, Koppel introduced the next segment: the Kemp interview.

“Congressman, thank you for sitting with me.”

“I think it’s important to refute these lies, Ted. I’m surprised, frankly, that you’re even putting them on air. It’s a great disservice to my family, and it places an incredible burden on us. The idea that anyone can just come forward and allege anything is, frankly, appalling.”

“Surely, Congressman, you can understand —”

“I can’t say I do,” Kemp sneered.

“Well, Congressman,” Koppel said, leaning in as the interview grew increasingly combative, “you are accused of breaking the law, and you are accused of lying to the people, and you are accused of engaging in an act, which, if true, would raise doubts about your own sexuality while you have repeatedly questioned the kinds of roles that homosexuals, and, perhaps by extension, bisexuals, can have as you seek the nation’s second-highest office.”

“These allegations are unequivocally false. There was, during the Reagan governorship when this all happened, an investigation led by the Reagan staff, and the two men who were found to have engaged in homosexual conduct were fired.”

“And you insist that you were not at the Lake Tahoe cabin when that party happened.”

“Not only was I not there for this supposed party, I never went there period.”

“Despite the fact that you partially owned it?”

“Correct.”

“Surely, you can see why that may raise questions with voters. You owned a home, but you never went to it?”

“It was a ski cabin, not a home.”

“Back to the allegation that you engaged in this behavior —”

“It’s his word against mine, and I ask the American people who they think they should believe: A United States Congressman or a man desperate for public attention who has only come forward now in hopes of finding his fifteen minutes of fame.”

“Well, that’s not exactly true, Congressman. In the course of our reporting, we spoke with a local reporter out of Phoenix, Bill Best. Best alleges that Seals spoke to him years ago about the incident and that he himself was propositioned — sexually — by a member of the Reagan inner circle.”

At Rancho del Cielo, Hannaford couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He was the man who’d propositioned Best. He stood up from the couch and began pacing the room, sweating profusely. Reagan paid it little attention. He was sick to his stomach.

“I don’t know anything about that,” Kemp said, “and all you’ve proven is that this Seals character has been spreading his lies for years. There is no one else who can say that I engaged in this activity because it didn’t happen. You have one liar accusing a Congressman of inappropriate behavior. That is all.”

And that’s where the interview ended. Koppel returned to the screen to narrate his conversation with Bill Best. Hannaford’s name was never revealed. And the program ended.


October 2, 1980
Townhall Meeting — Dayton, OH

They had finally reached October. For Carter, the sense that the election’s conclusion drew near was enough to keep him going. He was ready to get on with his second term — confident as he was that it would come. The polling had steadied, though the “mean narrative” had done a number. Nearly every major state was within 10-points (some 300+ electoral votes), and about 200 electoral votes were within five-points. Carter knew it would be close, but he was confident in his ability to close.

Rafshoon walked him through the event. It seemed simple enough: Remarks, a few questions, back in the car. He was joined by Howard Metzenbaum, Dayton Mayor Jim McGee, Congressman Tony Hall, and others. It was a packed crowd.

“It’s really an honor for me to be here with you in Miami Valley, Montgomery County, Dayton. I’ve only been here a few minutes, but I think I can already agree with your city’s motto, and it’s right on the mark. It’s ‘Great in Dayton.’ There’s no question about that.” He smiled.

The first question came from Lou Ann Clingman, a senior at Fernwell High School. She asked if families of college students would get a tax credit next year. Characteristically, Carter did not pander.

“I’ll be glad to answer,” he said. “No.” Laughter filled the room, and then Carter continued in a way he was prone to do — providing explanation. “But let me explain,” he begged. “Since I’ve been in office just three-and-a-half years, there have been very few goals that I have accomplished absolutely.” It was, again, the kind of thing most politicians would refuse to admit on the campaign trail. Carter seemed almost proud of it. “One of them is that I wanted to make sure that every young person in our nation who was mentally able to do college work could get a full college education no matter how poor the family might be. And I can guarantee you, that when you get ready to go to college, no matter what the financial condition of your family might be, you will be financially able to go to college, through grants or loans or work-study programs.” He was proud.

“There’s no reason anymore in this country after the great work that Congress has done in the last three-and-a-half years for any young person to be deprived oa. College education because of economic circumstances. So, we’ve done that, it’s a great achievement, and I think we’ll build on it.” Carter moved on to the next question, but his staff wasn’t sure that he’d earned a vote yet.

The second-to-last question came from Ken Day, a Dayton resident, and another high school senior. It was a bit unusual. “There have been predictions that every 20 years or election years ending in zero, the President dies in office. Are you concerned about this?”

Yes, Carter said, he had seen those predictions. “I’m willing to take the chance,” he said. “I don’t say that in a silly way, but even if I knew I would die in office if I were a President, I would still run for the office, because I think it’s the most exciting and challenging and important position in the world.” He continued to gush about the job and concluded: “So for all those reasons, I’m not afraid. If I knew it was going to happen, I would go ahead and be President and do the best I could till the last day I could.” And that was that.

In the audience, a different man was struck by what he’d just heard. Jimmy Carter wasn’t afraid of death. [9]

>>>>>>>>>>>>>

[1] Around the same time IOTL, these negotiations began in earnest. Some, like Kai Bird, have posited that they were only derailed by the presence of the Reagan campaign, specifically Bill Casey. It doesn’t matter whether or not you believe that theory ITTL because Bill Casey’s entire presence in Europe during this time period is butterflied away because of the elongated primary campaign and brewing Convention fight. Others, like Stu Eizenstat, believe that if Hussein had not invaded Iran, they would have struck a deal, but the Iraqi invasion of Iran made the whole deal fall through because of distrust of the Americans. Akbar Hashemi Rafsanjani, Speaker of the Iranian Parliament, confirmed to Yasser Arafat that Khomeini had come around to releasing the hostages before Iraq invaded.

ITTL, those negotiations transpire and Khomeini, crippled by the mining of the harbors, moves more quickly to formalize them because he can’t afford to wait. He needs a surge of cash, weapons, and the easing of sanctions in order to fight Iraq. He may not trust the American regime, and he may be worried about appearing too close to them, but he also needs to be fighting back militarily against Iraq before the elections.

My source for the demands is Carter’s Keeping Faith, 558, and Kai Bird’s assessment of the behind-the-scenes negotiations is truly unparalleled (this is the part of his book that tops Jonathan Alter’s). Pages 570-578 of The Outlier cover the negotiations.

[2] Keeping Faith, 545.

[3] Keeping Faith, 545.

[4] This statement is based off of what Carter said IOTL before he left Plains to greet the hostages in Germany. They are reprinted in The Outlier, 602.

[5] The original text of this chapter included Carter’s memorable gaffe (See below if you don’t know what I’m referring to at about 2:48), but the gaffe was a combination of Carter’s fatigue (his speech was delayed well into the night because of circumstances that would not be replicated here, and the teleprompter malfunctioned that night).

[6] Most of this is taken from Carter’s OTL speech, but I updated some of the text to account for alternate events that occurred ITTL.

[7] These are all based on Jack Kemp’s OTL positions. You can read them here: https://www.nytimes.com/1996/08/11/us/in-his-own-words-jack-kemp-and-the-issues.html

[8] Reagan’s tap dance is taken from here: https://www.nytimes.com/2022/03/22/opinion/when-reagan-said-gay.html

[9] What I love about research is how many bizarre moments you find in history — it almost begs people like us to write stories like these. The Q&A session from the Dayton, Ohio town hall actually happened. The questions are pulled from OTL, as are Carter’s responses — even the question about the Curse of Tippecanoe. The strange part is, while I can’t claim to know what another human being was thinking, of course, we do know that John Hinckley, Jr — yes, that John Hinckley, Jr — was in the crowd and presumably heard this question and Carter’s answer. It was too surreal to not include in the story, and, of course, every good author does what they can to weave a bit of foreshadowing.

 

[Vidal]

YOU TALKIN’ TO ME?

“Now I see it clearly. My whole life has pointed in one direction. I see that now. There never has been any choice for me.”
-Travis Bickle, Taxi Driver (1976)​

October 9, 1980
Grand Ole Opry — Nashville, TN

There he was. The candidate. He finished his speech and the audience cheered their approval.

Two secret service agents wearing their blue suits and aviators pushed the supporters away as the candidate made his way through the crowd. The man in the back with the green army jacket grinned. His moment was rapidly approaching. He unzipped his jacket and reached for the gun, but an agent spotted him and the would-be assassin took off into the crowd. He sprinted away — never to be found.

John Hinckley, Jr. had studied the scene not once or twice but dozens of times. His attempt would be different. He already knew that. He’d gone to Dayton, he’d tried to get close to the president, and he’d done it. He knew how to blend in — it wasn’t hard, not really. He’d wear his “Re-elect Carter/Mondale” pin, the green blazing off of his tan jacket. When the president hit his talking points, he’d cheer at all the right times, gradually moving closer and closer to the front. He’d get there early so there wasn’t that much ground to cover, but not too early so that he was directly before the president the entire time. As the president thanked everyone for coming and moved off the stage, he’d mingle with the crowd. Like all good Carter supporters, Hinckley would shout, “Mr. President!” and lunge forward to shake the president’s hand. But he wouldn’t. Instead, he’d fire his handgun, shoot the president two or three times — four if Secret Service allowed — and then he’d be caught, he knew — wrestled to the ground by one agent or another. But it wouldn’t matter. She would be his. She’d be so impressed. He’d succeed where Travis Bickle had failed. And Jodie — sweet Jodie — would not be able to ignore him any longer, for he would go down in history as one of just five men who killed the President of the United States.

• • •​

Carter was buoyed with his usual confidence that day on the plane. Chris Matthews, the energetic young speechwriter who was eyeing a bigger job in a second term, handed Carter his remarks. The president cheerily read them over. Caddell came by with the latest poll numbers. It was all good news. Reagan was on the run. The war question continued to hang over voters, and the longer Carter could centralize it, the longer Reagan would be drawn into questions about his foreign policy. Voters preferred Carter on the issue by 2-1, including Republican voters. It was the same playbook Johnson had used against Goldwater, and it was finally beginning to work.

After the conventions, when Carter was able to point to measured military response as more successful than bravado, the president began to point to his diplomatic and military successes. Reagan felt that the issue was neutralized. Without the hostages, people would begin to focus on the mediocre economy. But fewer voters, they realized, were trusting Reagan to fix it. And more and more of them were worried about his long history of questionable remarks on foreign policy. The Star Wars speech from the primary campaign. His bluster on the Iranian issue. These concerns lingered in voters’ minds. Carter needed to keep them prevalent.

But it was Caddell who had the ingenious idea of tying them together — which had become the Carter strategy in the final month of the campaign. There was no reason to believe someone who was careless enough to bring us into unnecessary war would somehow be more cautious when it came to the economy. It was in a precarious state and a president who shot from the hip could do just as much damage to the economy as he could to international relations. On the stump, Carter began to hit the point. “You need a leader you can trust,” he said, “and not just to tell you the truth. You need a leader you can trust to make the right decision. When the phone rings in the Residence at 1am, you need to know the person at the other end is cut out to handle the crisis — whether it’s an attack on our embassy, a threat from the Soviets, or a stock market on the fritz.” Carter was the man Americans could trust in a crisis — regardless of its shape or scope.

Meanwhile, his opponent had stopped having fun. The usual cheery Reagan, quick to make a joke at his own expense, was exhausted. He found the press coverage of Carter overly fawning, and he thought they spent too much time praising Carter’s leadership during the Hostage Crisis. “It’s over,” Reagan grumbled to staff. “We get it. He won.”

All of the travel and demanding schedule was taking a toll on Nancy Reagan, the candidate’s wife. She could handle it, but she feared that her husband could not. As the Republican fell further and further behind, his wife became more involved in the day-to-day operations of the campaign. She wanted Kemp dropped from the ticket — a ridiculous suggestion. She wanted the candidate to hit Carter for “exploiting” the hostage situation. The candidate took the counsel of his advisors on that one and steered clear of the attacks. But Nancy Reagan felt the campaign slipping away and she moved in as much as she could to influence the campaign’s message, encouraging Reagan to take the attack to Carter as much as possible.

She also made demands about their travel schedule, insisting they stop spending so much time on the road. “When Ronnie has multiple events a day, he gets tired and frustrated. He’s no good on the stump when he can’t be himself.” Despite loud objections from the staff, Nancy got her way. Unbelievably, the campaign reduced the candidate’s travel by a third in the final month of the campaign. Carter, the energizer bunny of the race, added multiple appearances to each day. “I’ll sleep in November,” he told his staff.

• • •​

Hamilton Jordan, traveling with Carter for the event in Nashville, began to run through the key points of the president’s brief. “You’re going to be taking questions,” he reminded Carter. “It’s a town hall format. You’ll be introduced by Bill Monroe. You’ve got to tie Reagan’s inability to handle foreign policy to an inability to handle domestic policy.” Between each reminder, the president replied, “Got it.” And Jordan continued moving through the list. Carter was energized. The polling was favorable. The reception on the ground was warm. Voters seemed eager to send him back for four years. He had never really imagined losing to Ronald Reagan, but now the idea seemed so ridiculous he didn’t have to. All it would take was a few more days.

With his signature grin, he ran up the steps and onto the stage, waving to supporters who cheered him on. Among those applauding was John Hinckley, hoping to blend in to the sea of Carter enthusiasts. He was just days away, he figured, from marrying the love of his life. And only minutes away from assassinating the President of the United States and landing his spot in history. As Carter took questions, he listened intently. His mission was not ideological, nor was it driven out of a dislike of Carter the man. Carter was merely the most prominent man in America — the easiest way to guarantee the press coverage needed to propel Jodie Foster into his arms.

The questions Carter answered at the town hall covered the same issues that Americans had been focused on throughout his presidency, particularly the economy. Voters felt it was sluggish — not in a free fall but perhaps on the precipice. They asked about foreign policy, which was Carter’s favorite to discuss. Polling showed voters didn’t trust Reagan to keep the country out of war. Carter exploited this, highlighting his work on the SALT II treaty and reminding voters that he had brought the hostages home safely through a negotiated agreement. “A foreign policy that dictates shoot first, think and talk later cannot be trusted,” Carter reminded the audience.

As voters asked their questions, Carter asked them to repeat their name back to him and then used it throughout his answer. Every other sentence began or ended with the person’s name — they felt drawn in, and Carter excelled at the town hall format. The day’s event in Nashville was no exception with the president feeling the wind at his back. Election Day was nearing, and he was ready to win.

Carter thanked everyone for coming out to the Grand Ole Opry and reminded them to make sure they voted in November as he gave his final answer. The music played, and he began to wade into the audience, shaking hands on his way out the door. Hinckley was ready. While Carter bemoaned Reagan’s trigger-happiness, he had inched his way — gradually, without detection — closer and closer to Carter. His finger rested on the trigger.

“Mr. President,” he said just loud enough for Carter to look him in the eyes. “I’m sorry.” Then, he fired three shots at Carter’s chest. The first shot pierced Carter by his left shoulder, a second struck the president’s chest, and the third missed altogether as one agent lunged at Hinckley. It wounded a different secret service agent near the president. Commotion ensued. Attendees screamed and raced for the exits. Agents wrestled Hinckley to the ground as he yelled, “Jodie! Jodie!” And Carter was whisked away, his condition unknown to those in attendance.

“He’s bleeding!” an agent yelled. They rushed Carter into an ambulance and off to the nearest hospital. The entire sequence of events had already been orchestrated. The agents knew where to go and what to do, but had hoped they’d never need to execute it.

The president was gasping for air while an agent who had been in Dallas in November 1963 was working frantically to shut down the perimeter around the Opry. “Deacon is down!” Another agent barked into his wrist. “I repeat: Deacon is down.”

Ronald Reagan was campaigning in Illinois, bringing the crowd to its feet. “A recession is when your neighbor loses his job, a depression is when you lose yours, and a recovery is when Jimmy Carter loses his!” Reagan said gleefully. During the cheers for the line, a staffer raced on stage and let Reagan know he needed to go. Reagan was confused but didn’t challenge the agent. “Folks,” he said, “unfortunately something has come up and I have to head out a bit earlier than planned. But thank you for coming, and please remember to vote. And may God bless America!” Those in the audience were confused and looked around. Were they in danger? An advance man for Reagan’s campaign ran to the microphone and informed them everything was fine, but the event had to end early. He apologized for the inconvenience.

Ed Meese was traveling with Reagan. “Governor,” he said, “President Carter’s been shot in Nashville. We have to get you back to the hotel.”

“My god,” Reagan said. “Is he alright?”

“We don’t know anything about his condition, but he’s being brought to the hospital.”

“Alright, let’s go,” he said, reaching for Nancy’s hand. It could’ve been Ronnie, she thought to herself.

In Nashville, the ambulance carrying the president and the First Lady rushed to the hospital. Rosalynn gripped Carter’s hand as his eyes opened and closed. “Jimmy, I’m right here. I’m right here, Jimmy, stay with me,” his wife pleaded, tears dripping from her cheeks onto his bare chest. Paramedics rushed to take vitals and treat him the best they could.

When he arrived at the hospital, they wheeled him in for immediate surgery. A bullet had fractured his shoulder and another had come perilously close to collapsing his lung. His injuries were not life threatening, but they were severe, and he’d need immediate treatment. Before he went under the knife, Carter invoked the 25th Amendment and transferred the duties of the presidency to Walter Mondale, who was making his way to the South Lawn via helicopter, where he would be briefed on the situation and then address the nation from the White House Press Room.

Stu Eizenstat was at the White House and got the Vice President up to speed, walking with him from the South Lawn into the White House — the roar of the helicopter whirring just beyond them. “The president is in surgery. His injuries don’t appear life threatening, but we can’t be sure.” Mondale nodded before turning around and witnessing the gates of the White House. Just beyond them, people were gathering with candles to pray for the president’s recovery. The Vice President touched his heart and pressed forward inside. He would need to inform them, and the rest of the nation, of Jimmy Carter’s condition.

Meanwhile, the Reagan team was in an information blackout. The candidate decided to fly back to California. He assumed that he would not be able to campaign for the next day or two, and so he wanted to be home. Nancy had supported the decision. His advisers were more cautious, weary that the time away from the trail could cost the campaign. But Reagan didn’t think he had a choice. His opponent had just been shot.

The campaign was weighing whether or not issue some kind of statement. The truth was, they didn’t know enough to have Reagan go in front of the cameras. They decided he’d make short remarks from the tarmac before boarding the plane to California. He stepped up to the microphone and began, “My fellow Americans, this is a perilous hour in our history. My heart goes out to Rosalynn Carter and the president’s children. And my prayers are with him — and our nation. We are praying for a speedy recovery.” It was all most Americans would hear for at that moment, the networks cut from Reagan to the White House, where Walter Mondale was set to give a more thorough report on the president’s condition.

“My fellow Americans: This evening, while campaigning in Nashville, President Carter was shot by an assailant. We are not yet prepared to release that suspect’s name, but he has been apprehended by law enforcement.

“The gunman’s bullet struck the president’s shoulder, fracturing it, and a second bullet struck the president in his chest. We do not believe his injuries are life threatening, but the president is currently undergoing surgery in Nashville. In the meantime, I want to confirm that he has signed a letter transferring the responsibilities of the presidency to me. Our invocation of the 25th Amendment is the only responsible course of action given that the president is under an anesthetic, and as soon as he has emerged from surgery and is feeling better, I will transfer the duties of the office back to him.”

Mondale continued, “I want to assure the American people tonight that the man who is responsible for this attack will be brought to justice. He will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. An attack on our president is an attack on our nation.

“My heart is with Rosalynn and the Carter children, and my thoughts and prayers are with the president. I know I join all Americans in wishing this wise and compassionate leader a speedy recovery. Thank you, and good night.”

The Vice President refused to take any questions and then returned to the Oval Office for a meeting with his staff and the president’s. Mondale needed to call foreign leaders. His first call was to Anwar Sadat. Then, he called America’s allies, including Begin, to inform them of the situation. He told the military to monitor Eastern Europe to ensure there was no Soviet troop movement or attempt to capitalize on the situation.

Reagan, meanwhile, boarded his plane and headed home to California. The presidential campaign was on pause.

• • •​

The president had faced death before. It was December 12, 1952, and Lieutenant Carter was in the Navy, serving as a nuclear engineer. In Ottawa, Canada, a supervisor of the Chalk River Laboratories confused some numbers on a machine’s buttons, and a nuclear disaster commenced. A million gallons of radioactive water poured out and threatened the Ottawa River, potentially exposing the entire city to radioactive fallout.

Jimmy Carter and his team of twenty-four men answered the call. They were broken into teams of three, and each team would have ninety seconds to do their part to contain the accident. Scientists estimated that a minute-and-a-half was all that the human body could stand. Carter and his group completed their task with one second to spare. [1]

In 1952, Carter was in control of his own fate. His hands were responsible for removing bolts and pipes as the radiation seeped into his body. If he stayed too long, if he was exposed to too much, it was because his mind and his hands had been too slow. Now, as the doctors wheeled him into surgery, his fate rested with the hands of others. A doctor’s set of hands would cut him open, remove the bullet, and sew him back up.

An image appeared hazily in his mind as the stretcher carrying his body neared the operating room. Carter appeared to himself as a young boy, barefoot in a creek in his hometown of Plains. It was not an hour before daylight — the sun was well in the air, beating down on him. His toes wriggled slightly at the thought of the mushy creek floor oozing between his toes. The water was warm. The sun was bright. He heard a faint yap.

Young Carter turned and could not decipher the origin of the sound, but he knew it. This was a familiar dream of his. A rabid dog lurked somewhere — and then he saw it. Surely, this pup was innocent. The dog playfully stumbled its way to the boy until Carter realized it was, indeed, rabid. In those days of his childhood, he’d seen rabid dogs — often approached from an automobile — shot dead on Main Street. He’d heard the legend of the man bit by the rabid dog, knowing death was imminent, who chained himself to a tree while he was still sane and threw away the key so that when he turned rabid, he would not be able to attack his wife and children. Carter could not afford to be bit. He had to run.

And as the boy turned to run he found that the familiar creek floor suck him in like quicksand. The warm water turned thick like molasses. He couldn’t get out of the creek. He couldn’t run. Frantically, he turned behind him. The puppy was gone.

Still, he knew that it would be back. It was adorable, it was lackadaisical, but it was a rabid dog — and it would be back.

The water was still thick. The floor still sucked him in. He tried harder and harder to break himself free, but he couldn’t. The dog returned. He looked in its eyes as its mouth opened — any appearance of innocence disappeared as rabid drool dripped from its teeth. It was going to bite Jimmy. He was going to die.

And then a bright light pierced the image. Was this death?

If it was death, it was familiar to Carter. His mind was filled with a bright white light, but he had the sense that he was home. It smelled like his old family home in Plains, and the bustling that he heard echoing through this vacant space was vaguely familiar. He felt warm. It was the middle of the summer in the South — a time when every available hand was needed in the fields.

A pain throbbed in him, and Carter felt he knew where this memory would take him, and then he heard the words that confirmed his suspicion. They came from his father, known to all as “Earl.” The words tied the same knot in his stomach that they did all those years ago: “The rest of us will be working while Jimmy lies here in the house and reads a book.” Jimmy. Not “Hot” or “Hot Shot,” as his father so lovingly referred to him in the wandering days of his youth. And then there was that diction — “lies here” — as if he wasn’t in pain. As if he were lazy. His father thinking he was lazy? Hot couldn’t stand the thought.

For days, Carter’s wrist had been in intense pain. He’d gone to his mother, a nurse, but she thought little of it. He’d gone to the doctor, but they provided no remedy. Now, he traipsed around outside searching for a cure. He tied his hand to a fencepost with his belt and lifted his arm, forcing the stiff wrist to bend. Pus burst out, carrying with it a half-inch splinter of wood. The grin that would one day launch him into the White House sprang across his face.

Hot raced back to his bicycle and took off, pedaling so hard he thought his legs might break off, towards the fields so that he could return to work — so that his dad could see him being useful. At the cotton field, Hot showed Earl Carter the splinter and said he was ready to return to work.

“It’s good to have you back with us, Hot,” his father smiled approvingly. [2]

In the operating room, the doctors and nurses around him could’ve sworn they saw the president smile.


October 10, 1980
Rancho del Cielo — Goleta, CA

“I mean what the Hell are we supposed to do?” Meese asked aloud. Reagan didn’t know. Nancy paced frantically on the other side of the room.

She could not believe that the President of the United States had been shot. It could have been her Ronnie. She did not doubt his campaign, or the country’s need for his leadership, but she feared what could happen to him if he won. Would Ronnie survive a four-or-eight-year presidency?

The candidate himself was less concerned with his own mortality and was instead focused on that of his opponent. “We can’t wait forever,” Reagan conceded.

Michael Deaver was concerned that the Carter campaign would drag out the president’s recovery. “We can’t be sidelined by this. Yes, a day or two away from the campaign is appropriate, but we have to get back out there. We can’t lose this time.”

No one seemed to notice that Nancy Reagan had slipped away from the conversation and towards a private room elsewhere in the Reagan home. She placed a phone call.

“Joan, it’s Nancy,” she said when the person on the other end of the line picked up. “Thank you for making time for me.”

“Of course,” came the reply.

“Joan, I need to know: If something like this were to happen to Ronnie — would you know? Would you be able to see it?”

The woman on the other end of the line was Joan Quigley, an astrologer whom Nancy Reagan had met years before. As she sat in her living room, Quigley explained her science to Mrs. Reagan. Yes, she said, if she had been observing President Carter over the last few days she could have foretold the attempt on his life, and, yes, came the answer: She could come to Ronald Reagan’s side, observe his energy, and foretell anything that may be awaiting him.

Nancy asked if she had any predictions about the rest of the campaign. “Oh, it’s grim,” Quigley said solemnly. “I’m not sure that both candidates will make it to Election Day. The energy now is…” Quigley paused. Nancy heard only a slow and challenging breath come across the line. “The energy now is morbid,” Quigley finished.

Mrs. Reagan thanked Quigley for her time and placed down the phone.

“Ronnie,” she said, storming back into the meeting, “there is nobody here who wants you to be President of the Untied States more than I do, but I want you alive even more than that, and you will not — you will not — resume campaigning for a few more days, and when you do, we will enhance your Secret Service protection. And I don’t want you keeping the schedule we’d set — you were getting too run down anyway.” Sensing Meese and Deavers’ hesitance, the candidate’s wife turned to them. “And I will not hear that this election’s outcome depends on an extra speech in Mississippi or in Ohio. The people know Ronnie, and he will win, and putting his life on the line so a few more people can shake his hand is not a trade we should be willing to make.”

Reagan laughed. “Well, fellas, you heard the boss!”

• • •​

Jimmy Carter pushed up his eyelids and saw the warm and doting face of his dear Rosie. She smiled. “He’s awake,” she said, and the Carter children came from their seats to their father’s side.

“How are you feeling?” Rosie asked.

“I’m alright. I guess I made it?” he said with a smile.

Tears in her eyes, Rosie nodded. “You did, Jimmy. Oh, I knew you would.”

Carter looked around at the room around him. Like all hospital rooms, it was white — even presidents couldn’t avoid the sterile and depressing decor kept for patients everywhere. He saw the nervous glances from his children. “I’m fine,” he reminded them. “Really.” Carter took their hands and led them in a prayer of thanks.

His doctor came in as the family finished their prayer. “Mr. President, I’m glad to see you’re awake.”

“I’m glad I’m awake, too,” the president quipped.

“Yes, well. We’ll need to keep you another day, but then I expect we can transfer you to Walter Reed.” Carter nodded appreciatively.

Carter called for his staff after a few more moments with his family. “I need to talk to Fritz.”

The Vice President was working from his office when the president phoned him. “Fritz, how are you?”

Relief flushed across Mondale’s face. “I’m well, Mr. President, but more importantly: How are you?”

“Well, I’m alive. They’re keeping me another day, but then I’ll be out of here.” Carter could feel Mondale’s smile from the other end of the line. “Listen,” he said, “you’ve got to be out there now — more than before. I don’t care what anyone thinks, people aren’t going to vote for me just because they feel bad for me. We need to be campaigning just as hard as before, and I’m not sure how far the doctors will let me push it.”

“You should rest, Mr. President.”

“We can’t let up,” he continued, ignoring the advice, “The Reagan people won’t — that’s for sure. Let’s make sure we’re doing everything we can between now and Election Day. You let me know what you need.”

The Vice President nodded. He should have expected this kind of a response from the president. “Absolutely, Mr. President. Be well.”

When the line went dead, Carter put down his phone and rolled over in bed. He needed to be on the campaign trail, and he would be, but for now he needed rest.

News that the president was awake spread quickly from the Nashville Hospital in which he recovered. Press Secretary Jody Powell confirmed that Carter had been awake, briefed on his condition, and that he’d called Vice President Mondale. No, he said, Ronald Reagan had not tried to call the president. Yes, the President was aware of what was happening and was eager to be back on the campaign trail. No, he wasn’t sure when exactly the president would resume a full schedule.

With the president confined to the hospital, his team began to discuss the next steps they should take. They knew that the president would be eager to get back on the trail, but they wanted to make sure he was physically up to the job. Between Carter’s collapse at a marathon and his altercation with a wild swamp rabbit, there was already cause for concern about the president’s physical abilities. Given their opponent was a 69-year-old, the Carter team doubted the press would dwell on these issues too much, but the fact remained they couldn’t afford another misstep.

The Carter team had reason to be optimistic. Their attacks on Reagan’s foreign policy were sinking through — especially with the hostages released — and they were even having success in hitting Reagan on the economy. Carter had a slight edge over Reagan in most of the polling — nationally and in competitive states. His team did not want to disrupt the momentum they had felt building. But they also knew that the assassination attempt had changed everything.

Jerry Rafshoon believed that it was time to drop the focus on negative campaigning. “He can’t come out from the hospital — after nearly dying — and immediately start griping about his opponent’s tax plan. It’s unfathomable!”

Jordan didn’t agree. “Reagan can’t hit back, it’s the perfect time to attack!”

Jordan had a point. It was Reagan who would come off the worse for attacking a man who had just escaped a would-be assassin’s bullet.

Rafshoon was shaking his head, pacing frantically around the room. “Don’t you people see? When Jimmy Carter walks out of that hospital he will have more sympathy from every American than he’s ever had — even on the day they took the hostages. We have to do everything we can — absolutely everything we can — over the next 25 days to keep as much of it as possible. If he walks out of this hospital and gives the media exactly what they want to keep their stupid ‘Mean’ narrative alive — we’re toast. Absolutely toast. This is our chance to turn the page and run the general election on our terms.”

Caddell nodded in agreement. “Jerry’s right,” he said. “The president’s strength is that people like him. We have to make sure they keep liking him as long as possible, and there’s a lot of goodwill that’s going to come from this. It won’t be enough — on it’s own — to win him back the White House, but if we do what we can to preserve that sympathy, he’ll win. He’ll win comfortably.”

Jordan didn’t like it. “We’re getting through on this Reagan stuff! People are opening their eyes — realizing he’s full of shit.”

Again, Caddell agreed. “And we can have Mondale hit Reagan, we can have surrogates out there, we can throw in a few lines in the stump speech. But we have to use this as an opportunity to reset the narrative and stop the press’s stupid obsession with calling the president mean.”

“And you suppose Reagan is going to play nice? He’ll be way too happy to walk all over us if we let him,” Jordan countered.

Caddell sighed. “If Ronald Reagan wants to get out on the campaign trail and attack a man who has just been shot, who just brought 52 American hostages home — unharmed, I might add — a couple of months ago, then I assure you — I promise you — that you will not need to pack up your office.”

“We’ll take it to the president. We’ll let him decide,” Jordan said, ending the conversation.


October 11, 1980
Vanderbilt University Medical Center — Nashville, TN

Carter’s staff met for their first strategy meeting with the president since the assassination attempt. Caddell, Jordan, and Rafshoon huddled around the president. Jody Powell joined by phone.

Caddell got the meeting started after the pleasantries were over. “Mr. President, we need to alter our plan for the final days of this campaign. The doctors think you can leave Walter Reed on October 17th, and then we’ll have just 18 days to get you reelected. When you leave here, you will have more public sympathy and support than you have had at any point in your presidency — including the taking of the hostages. In my opinion, we can’t do anything to disrupt that.

“As you know, in the days before the attempt on your life, there was a growing narrative that you were mean. For whatever reason, the press seemed preoccupied on this idea that your campaign had turned into a lazy attempt to tear Reagan down. It was misguided. You know it, I know it — we all know it,” Caddell said with a look at Jordan. “It was stupid. I hear all of that. But the polling showed it was sticking. If you leave this hospital and start hitting Reagan on this issue and that, it will only cement the perception of you as petty and mean-spirited. You’ve just been shot. If you come out of this hospital humble and gracious for your second chance at life, we will win this election. Like it or not, that’s what this election will come down to.”

Carter nodded and waited for the rebuttal he knew was coming. Jordan, his legs spread and hands folded leaned forward to look at the president. “Sir, I don’t agree. There is no better time to hit Reagan than right now, when he can’t hit you back. This clown is dangerous. We shouldn’t let up on him. We should double down.”

The president was a fighter, and deep in his bones he believed that Ronald Reagan would be an inept president, but he was also a numbers guy. Everything Caddell had told him was rooted in the polling and the focus groups. If people thought he was too mean, he’d have to be nicer.

“Alright. I’m not ready to make a decision. Let’s see how it all plays out. Should we debate him?”

After weeks of intense back-and-forth, the two campaigns had agreed to a debate on October 15th, but now Carter was slated to still be in the hospital. They’d need to reschedule.

Carter’s team had been anxious to debate their opponent. Rafshoon had authored a memo months earlier that laid out the case simply: Carter was the smarter candidate, therefore he’d be the better debater. The entire staff agreed there was no way Carter could lose a debate to Reagan. Now, their chance to take him on one-on-one was in trouble.

A chorus of yeses greeted the president’s question, but organizing a debate would require the cooperation of the election’s other half. Carter deputized Rafshoon to reach out to Reagan’s team and get the debate rescheduled.

Michael Deaver answered the phone on the first ring.

“Deaver.”

“Mike, it’s Jerry. I wanted to talk to you about the debate.”

“Go ahead.”

“The president won’t be out of the hospital in time, but we’d like to reschedule it. Are you amenable to that?”

“I don’t know, Jerry, I’ve got to check with the team.”

Rafshoon rolled his eyes. “Would you do that, Mike?”

He did, and once more the Reagan campaign couldn’t agree on how to proceed. Lyn Nofziger was apoplectic that Deaver had even left the possibility open. “What are we going to do? Debate him two days before the election? We can’t do it. Carter canceling the debate is the best thing that could’ve happened. We say we couldn’t fit it into the schedule — that we’ve already got the schedule booked — and we move on.”

Dick Wirthlin, believed they needed the debate to reset the narrative. “We’ll get more numbers today, but I suspect we’re going to be behind by at least 10 points. We need the debate to come back.”

“And what if he blows the whole thing?” Nofziger asked. “You remember how prep was going before. He couldn’t fill up time. Half of his answers said nothing. If we put him out there face-to-face with a guy who just got shot, there’s no way he can win.”

Stu Spencer wanted the debate. He’d been working with Reagan before the assassination attempt to get him ready, and he was convinced that Reagan would beat Carter’s stilted and academic responses. “Our guy’s the one people like.”

Deaver sided with Nofziger, and together they decided to go to the one person had the ultimate influence: Nancy.

“Mrs. Reagan,” Deaver said, “thank you for taking the time to talk with us. We wanted to bring you up to speed on the debate situation.”

“That’s right, Mrs. Reagan,” Nofziger continued. “I’m worried about whether or not the press will be able to judge the Governor fairly when he’s standing on stage with a man who just survived an assassination attempt. Fair or not, the Governor just won’t look presidential up against Carter.”

“And who knows if there’s another kook out there like this Hinckley fella who wants to get another shot at Carter. We should spend the rest of the campaign doing our own thing.”

The candidate’s wife bristled at the suggestion.

“I’ll talk about it with Ronnie,” she said, but before she did, she dialed the phone and called someone else.

“Joan.”

“Joan, it’s Nancy Reagan. How are you?”

“I’m doing well, Mrs. Reagan, how about yourself?”

“I’m worried sick. Ronnie’s team came to me and asked if we should reschedule the debate.”

“Oh dear,” Quigley said. “When would they want to do it?”

“Well, they didn’t say, but the president is in the hospital until the 17th, and then I would imagine his team would want a few days for preparation.”

Quigley’s silence sent a chill down Nancy’s spine. “Joan? Joan, are you there?”

Quigley clucked her tongue. “Mrs. Reagan, please listen to me very closely. Starting October 22nd, Mercury will enter retrograde. Do you understand what that means?”

Nancy pulled the phone close to her. “No.”

“Mercury is the God of Communication. When the planet is in retrograde it is rotating in the opposite direction and much can go amiss. I would not advise your husband to appear on national television for a debate during that time. His message will be misunderstood.”

Nancy’s chest tightened at the thought of a rescheduled debate costing Ronnie the presidency. “Thank you, Joan. Thank you very much.”

After she hung up the phone, she went straight to her husband and told him in no uncertain terms that debating the president closer to the election was out of the question. It was too risky, she said, and there won’t be enough time to recover if things go wrong. The candidate pushed back, believing he could best Carter in a debate, but Nancy was adamant and finally her Ronnie decided to trust her instinct. The word trickled down to Reagan’s staff: Do all that you can to stall. There will be no debate.


October 17, 1980
The White House — Washington, DC

Marine One descended onto the South Lawn of the White House, rustling the branches and conducting the blades of grace in a dance under the roar of the helicopter. Vice President Mondale and his wife, Joan, were waiting along with a number of staffers to welcome the president as he returned home from Walter Reed.

The entire campaign had been upended in the time since Carter left the White House for that event at the Grand Ole Opry. Hinckley’s bullet had turned a dead even race into Carter’s election to lose. The polling had been volatile for much of the campaign. At the end of his momentous summer, in which he’d brought the hostages home and celebrated at the Democratic Convention, Carter led Reagan by 21-points in the campaign’s internals. By the time he’d been struck by Hinckley’s bullet, that lead was down to just 5%. Now, Carter was back in the lead by 14-points. Caddell warned Carter and the team that the numbers were soft — they couldn’t count on winning by 14% on Election Day.

The president believed the surest way to put the election away was to take Reagan on face-to-face in a debate. He believed he was the smarter candidate, and so he had no hesitations about challenging Reagan on stage. Reagan’s team, however, was failing in their efforts to convince the candidate he needed to debate Carter. They knew the problem was Nancy Reagan. Someone had gotten to her, and she’d convinced the Republican nominee that he could never win a debate against a man who had just been shot at — no matter how charming he was. Nofziger and Deaver were relieved, but others on the campaign were infuriated by Reagan’s reticence.

Carter’s team was growing frustrated by their stalling, and the president had authorized them to start leaking details of Reagan’s stonewalling to the press. Now, every day, the first question Nofziger got asked was: “Is Ronald Reagan too afraid to debate the president?” Nofziger bristled at the question, saying that the Reagan team was doing everything it could to get the debate rescheduled.

Not so fast, said Jody Powell. “Let me be clear, in case there’s any doubt amongst the Reagan people: Jimmy Carter is ready to debate. He believes the American people deserve a debate. And he will meet Ronald Reagan wherever he needs to, whenever he needs to, to make sure the American people hear from both of them directly.”

The Reagan camp had no comment.

Now, as he walked out of Marine One carrying his own briefcase, Carter felt the wind at his back — literally the breeze of the helicopter, yes, but also the momentum of the campaign. Hinckley’s bullet had reset the narrative, just as Caddell said it would. Gone were stories about Carter’s meanness. Instead, the papers carried articles about young Amy, just shy of her thirteenth birthday, reading to her father at his bedside. Rosalynn Carter had appeared on the morning shows to assure Americans of her husband’s recovery.

“He’s very focused,” she told them. “He’s on the phone so often that his doctors are telling him he’s doing too much. He’s very involved in the day-to-day operation.”

Polling showed that 70% of Americans believed Carter was a strong leader — a number unfathomable to the Carter campaign just six months ago, but the successful negotiation of the hostages’ release and the survival of an assassination attempt had done a lot to change public perceptions of the 39th president. Only 42% of Americans believed Reagan had similar traits.

Carter knew the numbers would come back to Earth, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t feel good about them now.

He’d watched the floundering of the Reagan campaign from his hospital bed. Reagan took most of the days off from the campaign trail, returning only yesterday for the Al Smith Dinner, which Mondale attended in Carter’s place. Reagan had given a great performance and reminded the audience of his natural charisma. Mondale had held his own, getting in his jokes about the Republican nominee. The Reagan team cut many of the candidate’s references to Carter.

Carter and his team agreed to revert to a Rose Garden Strategy for the next week in an effort to show the president was recovered and capable of doing the day-to-day tasks required.

On Monday, there would be a cabinet meeting. On Tuesday, he had a bill signing and a news conference. On Wednesday, he was hosting a number of governors at the White House to discuss energy policy. On Thursday, the president was meeting with Ted Kennedy for a discussion about health care reform, and then they would fly to New York for a joint campaign appearance. Kennedy had initially been hesitant to do it, but after the assassination attempt he assumed Carter would be reelected, and he wanted to begin talks about health care in the second term.

Then, Carter would be back on the campaign trail and voters would see a new him. There would be no attacks on Reagan, no accusations of racism, no insinuations about his ability to do the job. There might be some needling about the lack of a debate, but Jimmy Carter was going to stay above the fray. They wouldn’t be calling him mean anymore, and if everything went according to plan they’d still be calling him “Mr. President” for the next four years.

>>>>>>>>>>

[1] The story of Carter’s success at Chalk River has sort of become an internet meme of late, but I relied on Jonathan Alter’s account of the story in His Very Best (84-86) for my summary here.

[2] Carter’s relationship with his father is a fascinating read. While I think most presidents have a sort of interesting relationship with their father, or the absence of their father, few have written so candidly about it. There are exceptions, of course. Barack Obama is one. Jimmy Carter is another. The anecdote about the splinter is a prominent part of Carter’s beautiful and instructive memoir of his youth, An Hour Before Daylight (80-82).

 

[Vidal]

CARTERLAND

“Jimmy Carter will never have a non turbulent year.’”
-Hamilton Jordan​

November 4, 1980
The White House — Washington, DC

On Election Day 1980, fewer than half of eligible voters went to cast a ballot. Inflation remained high — that was a new normal for most Americans — but the unemployment rate was hovering at 6% — another constant of the Carter economy. Tom Clausen, atop his perch at the Federal Reserve, was constantly thinking about what he might be able to do to bring inflation down, but he hesitated to make any major disruptions before the election. As such, the mediocre economy that had hovered over Ford continued to do the same for Carter.

In the final weeks, the Carter campaign continued to hammer the Reagan-Kemp ticket on its “magical economics,” as Fritz Mondale had taken to calling it. “Their plan ignores a fundamental principle of budgeting,” he’d say before deadpanning: “Arithmetic.” Carter was less flippant. In his mind, the Reagan economic plan would only hurl the nation deeper into an inflationary crisis, and Carter said so in every breath, reminding voters that he would balance the budget. Reagan promised them tax cuts.

Some voters, who waited until Election Day to make up their mind, did so without having ever really seen or heard from Ronald Reagan beyond the 30-second snippets and sound bites that appeared on the evening news. There’d been no national debate. In the final weeks of the campaign, Reagan would close his stump speech with a question, “Are you better off than you were four years ago?” It made a lot of people in the audience think, but few voters who actually went to the polls had heard the question. Instead, they were inclined to decide between the president they knew — an imperfect president but a good man who had tried hard and, through patience and a steady hand, brought the hostages home — and the Republican nominee — a former actor who Democrats said would drive up inflation and lacked the temperament to be president. Maybe if they’d seen more of Reagan, they’d have voted differently, but most of the respondents in exit polls who said they made their mind up on November 4th voted for Jimmy Carter to get a second term.

On the eve of the election, Carter fit in every last event he could before returning home to Georgia to vote. He went to Ohio, Missouri, Michigan, Oregon, Washington, and California. Stu Eizenstat, along for the ride, didn’t know what to make of the impending outcome. Carter was in good spirits and the energy at the rallies was euphoric. Surely, they’d win, right? But he also knew that Reagan had done a lot of groundwork to inspire the Religious Right. They could make the difference in a close election, he thought, and he worried that they’d pull through for the Gipper in the end.

Pat Caddell pulled Carter aside on Air Force one and gave him the last polling report: It was going to come down to the wire. “What’s the spread?” Carter asked.

“Right now,” Caddell said, “you’re up by four. You’ll win the popular vote,” he predicted, “but I’m not sure how it’s going to shake out in the Electoral College. We could be looking at a night like we had four years ago.” They all remembered the closeness of that race, but they also remembered how it ended.

“Well, I guess we better get some rest then!” Carter said. He went out and talked to the staff. “I want to thank all of you for everything you’ve done on this campaign,” he said. “We don’t know what tomorrow brings, but Scripture tells us that Joy cometh in the morning. So let’s get some rest.” They cheered him on and Eizenstat led them in a toast to the last four years.

• • •​

Ronald Reagan, following the orders of Nancy, had a lighter schedule on Election Eve. He woke up in Texas, where he did an afternoon rally, and then he flew home for another event in California. It carried all of the trappings of a victory event. The band played “California Here I Come,” and Jack Kemp had come along to join them before flying back to New York afterwards. Nancy could hardly look at Kemp, whom she believed would be the man most responsible if Ronnie came up short the next day. Reagan had come around to his running mate, and though it’d been a difficult campaign, he didn’t think Kemp did any worse than Bush might’ve.

The event looked like a victory rally, but it felt like something else. Like Carter’s team, the Reagan staff wasn’t confident in a prediction about how the next night would go. Dick Wirthlin told the group that he’d crunched the numbers and “there was a path.” That never sounded too sure. When Meese asked for it straight, Wirthlin said that Reagan would “probably lose the popular vote,” but he assured them that they had enough states in play that he might become the 40th president. It didn’t make any of them feel much better.

Reagan wasn’t sure what to make of the whole thing. He felt like he’d finally gotten Carter on the run, but then the assassination attempt had thrown it all out of whack. He couldn’t shake the feeling that God thought he shouldn’t be president. Why else had things fallen so perfectly into place for Jimmy Carter? Nancy reminded him that getting shot could hardly count as things falling perfectly into place, but Ronnie waved her off.

Nancy didn’t blame Hinckley. She blamed Jack Kemp. She blamed John Sears, who exited the campaign in a fitful rage that had shaken them after a New Hampshire win, and she blamed George Bush and John Connally who didn’t know when to quit. As far as she was concerned, voters were idiots if they chose Jimmy Carter over her husband. If they didn’t want him, fine — they’d be perfectly happy to go back home.

• • •​

Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter watched the returns with their children in the White House Residence. Supporters of the Carter-Mondale ticket gathered at the Sheraton down the street to welcome Carter in victory or defeat. Coverage of the results began around 6:30pm, and the networks announced that Reagan was likely to win Indiana. The Senate race there, between a young conservative Congressman named Dan Quayle and the state’s respected Senator Birch Bayh was too close to call. A few minutes later, Barbara Walters said that the Carter White House was “cautiously optimistic,” and that she’d heard from sources inside the Carter administration that Pat Caddell predicted a “narrow Carter victory.” Rosalynn looked over at Jimmy, who changed the channel to NBC.

The night was slow to start. Around 8:00pm, ABC called Massachusetts for Carter. ABC used red to denote states that went to Reagan and blue for states that went to Carter. NBC used the inverse color scheme, with red signifying Carter victories. CBS used the same color scheme that NBC did. It would take many cycles before all of the networks used the same universal color palette.

The coverage was devoid of much spin from either party, instead for CBS, Walter Cronkite worked methodically through the numbers — reporting on Senate races around the country (Chris Dodd was just elected over conservative James Buckley in Connecticut) and updating viewers on the electoral vote spread for the presidential candidates. On NBC, Tom Brokaw reported on exit polls, explaining that some 28,000 voters were interviewed. He also mentioned that most Americans said the assassination attempt on Jimmy Carter did not seriously factor into voters’ decision. The plurality of voters were making up their mind based on the economy, and nobody could agree on who was better to handle it. Middle class voters were split on who would be better while wealthier voters favored Reagan and poorer voters favored Carter. More educated voters sided with Carter. Less educated voters sided with Reagan. It was shaping up to be a close race, Brokaw said, though he noted Carter won decisively with those voters who thought foreign policy was the most important issue.

“What is clear from our exit polls is that the hostage crisis was a turning point for President Carter,” Brokaw explained. “Their safe and negotiated release altered the perceptions of Jimmy Carter. On Election Day, more voters thought Carter was a strong leader than thought Reagan was. Sometimes, that’s enough to win it for you.”

“We’ll see if that holds true for President Carter tonight,” David Brinkley replied.

The Reagans watched the returns from the Century Plaza Hotel in Los Angeles, and the ex-Governor was growing increasingly nervous about the results. While Nancy paced behind him, Ronnie sat with his eyes locked on the television screen. He assessed the map. The South was holding for Carter. Turnout from Falwell’s people must not have been as strong as they would have hoped. Carter had won his must-win states in the Northeast of New York, Massachusetts, Maine, and Vermont. Reagan’s path to the White House was narrowing.

Wirthlin had little to say that wasn’t being explained on television. Turnout was low across the board. Voters who decided in the last week broke for Carter. Maybe because he was the only one campaigning, he’d thought to himself with a quick glance at the candidate’s wife. By 10:00pm, Carter was sitting at 205 electoral votes and Reagan had 137. Two of his biggest electoral vote prizes — California (45) and Texas (26) — remained uncalled. He’d prevailed in Florida, but most of the states they’d hoped to take did not break his way. Pennsylvania for Carter. Michigan for Carter. Alabama, Arkansas, and Mississippi all for Carter.

When Reagan won Texas about twelve minutes later, cheers echoed through the halls. No Democrat had ever been elected President of the United States without winning Texas since it became a state in 1845. “We’ve got him!” Bill Casey exclaimed. Nancy Reagan was now more upbeat as well. She’d stopped her pacing and took a seat next to the candidate.

Next came Tennessee, and its 10 electoral votes, for Carter. The South had failed to deliver for Reagan. Nancy Reagan shook her head in disbelief. She also knew that Reagan still had a way to victory. California, and its 45 electoral votes, remained uncalled. North Carolina, Illinois, and Missouri were all too close to call. It would be close, but she was sure that Reagan could win.

The candidate was nervous, his leg bouncing gently up and down as he waited for answers from his team. More bad news came moments later when ABC and NBC called North Carolina and its 13 electoral votes for Carter. The president was now at 228. Nevada and its three went to Reagan.

Minnesota and Wisconsin pushed Carter to 249 electoral votes, but quickly a series of calls put Reagan in contention. First came Iowa (8), followed by Montana (4), Arizona (8), and California and its 45. If he could win Illinois, Missouri, and Alaska, Reagan would become the 40th President of the United States.

At the White House, Pat Caddell stood a few feet behind the Carters, hugging (and gnawing on) his notepad. He was confident about Illinois. Why were the networks taking so long to call it? If they just got it over with, the whole thing could be over. Stop taking so long. It’s over. We won. We did it. Carter glanced back at Caddell, trying to discern what he thought. It had been Caddell who inspired the Crisis of Confidence speech and put Carter on the path to his second term. Now, it was slipping through their fingertips.

Around 10:38pm, Frank Reynolds interrupted Barbara Walters to make an important call. ABC News projected that Jimmy Carter would win Illinois and its 26 electoral votes, giving the president 275 electoral votes and four more years as president. He would end the night with Missouri, Oregon, Washington, and Hawaii, too, putting him at 306 electoral votes. He’d beaten Reagan by a more comfortable margin than he had toppled Jerry Ford.

The president kissed his wife and hugged his children. He was eager to get to the Sheraton and address his supporters, but first, he needed a phone call. As they waited, he walked over to Caddell and put his arm around the wonder kid. “Good work,” he said to Caddell. “Thank you.”

He said the same to the other staff in the room who now cheered the victory. Jordan and Eizenstat. Powell and Rafshoon. Hertzberg and Matthews.

For four years, Jimmy Carter provided over one of the nation’s most precarious stretches in history. Americans waited in long lines to fill their cars. Cultural debates over gay rights and women’s liberation divided the nation along new lines. The Evangelical Christians who had helped Carter win over Ford in 1976 had conspired to bring about his downfall in 1980. He had done important work — historic work. The Camp David Accords. The Panama Canal Treaties. Deregulation of the airline industry. Established the Department of Energy. More women, more Black Americans, and more Hispanic Americans had been appointed judges than in all previous administrations combined. But those victories had faced setbacks — inflation, Americans taken hostage abroad. But Carter had risen to the moment. His patience and leadership had brought all of the hostages home safely, and in that feat, he’d earned the respect and admiration of the American public.

The economy remained precarious, but in the last three months of the campaign, Americans had come to trust Jimmy Carter. They’d celebrated with him when the hostages came home. They’d prayed for him while he went under the knife after a would-be assassin’s bullet pierced his chest. For all of his attacks on Reagan, the insinuation that Jimmy Carter was mean failed to stick. Jimmy Carter had been reelected.

It was impossible for Carter to not think of his father in this moment. His mother was there, and he was grateful to have her. But he thought of those morning horseback rides with his father — Earl the farmer. Earl the local politician. Well, now Earl Carter’s Hot just couldn’t help but think of what his dad would think of Jimmy the President.

On the other side of the country, a sullen Ronald Reagan asked for the phone. He was about to concede defeat. He hated it. The peace he’d experienced earlier in the evening gave way to disbelief and anger. John Sears’ initial strategy had done him in from the beginning. He had been too confident. If he had just wrapped the nomination up earlier, he would’ve been focused on Carter the whole time. Instead, he let it get away from him. He’d forgotten his Scripture. Pride goeth before the fall.

Meese handed him the phone, and he waited for Carter to be connected.

“Please hold for the president.” A final insult.

“Hello?” It was Jimmy Carter.

“Mr. President, let me be among the first to say congratulations on your victory tonight.”

“Thank you.”

“Nancy and I will be praying for you,” Reagan continued. It was awkward and infuriating, but he didn’t want Carter to be able to say that Reagan had called briefly and then hung up.

“Thank you.”

“Well, I’m going to head out and make my speech, and then I suppose you’ll be able to make yours. Congratulations again, Mr. President.”

“Thank you again for calling. Goodnight.”

When they hung up the phone, Reagan turned to the others in the room. “A prick right up until the end,” he said, and then he asked for his speech. “Let’s get this over with.”

He was greeted in the ballroom by chants of “We Want Reagan!” Nancy and the Reagan children stood behind him. Patti and Ron Jr. might’ve been the only ones in the room smiling. Their father put on his best face — he’d acted before — and plowed through the remarks quickly. He thanked his family and the voters, and he wished Carter the best of luck on his second term. And then, without much more pomp or circumstance, Ronald Reagan — thrice defeated in his efforts to attain the White House — walked off stage and out of the American political conversation. He’d risen to prominence sixteen years earlier in a speech for Barry Goldwater, another failed conservative candidate. Now, he had just finished his final speech as a politician.

• • •​

The energy in the Sheraton Hotel in Washington was much different. The Democrats broke into chants of “Four more years!” as Carter walked on stage. He looked out and saw only a sea of green “Carter-Mondale” placards.

“Thank you, everybody!” he began. “Thank you!”

“A short while ago, Governor Reagan called me and conceded —” The crowd interrupted him with their applause and Carter couldn’t help but smile. It felt good to say the words.

“— and I thanked him for his grace, and now I join all of you in looking forward, eyes bright with the possibility that these next four years represent.

“Four years ago, I promised you a government as good as its people. We delivered, and we will continue to deliver for the next four years.”

The president rattled off a list of accomplishments and then echoed his address to the National Convention.

“The responsibility ahead of us is great. Children born this year will come of age in the 21st century, and the time to shape the world of the next millennium is now. Over the next four years, we will chart a course for this nation. We can move in the direction of peace. We can move in the direction of a balanced budget, of a responsible government. We can move in the direction of caring for the environment.

“Ultimately, we are called upon to offer a future of justice — good jobs, decent healthcare, a quality public education, and the full and equal opportunity for all people regardless of their color, their language, or their religion. We are called upon to deliver that just future for all people — men and women, rich and poor, young and old.

“That is our task. That is our responsibility. With your help, and with God’s blessing, we will meet this task. Thank you, goodnight, and God bless America.” [1]


November 6, 1980
The White House — Washington, DC

Cy Vance stood near his chair talking with Harold Brown.

“All in all, a fair night for the Party,” Vance remarked. Brown nodded in agreement. “It was nice to see Holtzman pull through in New York, though it was a bit closer than I would’ve liked.”

Brown agreed but noted Javits’ third party presence.

The two men were among the most prominent members of Carter’s cabinet. It had been Vance’s adamance about finding an alternative solution to the proposed military rescue that had compelled the president to mine the harbors of the Iranian ports, giving the State Department the leverage needed to bring the hostages home. Brown as an able colleague. They did not engage in the almost ritualistic rivalry between the State and Defense Departments. Brown was a proponent of the Camp David Accords and the SALT II treaty. He believed in leading with the power of diplomacy. He was not, as some of his predecessors had been, the Secretary of War. He was the Secretary of Defense — nothing in his title conveyed a calling for pre-emptive or adversarial conflicts.

The door across from them swung open and they hastened to find their seats as President Carter, followed by Ham Jordan, Stu Eizenstat, Alonzo McDonald, and Jody Powell, entered the room. “Take your seats,” he said hurriedly.

“Well,” he said, looking around the room, “we have four more years. Thank you for your service to our nation. I would like if you would all prepare a memorandum on priorities for your Department in the second term and for you all to prepare a letter of resignation so that we may consider the make-up of the cabinet.”

The secretaries looked around the room nervously. Is he firing all of us?

“I do not intend to accept each resignation, but I would like the ability for us to speak honestly about the priorities that this administration should make for the next four years. It is important for us to be united in our pursuits. Any questions?”

Nobody had a single one.

“Very well, let’s get on with the meeting.”

It was the very action Carter and his men had considered in the wake of the Crisis of Confidence speech, but now Carter felt compelled to clean house. He’d won his last election. It was time to surround himself with the right people. The staff debated whether or not it would worry voters, but Carter was uninterested. “I don’t have to worry about that anymore,” he reminded Powell. “It’ll send the message we’re starting fresh, and that’s exactly what I want to do.”

Carter went on to accept several of the resignations. The first, and initially the most prominent, was Attorney General Ben Civiletti. There was no real ire between Carter and Civiletti, but Republicans had started to make a habit of questioning his actions as Attorney General, and the Billygate scandal had left the president desiring a more friendly person in the role. Carter also hoped that the Justice Department might lead the way in a new approach to federal drug policy, and Civiletti, as an institutionalist at Justice, was not well-suited for the task.

Despite some political pressure, Carter was adamant that Cecil Andrus stay in his role as Secretary of the Interior. It was important to Carter that he have a friend and able leader at the department as he pursued an expansive and rigorous environmental protection agenda. Andrus antagonized Republicans, particularly Ted Stevens, for his emphasis on preserving Alaska’s natural resources. Carter paid it no worry.

The president then replaced two more cabinet Secretaries. The first was Ray Marshall as Secretary of Labor. Marshall expressed a desire to return home to Texas and resume teaching, and the Carter administration, which felt a continuous strain with the labor movement, complied. Carter and his team considered a number of people, but ultimately the president decided to ask back Juanita Kreps, whom he had considered for the Federal Reserve appointment. Kreps obliged, and was unanimously confirmed by the Senate.

The other came as a surprise to the administration. Secretary of State Cyrus Vance, exhausted from the first four years in office, told the president that he hoped to leave his post. He tried to avoid sharing his ideological concerns, but Carter compelled him to share them. The way Vance saw it, Carter was becoming increasingly beholden to the Brzezinski worldview. Carter pushed back, and told Vance that if he had concerns about Carter’s foreign policy he should remain in the cabinet. Vance insisted he was tired and wanted to leave the scene.

Carter considered a number of potential replacements, including Zbigniew Brzezinski himself, but he ultimately named Warren Christopher to the post.

Perhaps the most consequential decisions concerned the White House staff. During the campaign, Jack Watson, who previously headed Carter’s transition team, stepped in to replace Jordan as Chief of Staff. Eizenstat and others on the staff voiced their support for keeping Watson in the role, and the president himself noticed that his office ran much smoother with Watson at the helm. There were internal politics to consider, however, and while Carter may have been fond ignoring the external pressures from time to time, he could not escape the own internal conflicts within his White House.

Since the transition, Ham Jordan and Jack Watson had not gotten along. While Jordan and the campaign team sewed up a Carter victory (though some may have privately questioned if they shouldn’t have cobbled together a more divisive win), Watson was tasked with organizing the planning process for the first term, and he eventually headed Carter’s presidential transition. Jordan believed Watson’s policy recommendations were divorced from the political realities of the country and the campaign in which Carter had just participated.

Keeping Watson as Chief of Staff would mean inevitable turmoil and turf wars between him and Jordan. Carter did not feel he had any other choice, however. The legislative operation worked better under Watson, something even Jordan admitted. Jordan himself had no particular desire to return to the Chief of Staff job, and so Watson stayed on in that tile and Jordan became Counselor to the President, and he’d report directly to Carter.

Watson was not pleased with the set-up, but he also knew there was no way he could devise a structure in which Jordan reported directly to him instead of Carter — both because Jordan would never agree and because Carter’s preferred style was to hear directly from various advisors, even moreso when they contradicted one another.

Coming off the excitement of the campaign, most of the White House staff — and nearly all of Carter’s inner circle — was willing to stay on in their roles. Rafhsoon stayed as Communications Director, Powell stayed as Press Secretary, Stu Eizenstat remained the guy for domestic policy, and Hertzberg decided to remain as the head of the speechwriting team. William Simpson, a Deputy Chief of staff, left to become a lobbyist, and Carter replaced him by promoting Anne Wexler, who previously served as the Director of the Office of Public Liaison.


November 22, 1980
Moral Majority Offices — Lynchburg, VA

Pat Robertson had been duped. Back in ’76, when it was Carter and Ford and Reagan had been relegated to the sidelines because he threw away his conservative base in a ridiculous effort to appease the Establishment (as if they’d ever be with him), Robertson had been so discouraged, so disheartened by the lies of Watergate that he backed Jimmy Carter. The Peanut Farmer was a born-again Christian with a holy roller sister. Then Playboy happened.

Not a voter in America didn’t remember the Playboy article. The stupidest October Surprise American politics had ever known — and would ever know. History’s greatest unforced error. It had halted the Carter momentum overnight, and it nearly cost him the presidency. He’d been asked if he ever committed adultery, and Carter gave in to his predisposition towards honesty (and oversharing) and told the truth: He’d not slept with another woman, no, but he’d seen other women before and looked at them with lust. And Jimmy Carter looked right in the interviewer’s eyes and he told him he’d “committed adultery in my heart many times.”

It was weird. Nobody wanted to imagine their president as a sexual being. Well, maybe some thought of Kennedy that way, but not Robertson. Robertson didn’t want to think of his president as a sexual being. But he had to give it to Carter. The man had been honest. Robertson had fallen so heavily for Nixon’s promise to follow God — and been so betrayed when Nixon had listened to the darker spirits in his conscience — that he just had to sit back and appreciate Jimmy’s honesty.

He knew Jimmy sounded soft on the homosexuals. Maybe even winked at them a little. Not in That Way but, in that way — the kind of way you needed if you were going to get their votes and become President of the United States. How else are you going you to carry San Francisco if you didn’t have homosexuals on your side? It’s not like Jimmy Carter was going to get elected and then support homosexuals. Hire ‘em. Say they had rights. Anything like that. Not Jimmy Carter, Robertson believed. No. He was a born-again. And born-agains didn’t think that way.

By 1980, Pat Robertson knew he’d been wrong about Jimmy Carter — wrong about nearly all of it. Wrong about supporting homosexuals, yes, but that wasn’t really what it was for Robertson. Or for Falwell. Or Weyrich. Or any of the organizers on the Religious Right (which was very nearly the Religious Left). No, it wasn’t even the homosexual thing for Robertson or the others. It was the School Thing.

When Jimmy Carter got elected he said that their schools — their religious schools — shouldn’t be tax exempt. Well, that was a problem for a few reasons. First, their schools couldn’t afford to not be tax exempt. That tax exemption kept their doors open, kept the lights on. Second, if those schools closed, well — well, Hell, little white boys and little white girls would be in the same classrooms as little Black boys and little Black girls — might even join hands with little Black boys and little Black girls. And that was a bridge too far. Jimmy Carter had betrayed them — and he’d duped Pat Robertson.

And that’s why Pat Robertson wasn’t invited to Lynchburg, Virginia, where Jerry Falwell convened the leaders of the Moral Majority after the disastrous 1980 election. Jerry Falwell was never duped. Jerry Falwell had never fallen for Carter’s born-again-bullshit. As far as he was concerned, Jerry Falwell was right all along. Except — and this was the reason for the meeting — when it came to Ronald Reagan.

Pat Robertson had been with John Connally during the primary campaign. He’d learned his lesson from 1976. He wasn’t going to fall for another true believer. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me — fool me, well, you can’t let yourself get fooled again. Whatever the Heck it was. And that’s why — while Falwell and even Pat’s good friend Paul Weyrich who’d been with Carter right alongside him held out for Reagan, Pat Robertson went with John Connally: The Man Who Would Owe Them. The man who wanted the power so desperately — and wanted so desperately to keep it — that he’d never turn on the people who brought him to the dance. Pat Robertson had looked deep into Connally’s soul during the primary campaign, and he saw the most desperate, most needy, most power-hungry politician he’d seen since Richard Nixon. And he knew that was the kind of guy they had to elect. Someone who would owe them.

And that was why Pat Robertson wasn’t at the meeting.

Jerry Falwell and Paul Weyrich got the Moral Majority together to debrief what had happened in the last election. How had it all gone so wrong? How did the country choose four more years of Jimmy Carter?

A certain shorthand developed among those who didn’t want to admit that the distrust of Reagan’s foreign policy or the questions over his tax plan or the framing of him as a right-wing zealot had cost the Republicans the election. “John Hinckley.” It was easy enough. Carter had won a close race. Hinckley’s bullet had to be worth a point-or-two in those close states. States like Illinois. But Hinckley’s bullet wasn’t a good enough explanation for Jerry Fawell.

The way Falwell saw it, the election should never have been close enough for a bullet to swing it, and even if somehow it were that close, it should’ve been the numbers of the Moral Majority that swung it, not some deranged would-be assassin’s bullet. So Falwell wanted to know: What went wrong?

Lou Harris had come by to break down the numbers for the Moral Majority. In another universe, Lou Harris might have been on track to become a household name, or at the very least a well-paid DC consultant, while Pat Caddell was out on his ass searching to redeem himself, scouring every corner for a new candidate to whom he could sell his Message of Malaise. But now that the votes had been counted, Pat Caddell was going back to work for the President of the United States, and Lou Harris was wondering how he’d been so wrong. How he’d assured Falwell, Weyrich, and even Stu Spencer that Ronald Reagan was on track for a big win.

“In 1976,” Harris began his presentation, “2/3rds of the Evangelical vote went to Jimmy Carter.” He continued, “In 1980, Reagan won 54% of these voters. By any measure, that should have been enough for him to win the White House. So what happened?”

Falwell didn’t need to hear the next sentence. He could do the math. He understood the politics. If there was that dramatic of a swing from Carter-to-Reagan among Evangelical voters, it could only mean one thing: Evangelical voters didn’t vote.

“Evangelical voters didn’t vote,” Harris confirmed. “Turnout among Evangelical voters took a dramatic decline compared to 1976. So let’s look at why that is.

“Since the election — and I admit I haven’t had that long — I’ve conducted focus groups in three states Reagan hoped to flip from Carter-to-Reagan: Arkansas, South Carolina, and Mississippi. I’ll tell you right now, Arkansas is a bit of an outlier case. The Cuban refugees there, the governor’s increases in car fees, and the negative reception of the governor’s wife played an unusually large role in the way Arkansans looked at their ballot. Carter won, but not by as much as he should have, and Clinton, the governor, still lost by some 3,500 votes. So let’s look at the responses from South Carolina and Mississippi.”

Some were starting to nod off, but Falwell and Weyrich were focused. They had four years to figure it out and try again. And they couldn’t afford to be wrong in ’84.

“In both states, I did a focus group with Evangelical voters and with Evangelical non-voters. The non-voters participated in the 1976 election, and many of them voted for Carter, but they sat out in the 1980 election. Does anyone want to guess why?”

If you say Jack Kemp—

Before anyone could raise a hand or verbally respond, Harris plowed through to the next page on the easel: “Jack Kemp. Evangelical voters didn’t trust him. They — well, they thought he engaged in homosexual activities back when he worked for Reagan.”

“They all stayed home because they thought Jack Kemp was a homosexual?”

“A lot of them did, yes,” Harris answered. “But there was another issue, too. A lot of these voters didn’t know what to make of the teachers controversy.”

This was what Falwell wanted to hear. He needed this in writing — needed to go back to Stu Spencer and all the rest of them and show them the raw data — that Reagan should’ve just come out and said he didn’t want homosexuals sitting in the same classroom as little boys. That’s all he had to do. Kemp had teed him up for it — Falwell couldn’t be bothered to think of the appropriate football analogy — and yet, Reagan avoided it. Tied himself in knots.

“These are voters who feel that Washington isn’t listening to them. A lot of them voted for Jimmy Carter and then watched him defund their children’s schools, stick up for abortionists and the homosexuals. And then they believed in Reagan. And then Reagan seemed to be faking them out, too — promising them he wasn’t Carter but also not going far enough on the homosexual teacher issue.

“These voters want to be heard. They want to be taken seriously. And they feel like no political party is speaking to them. And when they saw Reagan saying whatever he needed to say to disassociate himself from them, they got scared. And when they got scared…”

They stayed home.

“They stayed home.”

It was exactly like Falwell had said — yelled. You had to give these people a reason to show up. He’d told them. He’d said it. It’s bad enough they think Jack Kemp switches from a quarterback to a wide receiver on Saturday nights, but damnit, Stu, the guy’s given you the chance to come back and give these people a reason to vote for Reagan. But Stu kept talking about the “swing voters” — whoever the fuck they were — and he’d ignored the reality. Elections were about turnout. People who liked you voted, or they didn’t. And we didn’t vote.

Well, 1984 wasn’t that far away, and Jerry Falwell didn’t plan to make the same mistake twice.


December 8, 1980
The Dakota — New York, NY

John Lennon lay naked on the floor, in the fetal position, his left leg draped over Yoko Ono, his left arm cradling her head. Annie Leibovitz captured the moment that afternoon for the cover of Rolling Stone. It felt like any other day. When the shoot was done, Leibovitz left, and Lennon settled in for an interview with DJ Dave Sholin and Laurie Kaye that would be broadcast by RKO Radio Network.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Lennon began. He was smiling, making jokes and putting everyone in the room at ease.

He talked about the strain of being in The Beatles. “Paul and I turned out a lot of songs in those days,” he said. One could hear how laborious the life had become for him in his voice. The process — the creation of art — had become rote, Lennon explained, “and I felt like I’d lost myself.” He kept going: “It took something away from what I wanted to do.”

The interview lasted nearly two hours. At one point, Lennon reflected on life itself. “We’re either going to live, or we’re going to die. I consider that my work won’t be finished until I’m dead and buried — and I hope that’s a long time.”

Then, John and Yoko made their way down the elevator and left for The Record Factory to record ‘Walking on Thin Ice.’ On their way out of The Dakota, Mark David Chapman, a longtime fan of The Beatles, asked Lennon for his autograph. The singer obliged, signing a copy of Double Fantasy. He gave it back to Chapman who smiled at him, saying his thanks.

Chapman walked around the corner and took a seat on the sidewalk, where he opened his dog-eared copy of The Catcher in the Rye and began to read.

The tone of the American classic resonated with Chapman. Caulfield was his muse. Jaded. Angry at the world. Misunderstood. Chapman felt it all as he read through the pages, taking a bite from his apple after every few turns. Until he was interrupted.

Down the street walked an unsuspecting couple. The man failed to see Chapman, sitting with his legs crossed on the ground, and tripped over him. He dropped his coffee, spilling it all over Chapman and his copy of Salinger. Immediately, Chapman let out an aggravated yell and jumped to his feet, screaming at the man before chasing after him.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!” He yelled until he caught up to the man, whom he shoved to the ground and began punching in the face. He only landed two or three punches before someone nearby pulled him off, and Chapman sat for several minutes until the sound of the sirens grew from a dull echo to a piercing screech.

A few days later, he agreed to plea guilty to simple assault. He’d spend a year-and-a-half in prison. Back at The Dakota, a .38 special revolver sat abandoned on the sidewalk until a dishonest New Yorker happened upon it and decided to pocket it. That night, John and Yoko returned home to their apartment — unaware of the ending they had escaped.


December 10, 1980
The White House — Washington, DC

Bill Clinton paced outside the Oval Office waiting for his meeting with the president. He had something important to tell Jimmy Carter. He’d thought about it, and he wanted to be the next Chairman of the Democratic National Committee. He was sure it was the right move for him politically.

Despite the fact that Jimmy Carter carried Arkansas over Ronald Reagan, Bill Clinton still went down to a close defeat. Carter’s resettlement of Cuban refugees in Arkansas hurt him as well as Clinton, but Clinton had other issues weighing him down. He’d increased the car tags fee in the state, which amounted to a tax hike for most Arkansans. He’d wrapped the proposal in clear reasoning: Every dollar would go into road repair. Didn’t matter. Voters didn’t want to pay more for their car tags.

There was also Hillary. Hillary. He loved his wife. He’d known all along that she was the only woman for him. She was brilliant and charming. She was driven, like he was. She was ready to go where he led. Few women would have been. Together, they saw their future. He’d always wanted her to maintain her independence. He’d never thought his ambition to become President of the United States — to sit in the office just on the other side of this door — should interfere with her own career — to practice law, or to keep her maiden name. But Arkansans didn’t agree. They couldn’t trust a woman who spent so much time talking about education policy. She was supposed to be the governor’s wife, not the governor. And why didn’t she have the same name, they’d wondered. Couldn’t trust her. Didn’t trust her.

So, for his own reasons, Bill Clinton lost on Election Night 1980. But he was still going to become president. And it would happen after he became DNC Chairman.

He couldn’t deny he blamed Carter some for his loss. The Cuban issue had hurt him. Hurt him bad. Without it, he probably could’ve still won. But Carter had proven that winning was possible even with that albatross around his neck. So, really, there was only so much blame Clinton could offload from his shoulders and place on Carter’s.

The president welcomed him in with a smile. He was sad when he learned Clinton’s loss. He prayed for his victory all through the recount, but it didn’t come. Bill Clinton. Defeated. Carter thought about their time at Camp David. Some of Clinton’s insights during that sojourn to the mountaintop had been the most insightful. Clinton was bright. He had a future, and that’s what Carter wanted to talk to him about. He knew what Clinton was going to ask, but Carter was going to say no. The president had something else in mind for Clinton.

“Mr. President, thank you for making time for me,” Clinton said.

“Of course. Sit down. I’m sorry about the results,” Carter said. Left unsaid went whether or not Carter’s actions had contributed to the defeat. As far as the president was concerned, he’d carried Arkansas. If he won and Clinton lost, well — that was on Clinton.

“Thank you, I appreciate that.”

Carter asked about Hillary and Chelsea, and Clinton asked about Rosalynn and Amy. And then they got down to business.

“Mr. President, I’ve done a lot of thinking, and I am considering throwing my hat into the ring for DNC Chairman. I was hoping you might consider supporting me.”

Carter nodded. “Have you considered what this means for your own electoral future? You wouldn’t be able to run for governor in 1982, probably not in 1984 either.”

Clinton said he had, and he thought he had a lot to offer the party as Chairman.

“Bill, I’ll be honest,” he said. “I’m leaning towards asking the party to make Moon Landrieu the Chairman.”

Sonofabitch.

“I haven’t made up my mind entirely yet, but that’s where I’m leaning.” He leaned back in his chair and let it sit for just a moment before continuing. “Bill, what do you think about being my Attorney General?”

That threw Bill Clinton for a loop. It was a big job. Head of the Justice Department. Top lawyer. That was a big role indeed. One might even call it a stepping stone. It came with a lot of earned media — the kind money couldn’t buy, or, if it could, was too expensive to buy. It meant being in cabinet meetings and supervising the nation’s law enforcement. It guaranteed a national profile. It set him up to be on the ticket in ’84 with Mondale. Hell, Clinton thought, I could even run in ’84 myself if I wanted. And if ’84 didn’t work out, he’d be able to run for Senate if Bumpers retired or go back to Arkansas and be governor.

It came with disadvantages, though. He’d be beholden to Carter, but in other ways the Attorney General was the most independent member of the cabinet. He needed time to think. And to talk. Talk with Hillary. He needed to know what Hillary thought about it all. And that’s what he told the president.

Carter understood, and asked Clinton to get back to him after a day or two.

So, Clinton called Hillary right away. “Hillary,” he said, “listen to this: He asked me to be Attorney General.”

Hillary couldn’t believe it. Here it was, a path back for him and a path out of Washington for her. But she stopped herself. Is this what’s best? Does this get us closer to the White House?

She thought about it some more. Sometimes Attorneys General had to handle dicey issues. But look at Elliot Richardson — he’d been considered for Vice President three times after taking the AG job. If he’d wanted it bad enough — wanted it like Bill wanted it, he could’ve gotten it. She started running through names. She would need to look it up. How many Attorneys General went on to become president? The answer was zero, but she wasn’t sure at the time. One almost did, she knew that. Robert Kennedy. RFK. Brother of the man who furthered her husband’s own feelings about reaching the presidency.

They talked it over some more. It was a risky decision, but what were his options? Carter wanted Landrieu at the DNC. Voters were made at him — they’d just sent him packing. Why would they be over it in just two years? Then there was Anne Wexler, their former mentor on the McGovern campaign, at the helm of the White House Staff. The second term would be smoother than the first. They could move to DC — Hillary could get out of Arkansas — and Bill would have a platform to become a household name.

And so Bill Clinton said yes and became Jimmy Carter’s third Attorney General. Moon Landrieu became the Chairman of the Democratic National Committee, and that was where Clinton made his first move to become less like a traditional Attorney General and more like Robert Kennedy had been — the man in the room, the confidant, and — one day — the natural successor.

Carter was considering Dianne Feinstein, the Mayor of San Francisco, to replace Landrieu at HUD, but Clinton said he had another idea. He had a friend (a best friend, really). Vernon Jordan. Jordan was the CEO of the Urban League. He could join the cabinet, too, at HUD. Carter knew Jordan well. When Jordan was shot in Indiana, the president was right there to visit him. It was the first story CNN had covered. He loved Jordan. Smart man, Carter thought. And so he asked Clinton if the Attorney General in waiting wouldn’t mind reaching out and seeing if Jordan would be interested.

Jordan could’ve said no and made a lot more money, but Clinton said he wanted a friend in the cabinet room with him. Told Jordan he could make more of a difference there than he could in the private sector. Jordan needed to make a living, he said, but Clinton waved that off. “Think about how much you’ll make after you’ve been a cabinet secretary,” he told Jordan. And Jordan said yes. It was true. He could make a difference here. Bill was right about that.

And that’s when Jimmy Carter knew he’d made a good pick. He hadn’t just chosen an Attorney General, he’d chosen a closer.


January 20, 1981
The Capitol Building — Washington, DC

Sometimes he would let them morph into a blur, but he tried not to. He tried to look out and see the faces. See the people. The eyes gleaming with excitement. The noses reddening in the cold air. The lips spread open to cheer — or jeer. Sometimes they jeered. Jimmy Carter was blessed to be president, and he couldn’t wait to walk from the Capitol Building to the White House, just like they did the first time. How could he go back and ride in the limousine after that? It would send the wrong message. It would say Washington had changed him. Tip O’Neill knew the truth. Ted Kennedy knew the truth. Washington hadn’t changed him. It pained him to think he hadn’t yet changed Washington, but when he left in four years, that’s what they’d be saying. That Jimmy Carter had changed Washington.

He remembered that first walk. And he laughed.

“What is it?” Rosalynn asked.

“I was just remembering when we did this four years ago. What Mama said to Jody.”

Rosie laughed, too. She remembered. Her laugh was a bit of a giggle — like a shy school girl. She was making a mighty difference as First Lady, but she was quiet and reserved. This wasn’t the life she’d have chosen for them. She’d never imagined it.

“You remember?” Jimmy asked.

“Oh, yes,” Rosie said.

Jimmy kept going, as if Rosie hadn’t just told him she remembered the story he was about to tell. Using the voice he used when he quoted Miss Lillian, he repeated her words from four years ago, “‘Jody, you can go to hell. You might tell Jimmy what to do, but not the rest of us.’” Jody had just asked the family not to speak to the reporters as they arrived at the White House. Carter had been president for less than half-a-day. They’d only just finished the Inaugural Parade.

But Miss Lillian didn’t care much for Jody Powell’s advice, and she walked right up to the reporters and the cameras pointed her way.

“Miss Lillian,” one of the reporters started, “aren’t you proud of your son?”

She looked back and asked, “Which one?”

Oh, Jimmy and Rosie laughed about that, and he squeezed her hand just a bit tighter. Four more years. He took a break from gazing out the window and looked down at the blue folder on his lap. It was emblazoned with the Presidential Seal, and it held The Speech.

Jimmy Carter had rejected a variety of drafts of his Inaugural address. Some were too braggadocios about his first four years. Some focused too little on his early successes. Some lacked a coherent theme while others were too fluffy. One section, written by Chris Matthews, dwelled too much on the domestic. An early Hertzberg draft was weighed down by foreign affairs. Frustrations were reaching a crescendo when Hendrik “Rick” Hertzberg, the chief speechwriter, scheduled a sit-down with the president to figure out what exactly he wanted to say.

“I think your second term deserves a thematic focus,” he explained. “I’ve hinted at this in your convention speech and in your Election Night remarks, but I would like you to take a look again at the Global 2000 study from July. If you could just read it over again, I think you’ll find that it raises the stakes of your second term, and it can really center your domestic and foreign policies around a singular goal.”

Carter agreed to review it, and about a week before the Inauguration he found himself convinced of the path for the Inaugural address and the second term. It was like he’d read the Caddell memo all over again. Here it was, in black-and-white: The challenges facing the nation. He wanted to be forward-thinking, a visionary. There was also a follow-up report specifically on environmental quality that Carter devoured that night as well. It was nine o’clock in the evening when he called Hertzberg back to the White House to work on the address.

As far as the president was concerned, these issues were all related. The concern for the environment required a more sustainable energy policy, which promised innovation that could spur the economy. A healthier planet would require nations to work together, through diplomacy instead of in conflict, and reducer the risk of nuclear war. It was implied that Carter’s North Star would be, as always, a respect for human rights at home and around the globe. Heltzberg was thrilled that the president saw the same opportunity that he had.

If the Carter presidency is a tale of two speeches, it is this: The Crisis of Confidence speech, which set Carter on the course to win reelection, diagnosed the problem. His 1981 Inaugural address would try and provide the antidote.

Heltzberg called Matthews, Achsah Nesmith, and Gordon Stewart in to help with writing the draft. They took notes as the president riffed his ideas about human rights and nuclear disarmament.

It was Matthews who spoke up and offered a healthy dose of reality. “What about Congress?”

Carter paused, waiting for Matthews to say more.

“I just mean, Mr. President, where is the part of this speech that brings them into this? We just came through a contested election, the Democratic majorities are smaller, and you’ll need Republicans and Democrats on board with this agenda. We saw the far-right factions take over the Republican Party. You defeated the most extreme nominee since Barry Goldwater. I think you should talk about that — help us move on from it and reset the political narrative.”

The president thought about it before agreeing with Matthews. “We have this problem in both parties,” he said. “If I’m going to get my agenda passed, I can’t have any Congressional leaders focused on special interests or single-issue groups. We rejected them in November, and we should come together and get the job done now.” Matthews nodded as he rewrote the president’s sentiment.

The next few days, Carter and the speechwriters spent hours together perfecting every line. The president practiced the speech for hours, perfecting his cadence and delivery. He hadn’t practiced a speech since the Crisis of Confidence address.

In some ways, it was a fitting speech for the moment. For the first time, the Inauguration would take place on the West side of the Capitol Building, overlooking the expansive National Mall. The Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial would sit in the president’s line of vision as he looked out onto the crowd of Americans and the television cameras and spoke of the Year 2000 and the future that they could create.

Carter gently reached to hold Rosalynn’s hand as the limousine neared the Capitol Building. They looked into each other’s eyes and once more, at least subconsciously, the thoughts of their winding path hear flashed through their minds. Carter had first seen Rosalynn when she was a newborn in a crib. They’d moved around the country so Carter could pursue his Naval career and then back to Plains, in a decision that had nearly broken their marriage. Now, for the next four years, they would be in the most famous home in America.

“Let’s pray,” Carter said, almost in a whisper. Together, they closed their eyes and bowed their heads. God, give Rosalynn and me the strength to do your work here on Earth, the strength to bear that which you put on our shoulders. Help our country find our way and give our people the tools to preserve our planet, protect our children, and spread peace to every inch of our world. Amen.

A Secret Service agent opened the car door a moment later, and the president and his wife entered the Capitol Building. It was time for Jimmy Carter to once again take the Oath of Office.

The festivities included the typical parade of Congressional leaders — Byrd and Cranston, Baker and Stevens, O’Neill and Wright, Michel and Lott, the newest member who had chaired Reagan’s Mississippi campaign and was at least partly to blame for the State Fair speech where Reagan preached a return of states’ rights. There was no stream of former presidents as just one was in attendance: Gerald Ford. He and Betty took seats near the front. Notably absent was Ronald Reagan, who was watching on television from Rancho del Cielo.

All the attendees rose for the President of the United States as he walked joyously onto the reviewing stand. The sight before him was magnificent to behold. The sun peaked through the clouds providing a fair amount of warmth to the day. He could not help but be proud of the fact he had four more years to steer the ship of state.

At noon, Chief Justice Warren Burger, whom Carter hoped he might have the chance to replace on the Bench, summoned the president and Mrs. Carter for the swearing-in, and once again the president recited the Oath of Office: I, James Earl Carter, Jr, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States. So help me God.

Cheers rang out from the thousands gathered on the National Mall and the hundreds behind him. Carter smiled, waiting patiently for his chance to address the nation.

“My fellow Americans:

“I want to thank you once again for the honor of serving as your president. These may be uncertain times, but they are times for hope and of opportunity.

“Four years ago, when we last gathered here for this important ceremony, we knew we would face great challenges together. Today, once more, we know that future problems will also be difficult. But I’m now more convinced than ever that the United States, better than any other country, can meet successfully whatever the future might bring. These last four years have made me more certain than ever of the inner strength of our country, the unchanging value of our principles and ideals, the stability of our political system, the ingenuity and the decency of our people.”

There was light applause, and Carter turned now to the point he and Matthews had discussed — about the current state of political affairs in the nation. “I recognize that today, as people have become ever more doubtful fo the ability of the Government to deal with our problems, we are increasingly drawn to single-issue groups and special interest organizations to ensure that whatever else happens, our own personal views and our own private interests are protected. This is a disturbing factor in American political life, and it is up to each and every one of us to ensure that we do not retreat to our factions. This trend distorts our purpose, because the national interest is not always the sum of all our single or special interests. We are all Americans together, and we must not forget that the common good is our common interest and our individual responsibility.

“And for those on this podium with me today, I encourage you to look carefully at the verdict the American people have just imparted. The American people have asked us to focus not on the extremes but on where we can find common ground. That is where most Americans are.

“No politician today should feel bound to the singular interests of one particularly loud group. Those special interests have proven that they are not as powerful as they purport to be. Instead, we should all be focused on the problems ahead of us, and we should work together to meet those challenges. We can only do that in a spirit of cooperation.” The president smiled as those around him rose to deliver a standing ovation. He nodded in appreciation.

“I read a report recently,” the president continued in his folksy manner, “about what the world will be like in 2000 if we continue on our present course. It occurred to me then that our country must do all we can to ensure that when we enter the new millennium, we do so knowing we have done all we can to preserve our planet and keep our children and our peers safe from nuclear war and violations of human rights.”

He laid out his thoughts on nuclear disarmament before turning to the environment.

“Another major challenge, therefore, is to protect the quality of this world within which we live. The shadows that fall across the future are cast not only by the kinds of weapons we've built, but by the kind of world we will either nourish or neglect. There are real and growing dangers to our simple and our most precious possessions: the air we breathe, the water we drink, and the land which sustains us. The rapid depletion of irreplaceable minerals, the erosion of topsoil, the destruction of beauty, the blight of pollution, the demands of increasing billions of people, all combine to create problems which are easy to observe and predict, but difficult to resolve. If we do not act, the world of the year 2000 will be much less able to sustain life than it is now.

“But there is no reason for despair. Acknowledging the physical realities of our planet does not mean a dismal future of endless sacrifice. In fact, acknowledging these realities is the first step in dealing with them. We can meet the resource problems of the world — water, food, minerals, farmlands, forests, overpopulation, pollution if we tackle them with courage and foresight.

“There is opportunity here to improve our economic situation. It is our responsibility as national leaders to keep inflation low, but we can direct our government to invest in the technologies that will help our country preserve our planet, lower the costs of energy, and create jobs. This is our task: To be responsible stewards of the environment and, in doing so, unleash the potential of American ingenuity.”

The president did not continue into a list of specific economic proposals, but he did talk about miners in West Virginia, autoworkers in Michigan, and laborers throughout the 50 states who felt that their paychecks did not go as far as they used to. “For that reason, it is vital for the government to model good behavior,” he said. “We must control our spending habits instead of promising everything on credit. We should balance our budgets,” Carter said in his most specific policy pronouncement of the speech.

He transitioned then to human rights, long his North Star. “The struggle for human rights overrides all differences of color or nation or language. Those who hunger for freedom, who thirst for human dignity, and who suffer for the sake of justice, they are the patriots of this cause.

“I believe with all my heart that America must always stand for these basic human rights at home and abroad. That is both our history and our destiny.

“America did not invent human rights. In a very real sense, it's the other way around. Human rights invented America. Ours was the first nation in the history of the world to be founded explicitly on such an idea. Our social and political progress has been based on one fundamental principle: the value and importance of the individual. The fundamental force that unites us is not kinship or place of origin or religious preference. The love of liberty is the common blood that flows in our American veins.”

And, finally, the president invoked the Declaration of Independence and reminded his fellow citizens that “democracy is always an unfinished creation. Each generation must renew its foundations. Each generation must rediscover the meaning of this hallowed vision in the light of its own modern challenges. For this generation, ours, life is nuclear survival; liberty is human rights; the pursuit of happiness is a planet whose resources are devoted to the physical and spiritual nourishment of its inhabitants.

“I wish to remind all of us, on this occasion — the inauguration of a president — that there is one title in our democracy superior to the one I have just sworn to uphold: that of citizen. So, I ask for your help, your guidance, your investment in this great endeavor, and for your prayers, knowing, as John F. Kennedy said, that ‘here on Earth, God’s work must truly be our own.’” [2]

The president turned to see a standing ovation from the members of Congress assembled. He embraced his wife and children and turned back to wave at the crowd before him. The work was just beginning.

>>>>>>>>>

[1] This is heavily based on Carter’s 1980 Convention speech IOTL.

[2] Much of the president’s inaugural address that I have here is based on his Farewell Address in 1981 from OTL. I added the mentions of the economy as they did not thematically fit with his Farewell Address, but I doubt he’d go the entire Inaugural without invoking the present economic situation which is not completely dreadful but remains far from prosperous.

NB: Thank you to @LivingSteam who reminded me about Jack Watson’s role as Chief of Staff at the tail end of the Carter administration IOTL. He is so scarcely mentioned in accounts of the Carter administration that I have to admit he’d escaped my mind once I got into the writing of the timeline. Watson was widely hailed as an effective Chief of Staff, though, and so it seems natural that he’d stay on ITTL. Of course, the dynamics between him and Ham will get interesting, but I wanted to shoutout @LivingSteam for the reminder.

 

[Vidal]

United States Elections, 1980
​

1980 UNITED STATES PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION

1980 UNITED STATES SENATE ELECTIONS

Alabama: Jim Folson, Jr., D def. Jeremiah Denton, R (D Hold)
Alaska: Frank Murkowski, R def. Clark Gruening, D (R Gain)
Arizona: Bill Schulz, D def. Sen. Barry Goldwater, R (D Gain)
Arkansas: Sen. Dale Bumpers, D def. William Clark, R (D Hold)
California: Sen. Alan Cranston, D def. Paul Gann, R (D Hold)
Colorado: Sen. Gary Hart, D def. Mary Buchanan, R (D Hold)
Connecticut: Chris Dodd, D def. James Buckley, R (D Hold)
Florida: Bill Gunter, D def. Paula Hawkins, R (D Hold)
Georgia: Sen. Herman Talmadge, D def. Mack Mattingly, R (D Hold)
Hawaii: Sen. Daniel Inouye, D def. Cooper Brown, R (D Hold)
Idaho: Sen. Frank Church, D def. Steve Symms R (D Hold)
Illinois: Alan Dixon, D def. Dave O’Neal, R (D Hold)
Indiana: Dan Quayle, R def. Sen. Birch Bayh, D (R Gain)
Iowa: Chuck Grassley, R def. Sen. John Culver, D (R Gain)
Kansas: Sen. Bob Dole, R def. John Simpson, D (R Hold)
Louisiana: Sen. Russell Long, D def. Woody Jenkins, R (D Hold)
Maryland: Sen. Charles Mathias, R def. Edward Conroy, D (R Hold)
Missouri: Sen. Thomas Eagleton, D def. Gene McNary (D Hold)
Nevada: Sen. Paul Laxalt, R def. Mary Gojack, D (R Hold)
New Hampshire: Warren Rudman, R def. Sen. John Durkin, D (R Gain)
New York: Liz Holtzman, D def. Al D’Amato, R and Jacob Javits, L (D Gain)
North Carolina: Sen. Robert Burren Morgan, D def. John Porter East, R (D Hold)
North Dakota: Mark Andrews, R def. Kent Johanneson, D (R Hold)
Ohio: Sen. John Glenn, D def. James Betts, R (D Hold)
Oklahoma: Don Nickles, R def. Andrew Coats, D (R Hold)
Oregon: Sen. Bob Packwood, R def. Ted Kulongoski, D (R Hold)
Pennsylvania: Pete Flaherty, D def. Arlen Specter, R (D Gain)
South Carolina: Fritz Hollings, D def. Marshall Mays, R (D Hold)
South Dakota: James Abdnor, R def. Sen. George McGovern, D (R Gain)
Utah: Sen. Jake Garn, R def. Dan Berman, D (R Hold)
Vermont: Sen. Patrick Leahy, D def. Stewart Ledbetter, R (D Hold)
Washington: Sen. Warren Magnuson, D def. Slade Gorton, R (D Hold)
Wisconsin: Sen. Gaylord Nelson, D def. Bob Kasten, R (D Hold)

Senate composition before the election: 58 Democrats, 41 Republicans, 1 Independent
Senate composition after the election: 56 Democrats, 43 Republicans, 1 Independent (R+2)


1980 UNITED STATES HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES ELECTIONS

House composition before the election: 277 D, 157 R, 1 C
House composition after the election: 266 D, 168 R, 1 C (R+11)


1980 UNITED STATES GUBERNATORIAL ELECTIONS

Arkansas: Frank D. White, R def. Gov. Bill Clinton, D (R Gain)
Delaware: Gov. Pete du Pont, R def. William Gordy, D (R Hold)
Indiana: Robert D. Orr, R def. John Hillenbrand II, D (R Hold)
Missouri: Kit Bond, R def. Gov. Joseph P. Teasdale, D (R Gain)
Montana: Ted Schwinden, D def. Jack Ramirez, R (D Hold)
New Hampshire: Gov. Hugh Gallen, D def. Meldrim Thomson, Jr, R (D Hold)
North Carolina: Gov. Jim Hunt, D def. I. Beverly Lake, Jr, R (D Hold)
North Dakota: Gov. Arthur Link, D def. Allen Olson, R (D Hold)
Rhode Island: Gov. J. Joseph Garrahy, D def. Buddy Cianci, R (D Hold)
Utah: Gov. Scott Matheson, D def. Bob Wright, R (D Hold)
Vermont: Gov. Richard Snelling, R def. M. Jerome Diamond, D (R Hold)
Washington: John Spellman, R def. Jim McDermott, D (R Gain)
West Virginia: Gov. Jay Rockefeller, D def. Arch A. Moore, Jr, R (D Hold)

 

[Vidal]

Part II: The Second Term
January 20, 1981 - January 20, 1985

"For this generation, ours, life is nuclear survival; liberty is human rights; the pursuit of happiness is a planet whose resources are devoted to the physical and spiritual nourishment of its inhabitants."
-Jimmy Carter

"The happy ending is our national belief."
-Mary McCarthy​

 

[Vidal]

EARLY DAYS

“I have wondered at times what the Ten Commandments would have looked like if Moses had run them through the US Congress.”
-Ronald Reagan

​

January 20, 1981
Rancho del Cielo — Goleta, CA

In Washington, Jimmy Carter raised his right hand to God and took the Oath of Office for a second term. In California, Ronald Reagan had his right hand wrapped around a chainsaw. He was clearing brush.

He’d thought about it all in the days since the election. The hostage crisis imploding Kennedy’s campaign. Connally and Bush conspiring against him, dividing the Party for as long as they could. Choosing Kemp. God, he thought as he brought the chainsaw down against the limb of a tree. Jack Kemp. Why did I listen to Roger Stone? There was the whole mess with the gay teachers. The rumors Kemp was a homosexual himself. A mess. Then, Carter got shot. Nancy took him off the trail as much as she could. Said the debate would go awry. He’d listened to her. It wasn’t her fault — she was probably right. I might’ve lost by double if we’d gone ahead with the debate, he thought.

Ronald Reagan wasn’t sure who to blame. Maybe it was all John Sears’ fault. The strategy had been wrong from the beginning. It was meant to convey strength — that Reagan was above the fray — but instead it gave Connally and Bush time to go out and meet voters while Reagan looked like an entitled coastal elite. Coastal elite. He hated the thought he could be compared to one.

With gloved hands to protect against the prickers, he grabbed a series of branches and tossed them to the right. He inched closer with the chainsaw.

Government is not the solution to our problems. Government is the problem. He would’ve said something like that today, if he’d been there. If he’d been elected. He wouldn’t have shied away from the Right — the people who got him to the White House. He’d have worked with Democrats fine, sure, but they’d have had to work with him. He’d be the president.

Didn’t matter. He didn’t win.

Nancy called out to him. “Ronnie, do you want to come in and watch?” Nancy. She can’t help herself. It tortured her more than it did him. She still wasn’t over it. Didn’t know why Reagan didn’t ask for a rematch. Wanted to know what he was going to do in ’84. What am I doing in 1984? This! He’d thought to himself. But he couldn’t tell her that. It would break her spirit. She believed in him, and despite all of the hesitations she had about him, about his safety, about the scrutiny of public office, she felt more stung by the fact he’d gone out there and lost. The American people made a mistake! You can’t let people get away with a mistake. They had to prove they’d been right. It was time to win again.

But Reagan had done it three times already. A fourth campaign — at 73 years old? No way was Reagan up to it. He knew it. The press knew it. Nancy knew it. Even Nancy knew it.

He looked back at her and smiled. Nancy. Oh how he loved her.

“I’m alright out here,” he shouted back over the din of the idling chainsaw. “I’m alright out here…”

She nodded, arms crossed, the look on her face. The look. She’d been wearing it ever since the results came back. Defeat. Shame. Sympathy. She was hurt — hurt by it all. Oh alright, he thought to himself, and he took his gloves off and threw them down. Put the chainsaw down. And he walked back up to the house. She had been there for him. Always.

As he got nearer to the house, as he thought about the image of everyone gathered around Jimmy Carter the twice-elected president, it really hit him. His chest tightened. The corner of his eye watered just enough for him to feel it. It was over. It was over.


January 28, 1981
The White House — Washington, DC

Thank God Reagan dragged Kemp out with him, Bob Dole thought to himself as he waited for this meeting with President Carter. Bob Dole was a traditional Republican, not one of those voodoo economists who thought you could slash the amount of money the government took in and then suddenly the government would make more money. No, that wasn’t for him. He was as straight as they came, and he was a traditional Republican who didn’t like bloated government — and didn’t like government deficits. The government should live within its means. That’s what Bob Dole thought. That’s what Bob Dole told voters back home. That’s what Bob Dole told reporters here in Washington. If you cut taxes, you reduce revenue. And if we don’t balance our budget — well, Jimmy Carter was right about this: Inflation would get worse. Not that Bob Dole would say that out loud.

He looked around, at the others who were here for this early roundtable conversation about the budget. Good group. Great group. Fine group. No Kemp. That was enough for Dole. No Kemp. He didn’t trust Jack Kemp with his phony math or his supply-side nonsense. He wanted to get the budget balanced, and he even believed that Jimmy Carter might want the same thing. There was also Something Else on his mind.

In 1984, America would need a new president. Didn’t matter if Jimmy Carter were the most popular sonofabitch in the office since Washington. He was out. Back to Plains. Thank goodness, Bob Dole thought. And he wasn’t exactly worried about a sudden rise in popularity for Mr. Carter, either. The way Bob Dole saw it: The Republicans would need a strong candidate. And what, exactly, had George Bush done? He’d have four more years out of office. Irrelevance. You don’t see George Bush on television anymore, Bob Dole knew. And Bob Dole thought about that a lot. All Bob Dole had to do to finally become president — to improve upon that embarrassing go of it four years earlier — was show he was the adult in the room. The guy with the plan. Bob Dole had to make friends during this Midterms coming up. Bob Dole has to be out there a lot campaigning. All of that was true. But he had to have something else — something to show voters. And that would be his work on the Senate Finance Committee, on which he was now the Ranking Republican.

So, that’s why Bob Dole was happy that Jack Kemp got dragged out of Washington. Reagan’s Hail Mary didn’t work out, did it? Heh heh heh. Not a bit. Worked out for Bob Dole, though, Bob Dole thought as he looked around and waited for this meeting.

Kemp was one of the loudest voices in the Republican Party for the voodoo economics — Bob Dole wished that Bob Dole had thought of that phrase — that made Bob Dole’s life harder. How can you balance a budget if you don’t make any money? It was lunacy. Now, it had been chased out of Washington. That’s how Bob Dole chose to saw it. So, he knew, that the next budget would constrain the deficit — shrink it as much as possible. He’d insist on it. And then, by the time they had these conversations in ’83, when Bob Dole was Chairman of the Senate Finance Committee — well, they’d balance the damn thing. And Bob Dole would be The Man Who Balanced The Budget. And Bob Dole would be The Man Running Against Mondale. And then, Bob Dole would be The President. That was the Something Else Bob Dole thought about often. And he had it all mapped out in his head.

The door swung open and Bob Dole and the rest of them stood up as the president entered. “Take your seats, everyone,” Carter said. He wanted to get right down to business.

“Good morning, everyone. Thank you all for being here.” Carter looked around and nodded. Byrd and Baker. Long and Dole. O’Neill and Michel. Rostenkowski and Conable. Everyone who needed to be in the room for a conversation about the federal budget was there, and the president was eager to get to business.

“I have just sent you a Fiscal Year 1982 budget that contains our federal deficit in relative terms more than any budget so far in my presidency. We will keep the deficit to less-than-1-percent of our gross national product.”

Bob Dole smiled.

“I know there was much conversation about tax cuts out on the campaign trail. I am open to your ideas, but allow me to explain what I am proposing. This budget takes a major step in a long-term tax reduction program that is designed to increase capital formation. I see this as solving two problems: Our energy needs and the slowdown of productivity in our economy. We need to make it easier for investments to be made in energy production and other sectors of the economy. My budget makes that possible.

“I am proposing a major liberalization of tax allowances for depreciation, as well as simplified depreciation accounting, increasing the allowable rates by about 40-percent.” Some of the legislators were scribbling notes. Some staffers were. Bob Dole was listening. 40-percent. “We can also improve the investment tax credit by making it refundable, to help firms with no current earnings. I believe these changes will yield a significant long-term benefit to our nation’s productivity and our economy as a whole.

“At the same time, I am asking you to postpone, for one year, the personal tax reductions I had earlier proposed to take effect this year. This change will offset the cost of the earlier proposals I mentioned, and it will help to control the federal deficit in real dollars and as a percentage of the gross national product.” [1]

The meeting itself represented the immediate impact of Carter’s decision to keep Jack Watson on as Chief of Staff. Here he was hosting Congressional leaders at the outset of a negotiation over the federal budget. There was no expectation that he would simply have the votes. Watson understood the numbers. Republicans had made some gains in the House and Senate despite Carter’s victory, and that meant the fight over spending and taxation would be even more difficult.

Kemp-Roth had nearly passed the Congress before, but Carter mobilized against it in time to kill it, which wasn’t easy to do considering California voters went to the polls in ’78 and said “Absolutely not” to the idea of wanting to pay taxes.

And now, this time, Carter had some additional, if unlikely, friends on the Hill. Friends like Bob Dole.


February 1, 1981
The Kemp Residence — Buffalo, NY

Is there a path back for me? Jack Kemp had been wondering it ever since Election Night 1980. He’d been in New York, away from Reagan and the staff, when he heard the news: He’d lost. He never really considered losing when Reagan asked him to join the ticket. He’d be honored, he’d told the nominee, and so he’d signed up. But then — everything started to fall apart.

He blamed Connally. He blamed Reagan and Spencer. None of them had wanted to come to his defense. I tried to save us. I tried to win them back, he thought, but then Reagan had clammed up — threw him under the bus. Said Kemp didn’t understand the world. All Reagan had done was piss off the Right even more than Kemp had. The hardest part for Kemp was figuring out what to say about it all.

“Where do you think it went wrong, Congressman?” Elizabeth Drew asked again.

“I think everything sort of fell President Carter’s way,” Kemp offered. But Drew wanted more. She sensed it in him — the anger, the regret, the resentment. But she didn’t know who it was directed at, and she needed to know.

“Do you think the Reagan campaign did enough to deny those rumors on your behalf?”

“I think the blame for that lies with all of you — with the press corps. Those sorts of questions do not belong in the public discourse, especially when, for many years, they’d been proven incorrect.”

Drew was getting somewhere now, and she leaned back in her chair. Tapped her pen against her notepad. How was she going to get there? Tap. Tap. The pen was thudding quicker and quicker. Tap. Tap. Tap. How do I word it?

“But don’t you see, Congressman, how one might say — You said publicly during the campaign that you did not think gay teachers belonged in public schools —”

Kemp interrupted, “That’s not what I said. This is the problem.” He sighed. “I said that local school boards should have the option.”

“Fair enough,” Drew conceded. That wasn’t central to where she was going. Kemp was wrong — lying through his teeth. He’d said that, sure, but he’d also said what his personal opinion was — that the gay teachers should stay out of the classroom. No matter. That isn’t what she was trying to ask. “So why is it that a local school board should be able to consider a potential teacher’s sexuality when making a hiring decision, but voters should not be able to consider a potential vice president’s sexuality when making a hiring decision?”

She’s got me there. “Those rumors had been laid to rest years ago. The press was dredging up bile. If I’d been caught in bed with a man — well, fine, I suppose. Ask away. ‘Why was I in bed with him?’ Sure, that’s fair. But these were rumors whipped up decades earlier, and they’d been demonstrated to be false. It was unfair to resurface them. It caused my family a great deal of pain.”

“But most Americans weren’t familiar with them —”

“Because they were false.”

“But your insistence that they’d been ‘demonstrated to be false’ — how was that the case? Just because there was never an article confirming they’d happened didn’t mean that there shouldn’t be a pursuit of the rumors. We reporters had never seen you prove it.”

And all at once it hit Kemp: I’m never getting through this. For the rest of my life they’re going to wonder if I stuck it up some guy’s ass at a lakeside cabin thirty years ago. They’re always going to wonder where my eyes were in that locker room. Goddamnit. “I think it’s time to move on.”

• • •​

After Drew left a few hours later, Jack Kemp went up to his bedroom and looked out the window. Snow was falling in Buffalo — where it seemed he’d be for the rest of his life.

He had lost his seat in the House — given it up, really, for the shot of being Reagan’s number two. [2] He thought they’d have eight good years, and then the Republicans would turn to him: The Guy Who Made Reagan. Who Served Reagan. And he would be their standard bearer, and the country’s president, for another eight. It all went so wrong.

It upset Kemp a great deal, and he was equally distressed by what was happening in Washington. Jack Kemp had always been an Ideas Man. Bob Dole, George Bush — they’d dismissed his ideas. They thought his ideas weren’t worth the revenue they’d collect from taxes, but Jack Kemp saw the vision: You cut the taxes. You let businesses make more money. You let the rich get richer — because it would trickle down. With their money and their capital, they’d invest. They’d grow the next businessman. Make the next millionaire. It all made so much sense in his mind that Jack Kemp couldn’t believe others didn’t see it.

There was still Bill Roth left in the Senate. They’d come so close a couple of years ago. Nearly got it across the finish line. They were supposed to do it when Reagan won. But all of that was in the past now. Kemp could think only of the future — what would Carter do to the economy? Would it feel like malaise in ’84? Would the Party ever come back to him? Or am I finished? Kemp didn’t know, but he wondered as the snow fell gently to the ground outside his Buffalo home.


February 26, 1981
Capitol Building — Washington, DC

Russell Long had about enough of the newcomers, and now he felt like he had to say as much. The tax debate had been swirling around the Capitol all year, and Long wanted to reframe the conversation. There was the Roth bill. There was the Bradley-Gephardt bill. Long did the numbers. They didn’t add up — and worse, they hurt the oil companies. They hurt business. He could come around to Carter’s idea, which was meant to expand capital, but he couldn’t come around to anything that might simplify the tax code — that was just Washingtonspeak for sticking it to the oil companies. Well, Russell Long represented Louisiana. And he wanted to remind this Senator from New Jersey that he was the Chairman of the Finance Committee.

Bill Bradley played on the New York Knicks for 10 years. He was a two-time NBA champion, an NBA All-Star, and when he hung up his jersey to enter politics, the Knicks retired his number (24). When he made the leap into politics, Mo Udall said he had the right experience — and by that, Udall was referring to Bradley’s time as a professional athlete. The way Bradley saw it: Passing legislation was like winning a basketball game. You just kept passing the ball, letting others take their shots.

Once he got to Washington, Bradley tended to keep to himself. He was like that student in college who was always in the library, his nose in the textbook, taking notes for a class he was just auditing. Bill Bradley didn’t want anyone to dismiss him because he was an athlete. He was intelligent. He had big ideas. And he thought Jimmy Carter’s second term was the right time to initiate them.

The president’s budget proposal was fine. Carter was obsessed with getting the deficit down, and Bradley didn’t mind that so much — Republicans were quick to label him and his colleagues tax-and-spend liberals. Bradley didn’t like that, and he was perfectly happy to have Jimmy Carter to shield them from the label (not that Spencer or Stone or Sears or any of the other GOP operatives seemed to care too much). But Bill Bradley had been working on a Big Idea — the Biggest Idea — and he was ready to see it through this Congress. He was confident he’d be able to find the support.

He just needed a lead sponsor in the House. That’s where Dick Gephardt came in.

Gephardt was on Ways and Means, so he was already going to be involved in a conversation about taxes no matter what, and he’d proven already that he wasn’t afraid of the White House. When Jimmy Carter and Ted Kennedy were duking it out over health care in the first term, Gephardt stood up and he fought back each of Carter’s proposals and then drafted his own bill with a Republican, David Stockman.

Charlie Rangel said Dick Gephardt’s bill was just a way “to do absolutely nothing,” but Gephardt didn’t care. He was a details man. He knew what he was doing. [3]

Bill Bradley wanted a details man to be on board with him because he was a details man. So, it only made sense that Bradley and Gephardt would get together and talk about tax reform, and it didn’t take long at all for Gephardt to sign on to the Fair Tax Act. Gephardt took a look, read it over, thought about it, and then he signed on.

In the midst of Carter’s efforts to shepherd through a business tax cut and constrain the deficit, Bill Bradley and Dick Gephardt decided to pose a question: Hey, what if we just re-wrote the entire tax code before passing this budget?

Tip O’Neill and Bob Byrd noticed quickly that the more Bradley and Gephardt talked about their bill, the more popular it got. And they also noticed that it was popular with quite a few Republicans. That made the bill bipartisan — and back in the day, bipartisan sold. So, there were hearings on the Bradley-Gephardt bill and the Carter White House went into a tizzy.

Jimmy Carter didn’t understand the Bradley/Gephardt bill. That isn’t to say he didn’t know how it would work, or didn’t know why it might be popular with some segments of the population. But Jimmy Carter couldn’t figure out why Bill Bradley and Dick Gephardt was introducing it. He was the president. He had prioritized reducing the deficit. He had put out a thorough FY 1982 budget proposal. Is it going to be like this every time? He couldn’t bear the thought. Surely, at some point, the Party will fall in line.

Bradley wasn’t worried. He went door-to-door in Dirksen and Russell, and he had meetings with everyone he could. He brought printed out charts and projections for budgets, and he told everyone the same thing: The people will love this. They’ll love it!

Half the Republicans only wanted to know one thing: Are taxes going down or up? Bradley told them that was the beauty of it — people were paying less in taxes and the system was simpler. More and more, Bradley found allies on the other side of the aisle. And then, Jimmy Carter decided to place a call.

“Senator.”

“Mister President. Thanks for calling.”

“I wanted to ask you what you’re hearing about the Bradley-Gephardt proposal. I’ve seen it’s making the rounds in your caucus?”

“Agh, more snake oil, Mister President.” [4]

“Bob, I need your help here to make sure we keep the deficit in check. I know we don’t agree on everything, but we have that in common.”

Bob Dole hated this. Working with Carter! How am I ever getting to the White House if I’m attached at the hip with this guy? But Bob Dole had his beliefs, and one of them was that they needed to balance the budget. It meant, sometimes, on days like today, you were in the company of strange bedfellows.

“I’ll do my part. You get Byrd to do his,” and that was all that needed to be said for Bob Dole to start working the bill harder than Bill Bradley. Nobody on the Hill — not Byrd or Baker, Thurmond or Long — could whip votes like Bob Dole. So Bob Dole went out to find the votes.

Reagan once joked that politics was the second oldest profession, and that it bore a striking resemblance to the oldest. He might’ve been on to something, because that’s how Bob Dole went out and kept his people in line.

Every night, before he went back to the Watergate, Bob Dole stopped by someone’s fundraiser. David Durenberger, senator from Minnesota, was going to have a tough go of it in ’82. So, Bob Dole showed up at one of his events with a check in his hand, and before he left he pulled Durenberger aside. “Whaddya think of that Bradley/Gephardt bill?” Then, he reminded Durenberger: Republicans couldn’t cede the issue of responsible budgeting to the Democrats. If Jimmy Carter balanced the budget and Republicans looked like they wanted to run up a deficit — well, that was a recipe for loss in November. He asked Durenberger to remember that — and to call him later. They could always talk more. Oh, and before he forgot! The check. Always the check.

He didn’t bother with Bill Roth, and he could’ve saved his money by skipping Weicker who wasn’t going to be on board with any proposal like Bradley’s, but he stopped by anyway. Who knew? Maybe Weicker could help with Something Else down the line. So, Bob Dole brought him a check. Asked him about the Bradley/Gephardt bill. Reminded him — Weicker knew, he said. Weicker knows. Don’t have to worry about Weicker.

And on it went: Lugar and Danforth, Schmitt and Heinz, Chafee and Hatch, Stafford and Wallop. Alotta Republicans up next cycle. Close seats. If they were going to keep the majority, they couldn’t cede the issue to Jimmy Carter. Couldn’t give him an inch.

Russell Long took to the Senate floor that morning to give everyone else a break. The president was working the phones. Bob Dole was handing out checks like he was President of Chase Manhattan. Bill Bradley and Dick Gephardt were scurrying around like mice. They thought they were on their way to finding the cheese, but really they were just trying to hide from the cat. Because the cat had just walked on to the Senate floor, and he wanted to be heard:

“Mr. President, good morning.” It was not to be a good morning for Bill Bradley, or Dick Gephardt, or even for Jimmy Carter.

Long stood on the Senate floor for twenty-two minutes and walked through the proposals. He wasn’t going to simplify the tax code, because the tax code was a tool. A tool for innovation. He liked Carter’s proposal for targeted measures that could spur innovation. That was fine with him. But Carter’s decision to postpone the tax cuts they’d passed? That wasn’t happening. The president had to understand that decisions about taxes fell in the purview of the Congress. This was their decision, and Russell Long thought most Americans deserved a break.

So he dashed the hopes of the Bradley-Gephardt bill. “Naive,” he called it. He said that it would hurt business, stifle commerce, blow up the real estate market. And the reporters up in the gallery kept noticing one thing: Russell Long’s hands. They weren’t waving around. They weren’t thumping against the rostrum. He didn’t point or punch. His hands stayed, almost the entire speech, resting on the podium, folded neatly, because Russell Long didn’t need to convince anyone with his speech. He didn’t need to sway them. He didn’t need to cajole them or inspire them or lead them to some promised land. No, Russell Long was the Chairman of the Senate Finance Committee. He just needed to remind them what was going to happen.

So he laid it all out for them. He was going to push for more breaks, more “incentives,” for the oil companies. Jimmy Carter wanted to solve the energy crisis? Then we had to drill for the oil that produced energy. Simple as that. And then Long moved on. Reminded everyone for the third or fourth time that the Bradley/Gephardt deal was dead. Just in case they hadn’t heard. And he circled back to the president’s proposal. A lot of it was fine, he said, but just in case the White House hadn’t got the message from when he’d fought them on taxes before: There would be a cut. Carter had already given his word to it. Surely, the president wasn’t a liar.

When he was done, Russell Long removed his hands from his pockets and organized the papers that carried his speech. “I yield back the balance of my time,” he said, and then he handed the speech off to an aide and walked off the floor. That was how a Chairman did it.


March 2, 1981
The White House — Washington, DC

Ham Jordan was just waiting for it. They were here again. First term all over again, he thought. Democrats on the Hill were giving the boss a hard time. But there was a new voice in the room, and the unfortunate part was she just didn’t get Jimmy.

“Mr. President, I think if we just had Senator Long over to the White House, and you hosted him for dinner, I think the two of you could just talk it out. I’m sure there’s room for agreement.”

A meal, with Russell Long, in the White House? Ham loved Anne — thought she was the smartest woman in politics, smarter than that new senator Liz Holtzman or that Lousiana Congresswoman Lindy Boggs. But she just didn’t get Jimmy Carter. There was a lot that surprised Carter about the job of being president, but one of the most offensive things he’d learned was he had to pay for all of the entertaining. It wasn’t like a fancy law firm where you could just bill a dinner as a company meeting. No. Not in the White House. So that’s why they didn’t serve liquor. Don’t these people get it? Ham thought. The peanut farm back home was in a blind trust. That was Carter’s whole net worth. The guy barely knew what his finances were because he didn’t want to know — not while he was president. He wasn’t doing this to get rich.

And then the idea of sitting down for a meal with someone who just took to the floor of the Senate and told the President of the United States that the big round room didn’t mean anything? Told Jimmy Carter to shove it — told Jimmy Carter he was writing the budget? Jimmy Carter doesn’t want to have dinner with Russell Long, because Jimmy Carter doesn’t like Russell Long. Poor Anne didn’t get that yet.

Carter was behind the desk, gripping a pen, radiating a chill that swept the whole room. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not the second term.

“I’m not doing it,” he said. “If Russell Long wants to write the budget, then Russell Long has to convince the American people he ought to. I’m the president,” Carter reminded her, “and that was my proposal. If he has an issue with it, he can come to me.”

Anne went to speak up, but Carter continued: “I can’t spend my time responding to every floor speech some senator makes.”

Some senator. Some senator! Russell Long is the Chairman of the Senate Finance Committee. Right now, he’s THE senator! “Mr. President, I really must urge you —”

Carter scoffed. “Don’t urge me,” he barked. “We need to get this over the finish line. What’s the plan?”

They all looked around. Nobody wanted to speak first. Some of them looked at Jordan, like he was some kind of Carter Whisperer. He was, of course, but he wasn’t a Congress Whisperer. That was Bill Cable’s job, and that’s why Jordan was looking at Cable.

Feeling Jordan’s eyes, Cable cleared his throat and put forward a plan: It was up to Fritz, the way he saw it. Mondale had to go to the Hill, talk to Bradley and Gephardt and get them to drop the whole thing.

And then, Mondale had to go to Long. Had to tell Long that they were happy to have him on board in defeating Bradley/Gephardt, but they needed him to come around on the other parts. They needed to work in tandem, or the Republicans were going to tear them apart in the midterms.

Not happening, Mondale thought to himself.

Mondale decided he had to speak up now: “There’s a saying in politics — I think we all know it. ‘Oh that person wouldn’t lose an election unless he was caught in bed with a live boy or a dead girl.’” They all knew it, but they shifted a little uncomfortably. Where was Fritz going with all this? “Russell Long could be caught in bed with both of ‘em, and he’d still win in a landslide. You’re not going to scare him with political consequences.”

Mondale didn’t mean to shoot down Cable’s idea, though. Bill came from the Speaker’s office, and he’d done a great job in improving the relations with Carter and Congress, which sometimes made the United States and the USSR look like best friends. Cable had his work cut out for him, so Mondale decided to throw a bone.

“I’m happy to go down there, Mr. President, but we’re going to have to compromise. Long doesn’t care as much about taxes as he does about oil. This is all an opening dance. He’s gearing up for a fight on an energy bill, or an environment bill — however we do it in the future. So I think we’ve got to warm him up a bit. Let go of the delay on the tax breaks, and give him that win.”

Carter hated it. Give in? On good policy? He hated this town. Everyone had their own ideas, but nobody actually cared about what they had to do. They had to get the deficit under control, and so they had to delay the tax break. That’s the way it was.

More than anything, Carter wanted to move on from this meeting and get on to the next thing. He had a call with Sadat — nothing serious, just two friends catching up. So he told Mondale to go to the Hill, and to take Anne and Bill and whoever else he needed, and figure out where the deal was.

“Don’t promise anything,” the president explained. “We’ll see where we’re at, and then I’ll make a decision.” And so Mondale went to the Hill.


March 4, 1981
The Capitol Building — Washington, DC

Walter Mondale knew it as he pulled up to the Capitol Building for his meeting with Russell Long. We’re making the same mistakes. Here he was, on his way to meet with Long, who had not been consulted enough in the lead-up to the FY 1982 budget’s introduction. And Long was miffed by the whole thing — probably felt he didn’t owe Carter anything because Carter didn’t act like he owed Long anything. That just wasn’t how Washington worked — not according to Russell Long. Fritz understood, and he had to make amends.

Fritz’s Senate office was mostly ceremonial in nature, but it did have a utilitarian purpose. Like now, when Russell Long was on his way.

The Vice President’s office in the Capitol is ornate by any standard — except when compared to others in the U.S. Capitol Building. Back when artists were painting gorgeous murals on the ceilings of various rooms on the Hill, the Vice President was in his Capitol office working. It was his only office in those days. There was no Old Executive Office Building. No West Wing. So, the artists who might have climbed ladders to paint the kind of intricate artwork that made people enter in awe, never had the chance to do so. The room was being used. [5]

Over time, the room became used less frequently, and Walter Mondale became the first Vice President with an office in the West Wing of the White House. Mondale was a different kind of Vice President — more than an afterthought, more even than Nixon or Johnson. He was Carter’s partner, and sometimes that meant applying his political skills where the president lacked them.

Long entered with a few staffers, and they all took their seats. He and Mondale shook hands, and Fritz sat down and crossed his legs while Long spread his and leaned back. Fritz had some explaining to do, the way Russell Long saw it.

“Senator, thank you for taking the time. As you know, the president cares a great deal about this budget, and we want to work together on this.”

“The chance to make me a partner was before you put your bill up,” he humphed. He wasn’t going to make it easy on Carter’s whipping boy.

“I understand that, Senator, but you know how it is. It’ll all be different in four years, I assure you, but right now — this is what it is. The president would appreciate your deference —”

“Deference!” The word echoed around the room. Deference. Surely, Fritz Mondale wasn’t being serious.

“Where was the deference to the Senate, Mr. Vice President? Where was the consideration of what the Senate Finance Committee might think about taxes? And now, the president goes ahead and announces he’s suspending a tax cut — which he does not have the authority to do without our approval — and makes us look fiscally irresponsible? He’s playing into the Republicans’ hands on this. Now, I thought when y’all got rid of Jordan this issue would be fixed, but nobody’s learned their lesson over there, I can see that.”

Russell Long did not forget slights, and the way he was counting, this was the second time the Carter White House had tried to pass tax legislation by going around him. If they’d come to him, he could’ve given his opinion, and he’d have been fine if they only took an idea or two. But once again, Carter and his motley crew had come along and put forward a bill to box Long and his Senators in. Well, that wasn’t how Russell Long did business. If Carter didn’t want to be on his team at the start, he’d have to face Long at the finish.

“I hear you, Senator, and I also remember how much of a help you were to the White House back when Senator Bentsen was trying to add in a number of things to the energy bill in the first term. The president respects you, and I am sorry if we offended you by not running the budget through your team first.” There it was — Mondale’s strength on the Hill. He could apologize. Jimmy Carter would never have been able to.

“Agh, no harm,” Long said, “but I’m not going to roll over on this, Fritz. Now, back home people are mighty worried about how they’re gonna pay their bills, and I can’t tell ‘em I’m raising their taxes. I can’t do it. And nobody around here wants to be that guy, either.”

So Mondale listened as Long went on about all the ways his ideas made more sense. Mondale saw all along what it was. Russell Long was nearing the end of his time in the Senate, and he’d become the Senate Finance Chairman, and he remembered what that title used to mean — before there was a caucus in Iowa and before the primary in New Hampshire meant anything more than a few factory men expressing an opinion that the Convention could ignore. But times were different, and Jimmy Carter had waltzed right in to the Oval Office, and he hadn’t paid his due. He thought Congress was no different than that part-time sorry-excuse for a legislature they had down there in Georgia. But that wasn’t Russell Long’s Senate, and as long as he was around, the Senate was going to be treated like it was the World’s Greatest Deliberative Body.

Long didn’t spell it out like that. He was talking about the need to support the oil companies and help with energy production — Carter was so worried about energy, he’d reminded Fritz. He talked about Carter’s proposed tax cuts for corporations — he liked those. He could get behind those. He thought most of the budget was sound. The spending, that is. Carter made cuts, but nothing that would really hurt people. Defense was well-funded. That was important. Good for the Pentagon, good for the country — that’s how Russell Long saw it.

But behind Long’s words, Mondale could still hear the edge. He was a Senate Chairman, and he knew that with each new man (Long wasn’t keen on this whole ladies business), that gavel would mean less and less because the Senate was starting to mean less and less. And that’s not how Russell Long wanted it. He was a Man of the Body. And he just wanted to work with a president who respected that.

Mondale was never going to change how Jimmy Carter viewed the Town or the House or the Senate, but he could do what he had to do now to get the president a win.

“Senator, I think all of that makes sense, and we’ll see how it goes in committee. You just keep Stu Eizenstat informed, and the White House will do what it can.”

Russell Long said he would see what he could do.

• • •​

Even with Bob Dole’s help, the president was two votes shy of keeping his delay of the ’81 tax cut in the final budget. Long wasn’t going to let that up. But he did decide to give the White House a break on the oil taxes, and when Bentsen tried, he told the Senator to get in line. There would be a fight over energy, Carter had said as much. Couldn’t help himself. He would have an energy bill, and he’d go on about solar and wind and nuclear, but Long knew that he and Bentsen could get the last laugh then. No need to mess up the president’s budget now. This could be a big enough win for all of ‘em. The Democrats had stood up to their president and cut taxes, but they’d held the line on spending and avoided that crazy Republican idea that cutting taxes would somehow engender more revenue.

Tip O’Neill got it through in the House. Of course, there would have to be a conference committee. No one could reasonably expect the House and the Senate to agree on the first try. But O’Neill kept his caucus in line. Some of them wanted to go out there and carry the cross that Kemp had, but O’Neill steered them off it. No need for big cuts. And when Gephardt wouldn’t let it go, kept trying to raise his Fair Tax bill, O’Neill reminded him who had given him such a prominent policy role on the Hill. And Dick Gephardt got back in line.

A sort of detente was forming between Carter and the Congressional Democrats. They were equally tired of fighting. The fun was out of it for Tip O’Neill. Carter was a prick who was never going to give Congress their due, but rather than spend all day being angry about it, O’Neill decided to pass the best bill he could and go home and have a scotch and put his feet up. There would be more bills tomorrow.

The younger members of the House noticed that it was around this time that O’Neill kept calling in his favorites for meeting after meeting. They were getting prominent photo ops. Gerry Ferraro practically lived in the Speaker’s office. O’Neill liked her a lot — thought she was the future of the Party. She won a Republican district in Queens by keeping the ethnic whites pulling the Democratic lever. That was the future for the Party. They couldn’t cede the ethnic whites. And she was smart — a teacher, a prosecutor. She was in O’Neill’s office a lot those days.

So was Dick Gephardt, despite all of his posturing and prodding and insisting that he was The Man, Tip O’Neill liked his drive. He liked that he came from the Midwest. We’ve got to hold the Midwest. That was the future of the Party, the way Tip O’Neill saw it.

The budget got across the finish line, and Carter had much to be pleased about. He’d lost out on the ’81 tax cut freeze, but he’d gotten most everything else. The deficit was the most constrained it’d been in years, and that was all Carter’s doing. The Pentagon was well funded, just like Carter wanted. Ted Kennedy may have lost in ’80, but Jack’s mantra about sufficient arms was still Democratic Gospel — at least for Jimmy Carter.

On nearly all of it, Carter had gotten his way. Not because he changed, but because he’d worn down the other guys. There would be plenty of time for disagreements. They still had nearly a full four years ahead of them.

###

[1] All of these proposals come from Carter’s written 1981 State of the Union report and follow his OTL plans for the 1982 budget.

[2] In Geraldine Ferraro’s memoir, she writes that Mondale’s people told her she’d have to give up her seat in the House to run for Vice President. She wrote that she knew that, so my assumption then is that it was New York law at the time of Kemp’s 1980 campaign, and I doubt Hugh Carey would’ve accommodated legislation to allow Kemp to run in both spots. (Ferraro: My Story, 29)

[3] Rangel’s reaction taken from a Washington Post article about Gephardt’s bill/the defeat of Carter’s bill.

[4] I had to. Only this once. All credit to the wonderful late Richard Ben Cramer and his book What It Takes.

[5] My source is C-SPAN’s tour of the Vice President’s Ceremonial Office.

 

[Vidal]

TRY, TRY AGAIN

“There is nothing I love as much as a good fight.”
-Franklin D. Roosevelt​

February 15, 1981
Kennedy Compound — Hyannis Port, MA

The issue was personal to him. As he looked at his son reading on the chair across from him, the Senator couldn’t help but think of those days. He heard it again, the sound of the plane coming down against the ground. He jolted. Birch, he thought to himself. He remembered his days in the hospital. How does anyone else do this? He didn’t understand. But he wanted to. That’s what Jimmy Carter never understood about Ted Kennedy. This issue about health care — it was personal to him. So, when Carter said the money wasn’t there, well that irked Kennedy, because it could be there, if Carter wanted it to be. And that’s what families around the country dealt with. There wasn’t money there. Not enough money for the treatment, the operation, the prescription drugs. They didn’t have the money, either. And that meant they would die.

And Teddy. He looked over at him. His son. It was 1973, when he came home from St. Albans with a cold and a bruised knee. It didn’t occur then to either of them what it meant: Cancer. They had to take off his leg — right up to above the knee. The Senator couldn’t bear it. It was too much. His son. Tragedy. Tragedy had always stalked him. His brothers. His sister. Now, his son. But the Senator could afford the operation. He could afford those days when his son sat in the hospital. He’d worried about Teddy’s life. He’d worried about the family. He’d worried about what it all meant for Teddy’s future. But never did he worry about the bill that was going to come at the end of it all. And that was why he cared.

If Reagan had won… Kennedy started to think. It would have all been easier if Reagan had won. He would have settled into a role as Leader of the Opposition. He’d have given speeches from the floor about Ronald Reagan’s America. He’d be good at that. He’d do what he had to do, too, to get some bills — some important issues — through the halls of Congress. He would work with Republicans if he needed to, Kennedy didn’t mind doing that. It was working with Carter that made him bitter.

If Reagan had won, Kennedy wouldn’t have felt so responsible. But here they were again: Carter in the White House. Democrats in charge of Congress. We have to do it this time, Kennedy kept thinking. They couldn’t let the failures of the last go-around prevent them from getting something done this time. If Reagan had won, Kennedy wouldn’t have to worry about seeing Carter, or dealing with Carter. But the man was still the president, and Kennedy was still the Senator, and so something had to be done.

Kennedy knew what he wanted to do. He could have hearings, draft a bill, force it through to the floor, and he could let Carter oppose him every step of the way. The problem was Carter would win. The only way to get a bill like Kennedy’s through was if every Democrat was shamed into voting for it. That was the truth. It would be a huge bill, and the most politically difficult effort since the Civil Rights legislation under Johnson. You couldn’t get bills like that passed if your own party was given an out. Carter would give them the out. So, Kennedy had to play the game on Carter’s terms.

They hadn’t been all that far apart — that is, until Kennedy saw a path to the nomination. Before then, they’d marched towards each other, finding a compromise. Labor had been an impediment, and Kennedy found himself caught between them and Carter. His political acumen told him that Carter was right, he had more votes than Kennedy had. His heart told him that labor was right, that they needed to be able to guarantee universal coverage. Then, it had all collapsed.

With a sigh, Kennedy considered all that had been and all that could be. His primary campaign dramatically underperformed expectations. It seemed every four years there was speculation about if Kennedy would run for president, but now the articles were different. They talked about Mondale and included Kennedy only as an afterthought. He was a Kennedy. They would always want to know if he was going to run for president. But it didn’t carry the heft it once had. He didn’t clear the field. Some polling even showed him trailing Mondale by 10-points. Trailing Mondale.

And for all of the psychoanalyses, for all of the think pieces pontificating about the Restoration of Camelot, Kennedy did not feel — at least not anymore — a familiar (familial?) pressure coursing through his veins. He’d tried. He’d come up short. His marriage with Joan was now officially in shambles — headed for its inevitable divorce. There was no reason to believe that a campaign in ’84 would go any better than the last one had.

Swirling the scotch in his right hand, looking over at Teddy reading his book, Kennedy knew deep within him that the White House wasn’t meant for him. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is why I lost, he thought. That he could understand. He’d been spared the White House, put back in the Senate, so that there would be someone there who could finally get the bill across the finish line. Had he won, who would’ve done the work in the Senate? Russell Long? Long had been with Carter. So had Abe. Ribicoff was his friend, but there he was signing on to Russell Long’s bill.

If he was a tragic figure, like the Shakespearean plays and Greek tragedies his brothers recited with such ease, then this was the part where he redeemed himself.

So Kennedy reached for the phone, and he called Stu Eizenstat. They had work to do yet.

• • •​

When Eizenstat went to Carter and told him the news, the president couldn’t help but sigh. Too late, Carter thought instinctively. The Senate majority was smaller. The House majority was smaller. They’d beaten each other up over it for a full year-and-a-half. How would they get it through now?

But Carter also knew that it was the right thing to do — if the country could afford it. So, he gave Eizenstat the directive. He could work with Kennedy. He could draft a bill. He could put it all together. But he had to keep Carter in the know, and Kennedy had to make the concessions. If Ted Kennedy wanted to be a part of this, he had to bring labor in, and they had to use the president’s proposal from 1979 as the starting point. Carter wasn’t going to waste another two years debating the merits of some single-payer system that dwarfed the ones in Europe, ran-up the deficit, and contributed to inflation. He wouldn’t sign it, and he didn’t want to entertain it. If Kennedy wanted to deal, he had to come to the table.

Eizenstat understood. He’d done it all before — back in ’78 and ’79. He’d met with Kennedy for hours, debated him at that awful midterm convention. He was the liaison to Long and Ribicoff and all the relevant House members. He’d squirmed when Harold Ford tried to the duck a tied vote that would determine which route the negotiations took. He’d done it all in the first term, but this time Eizenstat felt that Kennedy had come around. He’d heard it in the Senator’s voice. It wasn’t the sound of defeat. It was the sound of knowing. Kennedy understood now what Carter had been saying, and he knew that there wasn’t some magical bill coming in the future.

Who was next in ’84? Mondale. And Mondale had been in the thick of the negotiations, too, and Kennedy had fought Mondale’s ideas that would’ve gotten the bill to Carter’s desk. They were still too moderate for Kennedy’s tastes. He doesn’t have a choice, Eizenstat realized as Kennedy spoke in chopped sentences, interrupting himself and his own thoughts. He was sort of mumbling. Because he knew. He knew that if there was any chance for healthcare reform, it was now, and it was on Jimmy Carter’s terms.

If Carter had forced the point, if Mondale or Eizenstat had forced the point: Kennedy, here’s the deal, take it or leave it — well, Kennedy would’ve left it. That was his nature. But Kennedy had come around to knowing on his own. He didn’t win Iowa. Or New Hampshire. Or New York. The voters weren’t with him — not in the way he’d expected. And so, Kennedy came to know what he had to do: He had to take it.

• • •​

Eizenstat went right to Kennedy’s hideaway when the Senator was back in Washington, and he laid it out for him. There wasn’t going to be single-payer insurance.

Kennedy knew. He understood. He nodded.

“The president wants to make this happen, but we can’t hash out everything we did three years ago or two years ago. We’ve got to take where we left off and work from there. That’s the only way the president’s willing to do this.”

“I know,” Kennedy said. He did.

Back in ’78, when Eizenstat sat across from him at that panel, Kennedy’s blood boiled. Eizenstat was defending Carter’s record, but Kennedy argued him point-by-point. The crowd was already on his side. He’d already told them: “Sometimes a party must sail against the wind. We cannot afford to drift or lie at anchor. We cannot heed the call of those who say it is time to furl the sail.”

But now Kennedy knew. The wind hadn’t shifted, it’d only gotten stronger, and if he tried to sail against it, there wouldn’t be a boat left for him to man. He knew.

So, Eizenstat regurgitated the bill that had been hammered out before — what Carter had presented in June 1979. His proposal called for the creation of Healthcare, a federal umbrella program that merged Medicaid and Medicare and provided catastrophic healthcare coverage for every American. Most Americans would access insurance through their employer, which was now guaranteed with an employer mandate to provide insurance options. Employees’ contribution to their plan would be capped at 25%. Employers would receive subsidies to ensure that health insurance costs did not exceed 5% of payroll.

One of the major sticking points in the 1979 debate between Kennedy and the White House was the issue of phased-in coverage. Carter’s program created the vehicle, Healthcare, for further national universal coverage. It did not, however, immediately cover everyone. Kennedy was not supportive of the phased-in approach. Vice President Mondale suggested there could be triggers in the bill that mandated the transition into the next phase so long as certain economic conditions were met. The White House’s idea allowed the president to postpone the transition into a new phase, but Kennedy wanted the decision to rest with Congress. The president would be able to request a delay if needed, but ultimately Congress would need to approve the delay.

Kennedy raised concerns that would come from labor. They had been the loudest opponents of Carter’s phased-in approach. Eizenstat cut him off: “Go to them and get answers. You need to push them on this.” But Kennedy knew there were still debates to be had. What about the transitions into new phases? What about the fee schedules for physicians? What about the idea of the Reinsurance Fund?

There would be time for all of those negotiations, Eizenstat promised, but first Kennedy had to get labor on board, and Eizenstat needed to go speak with Senator Long.


March 15, 1981
Flagler Greyhound Track — Miami, FL

Roger Stone’s physique did not betray his influence. He was a lanky fellow. His hair was chopped awkwardly above the ears, his face was skeletal, and he hadn’t gained much weight since the November election. He had, though, picked up a tan. He was in town, as were a number of the operatives from the 1980 race, to talk about what came next for all of them now that Reagan had lost. They wanted to take back Congress in ’82, and they wanted to beat Mondale in ’84.

Haley Barbour was standing next to him. Stone didn’t care much for Barbour, who he associated with the smear campaign on Jack Kemp’s sexuality. Barbour didn’t care much for Stone, who he thought was a no-good-sonofabitch who defamed John Connally’s character. And it was no surprise to Barbour that Stone liked Jack Kemp. He’d heard the rumors about Stone and what he got up to on Saturday nights. Some of that shit Barbour didn’t believe. Didn’t have time for it. He had a few years on these kids. But some of it he did buy, and when it came to Roger Stone — Reagan’s magic delegate counter — well, Haley Barbour was willing to believe just about whateverthefuck got said about Roger Stone.

Barbour was in Washington now, lobbying for an oil company that John Connally introduced him to. These guys around him — Stone, Manafort, Atwater — were peddling away in R+2 and D+3 Congressional districts in Michigan and Ohio. Haley Barbour was making the big bucks. Meeting the donors. Working with the Congressional staffs. Making connections. He wasn’t going to sit around and make pennies waiting to get a title one rung up on the ladder from where he was in ’80. No, Haley Barbour was going to manage the campaign for the next President of the United States. He just didn’t know who that would be yet. He also didn’t know which of these dogs he was supposed to put 20 bucks on.

“The 8-dog is the favorite,” Atwater said. He’d already placed his bet.

“I like the 1.” Stone said it like it was supposed to shut them all up. Like his daddy had been on some breeding farm in Kansas, spending all day raising the puppies, training ‘em to run in circles, training ‘em to chase the lure so they could get to a good track and make a few bucks. The fuck did Roger Stone know about picking dogs? Barbour thought to himself. He picked Kemp. I bet Reagan wish he hadn’t.

Atwater shook his head. “No good. The 1-dog’s no good. Did you read the book? He didn’t place in his last race.”

Stone didn’t care. He liked the 1-dog. Didn’t need anyone to tell him which dog was supposed to win. The 1-dog was a good dog. Solid dog. He read the book, too, and he knew what to look for. He didn’t look for the same thing Atwater looked for, or the same thing Barbour looked for, or the same thing the guy two benches over smoking a cigarette wearing a paperboy hat looked for. Stone knew what he liked. And he was picking the 1-dog.

Barbour pulled the curled up book out of his back pocket, gave it a quick glance, and then made up his mind. “I’m going with the 4-dog.”

Atwater shook his head. Nobody could read the fucking book. This isn’t a campaign, he thought to himself. When Atwater was locked in a tight Congressional race last cycle, he’d used every trick he could think of to get his guy across the finish line. He’d planted fake reporters, he’d done push polls, he’d sent misleading mail. That was politics. That was a campaign. You could shape an outcome. Sure, you had the fundamentals, but they didn’t mean anything if you didn’t do what you had to get the win. But a dog race? Just read the book — it tells ya who’s gonna win.

“Well, go get it in,” Stone said, and Barbour took off to place his bet.

“Heard anything about Reagan?” Stone asked.

“Not a word,” Atwater admitted. It seemed the Gipper just sort of faded away after his loss to Carter. His supporters, though, were embittered, and they were ready to mobilize in the midterms. Atwater had been meeting already with people in the Moral Majority. A storm was brewing.

“It’s a shame,” Stone said. “He’d ‘ve been the best since Nixon.”

Atwater was less keen on the Nixon worship than Stone, but he agreed with the sentiment that Ford was an oaf and Carter was — well, Carter.

Barbour came back with Paul Manafort, and the four stood around waiting for the race to start. Manafort and Barbour had had the same job during the ’80, but Manafort had done it for Reagan. They’d gotten to know each other pretty well in the primary, and there weren’t hard feelings between them. Manafort had gone right to Stu Spencer and told him to hire Barbour for the general election, and Spencer did.

It didn’t take long for the conversation to turn to politics. It’s what they all had in common.

“Dole’s already jockeying for some kind of spotlight,” Manafort said.

Barbour laughed and lit a cigar. “If Bob Dole thinks he’s going to be president, Bob Dole’s going to have a rough for years.” The others chuckled.

“It should be Kemp,” Stone said as if there was no room for debate.

Barbour laughed louder at that one. “Hell, he might do alright… if he gets off his knees long enough to campaign.” Manafort thought that was the funniest thing he’d heard in awhile, not least of all because he knew it would piss Stone off.

“That’s a good man,” Stone said defensively, his face reddening. “And maybe if your crooked candidate and you hadn’t spread that shit, we wouldn’t be dealing with Jimmy Carter for the next four years.”

“Hey now,” Manafort said. “Let it go.”

Barbour waved it off. “It was just a joke,” he said, “but I’m sorry if I offended ya. All I know is Jack Kemp twisted himself in more knots than a pretzel during that campaign. He wouldn’t have the votes for dog catcher in Buffalo.”

“It wasn’t Jack’s fault Carter got the hostages home. Or got shot in the chest,” said Stone.

“No, it wasn’t, but it was his fault he made Reagan talk about gay teachers for a week, when he could’ve been hitting Carter on the fact inflation was higher than Willie Nelson.”

Stone went to fight back but the announcer’s voice interrupted: Herrrrrrrrrrrre’s buunnnyyy!! And they’re off!

Just as Atwater had told them, it was the 8-dog who broke early and was out in front. She was a black bitch. Came out of the box like a bat out of hell. She drew in, but she stayed on the outside just enough so she didn’t get caught up in the mess of the pack. These dogs were fast. The race would only last about 30 seconds. Thirty-one seconds. Thirty-two seconds.

And out of the box, it’s the 8, followed by the 2, 1, 5...

Barbour chomped on his cigar. “C’mon 4 gotuhrunninnow!” He’d folded the book into a tube and was banging it agains the back of the seat in front of him. “Gotuhrunnin!” Barbour’d been to the track once or twice before. Before the Arkansas primary he went to Southland. Sure, he’d lost a few hundred bucks, but he brought home one of the waitresses so it wasn’t an all-around bad night for the guy. Nothing serious. Nothing Marsha needed to worry about


Arkansas had been bad for Connally. Fuck. Real bad. Shoulda had that one, Barbour thought to himself. Shoulda had it.

Stone’s eyes gazed forward. The 1-dog was getting crowded on the inside rail, the 5 — some brindle bitch — kept jostling him, and he couldn’t find the room to break it open. The 8 was still in the lead on the outside, and she was starting to run away with it.

And around the first turn it’s the 8, 2, 1, 5…

Atwater stood, his arms crossed, shaking his head. None of these guys knew how to read a fucking book, and that’s why he’d be walking out the winner.

And into the backstretch its the 2-dog coming up to the front, but the 4-dog is trying to come around the outside. Alright, and it’s the 8, 2 — no, I’m sorry, the 2’s got him by a nose. It’s the 2, 8, 1—

“Goddamnit,” Stone was muttering under his breath. The 1-dog was still crowded. Was the bitch blind? Couldn’t she see she was getting trampled? How was she going to get to the lure if there were five other dogs in her way. Stupid mutts. Didn’t know how to run a race. Didn’t matter that breeders around the country spent years perfecting pedigrees, breeding to the Hall of Famers, giving their stud dogs an extra treat back at the farm. Didn’t matter as far as Stone was concerned. He was about to lose a hundred bucks.

That 4-dog is on a journey. He’s comin’ around on the outside. Around the outside! And he’s getting there! And he’s there! He’s got ‘em. It’s the 2, 4, 8 coming into the home stretch. And the 4’s goin’ to runnin’ now, Yes. He. Is. It’s close, but he’s running now, and that’s the nose. It’s the 4, 2, 8 … and into the finish it’s the 4 — he’s got it. He’s got it. And it’s done, iiiiiiit’s the 4, 2, 8…

Stone was apoplectic. The 1-dog had fallen apart completely, finishing in last. “Stupid dog,” Stone said. “Let himself get crowded on the inside.”

“He needed a better break,” Barbour offered. Stone told him to shut up.

“What made you pick the 4?” Atwater asked. He’d read the book. The 4-dog had done alright but nothing in the book told Lee he should’ve bet on him. He was looking at Barbour and Barbour had this face on him. Like he knew something the others didn’t. Like now that he was on K Street making the big bucks, he knew something the soldiers out in the field didn’t know.

Taking a drag from his cigar, Barbour gave a shrug. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I just had a feeling.”


March 19, 1981
Russell Senate Office Building — Washington, DC

Lessons learned. The clouds of healthcare reform swirling, Stu Eizenstat knew it was time to reach out to Senator Russell Long for cooperation. The White House’s decision to try and push through an aggressive budget without serious consultation had been an unnecessary complication in the early days of the second term. Eizenstat would not make the same mistake twice.

Russell Long had played an integral role in the healthcare negotiations two years earlier. In a May 1979 memorandum to the president, Eizenstat clearly stated the influence Long would have and how the White House would need to handle the Senator. Long, Eizenstat argued, could be persuaded to back a centrist approach over a more conservative bill narrowly focused on catastrophic coverage only “if the Administration makes it clear to him that we want to make such a choice and will cooperate in passing such legislation. In other words, we cannot refuse to deal with Senator Long and still obtain this more favorable outcome.” [1]

Now that Kennedy had come forward with interest in making a deal, Eizenstat returned to Long. He’d come around to the Carter plan and backed the president’s proposal in 1979. His continued support would require the kind of attention a long-serving Senator grew to expect. Such niceties had never been the way of Carter’s Georgia mafia. But lessons had been learned — at least by some of them.

Eizenstat made his way through the marble maze until he found Long’s front office door. He informed the receptionist and waited patiently in a chair until Long’s Legislative Director came into the room and invited him back to the Senator’s real office. They walked the familiar route out of the front office and around to the room where Long worked.

“Senator, thank you for making time to meet with me.”

“Not at all, Stu, sit down. Sit down.”

“Thank you, Senator. I’m stopping by today because Senator Kennedy has reached out to the White House and indicated he would be interested in pursuing an agreement on healthcare reform.”

Long scoffed. This again.

“I understand your reservations, and, if I can be frank, Senator, they’re shared by the President. Right now, we’re trying to assess how likely it is that we can forge a deal with Senator Kennedy, but if we’re going to do this, we know that it’s important to have your help and your leadership on the Finance Committee. Ultimately, that is where we’d like to move the bill if we go forward with this.”

Long could have risen from his chair, paced slowly, and let Eizenstat squirm. He could have given a lecture about how just weeks earlier he’d gone to the floor and lectured the White House about the need to respect the Finance Committee’s role in the legislative process. He could have told Eizenstat to get the hell out of his office. But Long felt a pressure that had been growing among Democratic senators for years — the pressure of an idea whose time had come.

It was a pressure most profoundly felt in the 1960s as Martin Luther King, Jr. and others organized an historic March on Washington to demand rights for Black Americans. It was felt when President Lyndon Johnson, cloaked in the grief of a shell-shocked nation, called Southern Senators into his office, leaned in so close that the smell of the president’s breath paralyzed the senator as his eyes demanded a vote for change. But healthcare was the white whale of Democratic presidents. Truman. Johnson. They’d chased it. Once again, Americans had elected a Democratic president with comfortable Congressional majorities. Once again, the president had to decide whether or not to pursue reform. Once again, Democratic senators found themselves facing the same question.

“I don’t know if we have the votes anymore,” he said.

Eizenstat had been here before, when the windfall profits tax didn’t have the votes. Now, it was law and a boon to the federal budget. Russell Long worried first and foremost about Louisiana. He was not in the Senate to carry the president’s water.

“Senator, I think we need an agreement first before we can know that, and I think if we are able to get a hospital cost containment bill through, we will gather significant momentum for wholesale reform. Senator Kennedy —”

“I need to call Abe.” He was referring to Ribicoff, the liberal (now-former) Senator from Connecticut with whom he’d drafted a healthcare compromise before. Then he continued, “The president really believes he can balance the budget and pass this legislation at the same time?"

“The hospital cost containment bill will do a lot to help stifle inflation, and that’s going to help the economy.”

“In three years? You sound like Jack Kemp.”

Eizenstat ignored the comment. “Senator, we need your help on this. I’d like to find a time for you to meet with the president and discuss the legislation further. I think this is our chance.”

“That’s fine, Stu. Thanks for stopping by.”


March 22, 1981
Walker’s Point — Kennebunkport, ME

There was a light mist. The wind whipped against their rain jackets, taunting their baseball caps with a plunge into the cold Atlantic. Poppy smiled nonetheless, steering the boat through the waters as the sun peaked up from the tree line.

“Beautiful mornin’!” He bellowed over the roar of the motor. He may as well have been Curly McLain.

Baker nodded. “Sure is.”

“Jim, what do you think about taking on Bentsen next year?” The boat bounced along the water, picking up speed.

“I think it distracts you from the race in ’84. You’ll have to raise and spend money that would be better used to help other candidates or for the race in ’84. And if you lose, George, I don’t see how you can win the nomination.”

“You’re right,” Bush said, smirking. “But that’s why I wasn’t asking for me. I was asking for you. I think you should take on the ole’ bastard.”

Baker scoffed. “I didn’t have too much success back when I ran for AG.”

“Texas has changed!” Bush proclaimed.

It was true. Carter became the first Democratic president to win the White House without Texas’ electoral votes — something previously thought to be unimaginable. Bentsen’s days were numbered, especially if the economy continued to languish in a hazy in-between malaise.

“I don’t know, George…” Baker’s voice trailed off. Sure, he’d love to go to the Senate, but he also didn’t know why they were letting themselves get distracted. There was a big race ahead of them in ’84. Sometimes he feared Bush thought it would be a cakewalk — like everyone would stand aside and give him the nomination. Baker predicted an entirely different experience. He’d be the frontrunner, which meant he’d be the target.

“Think about it,” Bush said, slapping Baker’s back. “I think you’d win. And wouldn’t it be nice?” After a pause: “Taking out Bentsen I mean…”

“It would be,” Baker nodded. But he didn’t know.

As Bush took the boat into a hard right turn, he added: “George is thinking about it.”

“Junior? About what?”

“Running against Bentsen.”

Baker shook his head. That was an even worse idea for the ’84 race. Having Bush’s son in the Senate would only complicate the message. Junior would serve as a distraction for the media. “I don’t know…”

“I know. It’s a bad idea. He doesn’t seem to understand Jeb is the politician in the family. And it’s still my turn. I’ve got to do this next time. I’ve got to win it.”

Baker recognized the fighter in his friend of so many years. “And you will… For now, I think it’s best we keep the Bush Machine out of the Texas Senate bid. Let the Republicans there figure it out, and we’ll make sure you cut a big check, headline a fundraiser, hit the trail — there’s time for all of that. But let’s keep our powder dry otherwise.”

The boat slowed. “You’re right…”

After a minute or so, Bush interrupted the light chirping of the words and the sounds of the boat bobbing on the water. “So, will you talk to George for me?”


April 4, 1981
Russell Senate Office Building — Washington, DC

“I don’t think we’re going to get a better deal,” Kennedy said. He was sitting on a blue couch, an orange pillow under his arm. Behind him were an assortment of photographs and framed documents. There were ghosts in the room. Joe Jr, Jack, and Bobby looked on from the wall. There were pictures of sailboats. A photo of Ted and his children on the side table in front of a lamp.

He was meeting with leaders of organized labor to talk through the potential for significant healthcare reform in Carter’s second term.

“The fact of the matter is we held out for better reform under Nixon. We came up short in the primaries against Carter. This is our moment. We have no reason to believe there will be a better bill under Bush or Baker or Kemp — whichever Republican they nominate in ’84.”

“What about Mondale?” one of them asked.

“Mondale’s the one who has proposed the phased-in approach. I don’t see why he’d go for single-payer right away, and besides — We can’t be sure what our Congressional majorities will look like by then, or that Mondale will win the general election.”

There were nods of agreement around the room. George Meany, the man who held the labor movement together, was dead now. Throughout the earlier fight on healthcare reform, he had kept the unions in lockstep behind Kennedy’s push for more expansive reform. Now, his voice was gone, and Kennedy’s voice advocated a different path to reform.

“Where are the parts of the Carter framework that we need changes?” Kennedy asked. “I’ve talked to Stu, and he’s willing to work on some of the details with us, but he is not willing to go back to the drawing board on this, and frankly I understand his rationale.”

Someone in the room asked Kennedy why he wouldn’t just hold hearings on a single-payer bill in hopes of finding the votes and forcing Carter into signing the bill or vetoing it.

Kennedy appreciated the enthusiasm for a single-payer bill, but he was grim in his assessment of its potential: “First of all, I don’t think the president would hesitate to veto it. We’ve seen no indications he would cave into that kind of Congressional power. And second of all, I don’t know that I have the votes in the Senate to get the legislation through. Russell Long and the conservative wing of this party prefer Carter’s phased-in approach.”

Just as had been the case in 1979, the labor unions were most concerned with the phases through which universal coverage would be established. Once the bill took effect, all Americans would receive catastrophic coverage through the government program “HealthCare,” but from there, the Carter White House’s plan diverged from the demands of organized labor. Carter and his White House favored an incremental approach in which, at certain agreed upon intervals, HealthCare would expand to include total coverage for more individuals. At these intervals, a certain array of economic standards would need to be met in order for the expansion to take place. If the economic conditions were not met, the expansion would be delayed.

Back in 1979, Kennedy and labor pushed the Carter administration to adopt softer language that would only give the president the opportunity to request a waiver of the expanded access from Congress. Now, Kennedy came armed with the talking points Eizenstat had given him. Republicans would always be a block of votes to restrict expansion. A Republican Senate might be able to block expansion indefinitely. Instead, the president would be forced to abide by the economic parameters outlined in the bill.

Kennedy and labor did not immediately reach an agreement, but it became clear to Douglas Fraser, who featured large in the negotiations, that Kennedy was moving closer to the Carter model. Fraser never doubted Kennedy’s loyalty to universal coverage, and so he interpreted Kennedy’s movement as an indicator of the political realities.

“Ted,” he said, “I want you to go to the White House and get us the best deal you can, and then bring it back to us. Right now, if we give you our red lines we might be selling ourselves short. Bring back a deal, and then we can make up our minds about what needs to be changed.”

Kennedy sought clarification. “But you are okay with us pursuing an agreement based on the 1979 plan that the president put forth?”

Fraser said he was. “It’s the best we’re going to get out of the bastard.”

Kennedy laughed. “I think you’re right, Doug.”

The meeting was over. Everyone rose from their chairs and shook hands. Kennedy thanked Fraser profusely for wrapping it up. “I’m going to get us there, Doug. I promise.”

“I know you will, Senator,” Fraser replied.

When the labor leaders left his office, Kennedy placed a call to Stu Eizenstat and asked for time to meet with the president about healthcare reform. Eizenstat was happy to arrange it but cautioned that he wasn’t sure it ranked high on the president’s list of priorities. Carter wanted assurances that the talks would not fall apart like they did in ’79 before he staked political capital on the issue.

Kennedy nodded. “Stu,” he said, interrupting. “I’ve got labor on board.”

“Labor’s on board?” Eizenstat asked.

“In the general sense, yes. I need to talk to the president, but if we can come to an agreement on how to phase-in coverage, we’re there.”

“Senator, this is great news. We’ll find time to meet with the president right away.”

>>>>>>>>

[1] This memo is real, and it’s a total example of the gems you can find when you set your mind to the deep dive. You can access it through the Carter library here.

 

[Vidal]

WHITE SMOKE

“The difference between Carter and Kennedy: Carter has this vague religion which he believes in strongly, while Kennedy has this strong religion which he believes in vaguely.”
-Gene McCarthy​

April 2, 1981
A few miles outside San Diego, CA

He might have looked out of place in a suit if it weren’t for the fact that the president never travels alone. Jody Powell was there, also in jacket and tie, trailing behind the president, donning aviators and looking down with annoyance as the grass brushed against his recently-shined shoes. They were in the middle of a field in southern California to make an announcement.

Carter thought it was going to be the peak of his presidency — a chance to shift the debate. Powell wasn’t as sure. That’s what he thought about putting them on the roof of the White House.

Carter had chosen a vast empty field as his setting to address the nation. The advance men had brought out a podium carrying the presidential seal. Reporters crowded around. Carter was flanked by members of Congress and that ever elusive Jerry Brown. He was going to explain the importance of solar energy to the American people, and he was going to prove that he’d been right last year when he fought Congress and won the windfall profits tax.

“In my first term,” Carter began, “I said that our confrontation with energy consumption was the ‘moral equivalent of war.’ Some in the press mocked the idea. I believe that the incidents of the last twelve months have proven I was correct in my assessment.

“A year ago today, I signed the Crude Oil Windfall Profit Tax Act of 1980. The tax served multiple purposes. It will help us balance our budget before I leave office in 1985, and it will also help us to invest in the renewable energies that will be needed to reduce our dependence on oil and protect our environment.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m standing in a big empty field.” Carter laughed at his own joke. Some in the press cohort chuckled, too. Most of them were just sweating in the South California heat.

“I’m here because over the next year-and-a-half these many acres will be converted from an empty to field to a solar farm. Private companies, supported by the revenue generated through the windfall profit tax, will begin installing solar panels as far as we can see from our vantage point here, and that production will create jobs, and once its completed, this farm will produce energy, and that energy will not only lower the electricity costs for those here in Southern California, it will also reduce our nation’s dependence on foreign oil.

“This is the potential that our country has. It is incumbent upon all of us to help us reach it.” Carter nodded and thanked everyone for coming out. No questions. Charles Duncan, the Energy Secretary, standing behind Carter, applauded. So did the gaggle of White House staffers. The reporters folded up their notebooks, the cameramen broke down their tripods, and together they trudged back to the vans.

• • •​

One of the crowning accomplishments of Carter’s first term in office was the National Energy Act. The legislation had undergone many forms, but the final bill, which passed in October 1978 by a single vote in the U.S. House of Representatives, altered the way the nation approached energy. Not only did it create a cabinet-level Department of Energy, but it also sought to reduce the nation’s dependence on oil. It implemented penalties on the production of fuel inefficient vehicles, it raised the efficiency standards for home appliances, it gave tax incentives to the wind and solar power industries, and it included the Power Plant and Industrial Fuel Use Act, which prohibited new power plants that were powered by oil or natural gas, and it was this provision that sparked the most controversy.

President Carter often faced policy dilemmas that acted against his values. His compassion and Christianity led him to support government programs that helped the poor and improved the quality of life for all Americans, but the realities of inflation superseded these tendencies. Instead, he was committed (detractors would say obsessed) with balancing the budget instead of implementing liberal spending programs to help the needy. In a similar vein, his environmentalism was challenged by the nation’s dependence on oil, which Carter believed to be a national security threat and an economic one. And so, the Power Plant and Industrial Fuel Use Act, had the unintended consequence of biasing new power plants towards coal as opposed to alternative energy sources favored by environmentalists.

Carter did not concern himself with such matters in his first term. He understood that coal was not ideal for the environment, but at the time the National Energy Act became law it was the most logical choice to get the nation to curb its dependence on oil. As he saw it, there was no choice. He had to kick the country’s addiction to oil, and coal was the easiest way to do that.

Now, with four more years in the White House, environmentalists, who believed they had a friend in Carter, approached the administration about moving beyond coal.

Jordan was unconcerned with their demands. The National Energy Act had already provided tax incentives to wind and solar power, and they were using the money from the windfall profits tax to expand research and development for these alternative energies. Carter’s trip to San Diego had helped to underscore the point.

Eizenstat had been intimately involved in the back-and-forth over Carter’s energy bill in the first term, and soon enough Anne Wexler went to him and reported what she was hearing from the environmentalists. Now that Carter had a second term, they expected the White House to push beyond coal. Politically, Eizenstat found the entire issue untenable. West Virginia was one of the Democratic Party’s most reliable states in the Electoral College and Robert Byrd, its Senator, led the Senate Democratic Caucus. A War on Coal would go nowhere politically and only burn bridges. Wexler understood the politics, but she also believed that environmentalists represented an important tenet of the Democratic voting bloc. If they sat home, it could mean the difference between winning and losing states like California.

In the early months of 1981, appeasing the environmentalists aligned with another duty of the Carter White House: helping Democratic members of Congress who didn’t survive the 1980 elections. One of them was Mike McCormack, who narrowly lost his Washington seat. McCormack, who looked every bit the professorial sort who would be a leading voice on nuclear energy, came asking for a job, but unlike others who needed political appointments, he had a title and job description prepared: White House Nuclear Energy Czar.

McCormack was focused on the energy crisis and was building a pro-fusion caucus in the Congress that was focused on steering resources to a new type of nuclear energy development, fusion instead of fission. McCormack thought that fusion energy, safer than the current fission technology, was the next frontier in sustainable energy development, and he believed that if the White House deputized someone to steer money and other resources that way, the United States could become a global leader on the issue.

It helped that he was already a White House ally. In the 1970s, he’d led the effort to convert the United States to the metric system, which President Ford signed into law. Carter had supported the issue as well and overseen the conversion of road signs to include distance in kilometers.

After several meetings, Eizenstat drafted a memorandum for the president in which he laid out the case for research and development support for the fusion energy effort. Carter, a nuclear engineer in his earlier life, believed in the promise of the technology, and, reading through the memo in his private study, checked off the line next to “Yes” — he wanted to appoint McCormack as his Nuclear Energy Czar in hopes of directing resources towards fusion development. [1]

• • •​

In December of 1980, Carter signed one of the most important pieces of environmental legislation ever passed in American history, the Alaska National Interest Lands Conservation Act. The new law resolved one of the greatest dramas of the president’s first term in office.

A law passed during the Nixon administration to address oil exploration and production in Alaska was set to expire in 1978. When the bill lapsed, some 45 million acres of the Last Frontier would be opened for oil development. The state’s senators Ted Stevens and Mike Gravel blocked bipartisan legislation that passed the House of Representatives to protect the land. Carter moved forward with a controversial but legal employ of executive power. Using the Antiquities Act, he declared the land a National Park and prevented it from being opened for development.

The executive order had been a major blow to oil and gas companies that hoped to use the land for production.

After Carter’s decision, Alaska Senator Ted Stevens began negotiations with the White House to open much of the state up for oil and gas development while preserving the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge and other areas of the state. Carter was not wholly opposed to oil and gas development in Alaska, but he opposed any expansions that jeopardized key environmental areas, such as ANWR.

The final legislation, which Carter signed, protected 157 million acres of land while opening oil and gas exploration along the Alaskan coast and some 90 percent of state land. [2]


April 14, 1981
The White House — Washington, DC

If the president wanted a meeting, it was important to go. Russell Long believed in this, as he did a long list of maxims that governed Washington, DC. He knew that the president was considering taking up the mantle of healthcare reform, and he knew that the president was going to ask him for his help. Long believed that the agreement they came to in 1979 was a good framework for universal coverage and the kind of sensible legislation that would help everyday Americans. He was not eager to spend the next year ahead of the midterm elections re-hashing a freshly-scabbed wound. In fact, he thought it would only lead to an electoral disaster that would resolve itself only with a Republican-controlled Senate.

He intended to say as much to the president.

When he arrived in the Oval Office, he stuck out his arm and shook the president’s hand. “It’s good to see you, Mister President. Good to see you.”

“Senator, come in,” the president said. He was on a first-name basis with some members, like his friend Joe Biden, but he was always deferential to Long.

They took their seats on opposite sofas, and Carter explained that Kennedy had come back to the White House with encouraging news about taking up healthcare reform. He mentioned Kennedy’s comment that labor was now willing to negotiate.

“I hear ya, Mister President, and I understand your desire to get a bill passed, but we have to consider the electoral ramifications here,” Long said. “You are asking us to take on an issue that has never been easy —”

“Before you go any further,” Carter interrupted, “I am not asking you to do anything other than share your opinion about the viability of passing a health insurance reform package in this Congress.”

“Well, thank you for that, Mister President, because that’s what I want to say. If we take this on, we are going to spend eight months fighting with one another and very likely not passing anything. I am unsure that this is the right moment for this kind of legislation.”

Carter nodded, but he also didn’t have any more elections to win. He decided to reframe the issue from one of a dragged-out process to a speedy reform.

“I’ve indicated to Senator Kennedy that I am not willing to craft a plan different from the one proposed in the summer of 1979. Stu has explained to him all of the work that went into that bill — the work you and I did with Abe and others. We’re not going back to square one. I’m willing to make adjustments as needed, particularly to the timetable for phased expansion, but I am not willing to start from scratch. Ted knows that.”

Long nodded. “Mister President, it is still healthcare reform. We cannot get it done in less than six months.”

“I would like to see it done by Thanksgiving.”

Long nodded. He’d expected as much. “If labor is going to —”

“Senator, I agree with you. I’m not interested in rehashing the same talking points from every special interest group. But if I can get an assurance from Kennedy and labor that they will come to the table in earnest, and I can get Stu here to hammer out a framework for discussions, are you willing to join us?”

Long paused as he considered the question, and so Carter continued, “Senator, we cannot pass this reform without you. It’s that simple.” The president stood up from his sofa, and Long hastily scrambled to his feet. When the president stood, nobody sat. “I think we may have our chance at last. My reelection, and Kennedy’s performance in the primary, has underscored where the electorate is on this issue, and Kennedy knows that the deal we presented him is the best chance at reform.

“I understand your hesitations,” the president continued. “I have them, too. Our economy is in a precarious position, and I’m loathe to prolong the kind of deficit spending that has produced inflation. But I also know that this may be the Democratic Party’s last opportunity to deliver on this issue for twenty or thirty years.”

Long nodded. “I understand, Mister President. I am not willing to go down this road unless we know for certain that Senator Kennedy is acting in good faith. We cannot afford another expense of political capital that yields nothing but bad headlines.”

“And I agree,” Carter said, smiling. He put his arm around Long as they walked back towards the door. “But it’s good to know that if we can get some kind of a framework together —”

“I will get the votes from my wing of the Party if Kennedy gets them from his. And he better tell labor to sit down.”

“And I agree,” the president repeated.

Long thanked the president for his time and left. Back in the Oval Office, Carter and Eizenstat talked more about what the president wanted to see in the final package.

“Go back to Kennedy and get him to the table,” the president said.


April 22, 1981
Russell Senate Office Building — Washington, DC

Carter may have pushed Senator Long towards the table, but his position was nearly identical to the senator’s. He, too, was not willing to wager such political capital only to see another attempt at healthcare legislation go down in defeat. Eizenstat well understood Carter’s hesitancies about the politics of pushing for reform. He also understood that the president was just as influenced by the economic conditions and the federal budget. If healthcare legislation was going to pass, Eizenstat needed to establish a set of basic understandings with Kennedy, and that was his goal as he headed to the Hill to meet with the Bay State Senator.

Eizenstat began the meeting with a run-down of the president’s meeting with Long. The Finance Chairman, Eizenstat explained, was willing to come to the table, but he also insisted that the conversations center on the 1979 proposal and build out from there. Kennedy agreed, and he insisted that he’d been clear about that in his conversation with labor.

“I think if we can get concessions from the White House on the manner in which universal coverage is phased-in, we can come to an agreement on this,” the Senator said optimistically.

Eizenstat understood, but he also reiterated the president’s insistence on a hospital cost containment bill. Carter believed excessive medical costs were one of the foundational causes of the current stagflation crisis, and he was not willing to pass any kind of reform of the insurance industry if Congress did not first pass a cost containment bill.

Kennedy did not agree with the president’s priority of the cost containment bill, but he also knew that there was no hope for reform without it. Nor did he harbor any ideological objections to it.

The hospital industry successfully killed Carter’s bill for cost containment in 1979 under the promise of a voluntary effort, but the hospitals had largely abandoned serious action to curb costs since the bill died. Kennedy believed that those realities had changed the calculations in Washington, and he hoped that they may be able to get more support for the cost containment legislation now that time had passed.

Kennedy lamented that the hospital bill would still face issues in the House, where the Ways and Means Committee had been notoriously unhelpful during the first term. Eizenstat explained that the politics of that were changing as well. One of the key vote last time had been Wyche Fowler, a Georgia Congressman. But the mayoral race in Atlanta was looking increasingly good for Andrew Young and John Lewis, a Black civil rights leader in Fowler’s district, was poised to gain a spot on the City Council. In recent days, Lewis had begun making mention of a potential primary challenge to Fowler if the Congressman did not deliver on key issues for the Democratic Party’s liberal base. Fowler had since indicated to the White House that he may be open to a hospital cost containment bill.

Fowler was an important vote, but he was not the most influential. One significant setback for the legislation was the elevation of Don Rostenkowski to the Ways and Means chairmanship. In 1979, Rostenkowski dealt the Carter administration a major blow when he sided with the American Hospital Association in putting forth the voluntary measures aimed at cost containment. The new Carter/Kennedy alliance would need to find a way around Rostenkowski’s influence if they were going to pass the cost containment bill.

As for the broader reform package, Kennedy and Eizenstat agreed on several areas of discussion for a future meeting between the president and Congressional leaders. They also set a date: May 19th. As fate would have it, neither Carter nor Kennedy would be in Washington that day.


May 13, 1981
St. Peter’s Square — Vatican City

Pope John Paul II rode through St. Peter’s Square in a customized Fiat which allowed him to shake hands and perform blessings as he traveled through a crowd. May 13th was no different as the Pope, donning all white, made his way through the Square, oblivious to the dangers that swirled around him.

Mehmet Ali Ağca and his partner Oral Çelik were waiting in the Square, ready to open fire on the Pope. They even carried a small explosive device with them, which they hoped would create enough chaos for them to flee the scene without arrest. They waited patiently for the Pope to get close to them.

When he came near enough, Ağca got off his first shot. It struck the Pope in his stomach and he began to lean forward in pain. Noticing the success of Ağca’s first shot, Çelik successfully got off a shot of his own, striking the Pope in the chest. The bullet struck the Pope’s heart and he collapsed immediately. He was dead.

Shrieks rang out through the Square as the assassins snuck through the crowd to make their escape. Camillo Cibin, the chief of the Vatican security, pursued them, but Çelik detonated the explosion. Eleven others died from the bomb, and the assassins were able to escape in the chaos, just as they had predicted.

The assassins then began their trek to the Bulgarian Embassy, about four kilometers away, where they hoped to find refuge from the global manhunt they predicted.

En route to the embassy, a nervous Çelik jeopardized their escape. A police officer, noticing the haste with which they were running away from the scene, confronted the men. Çelik shot the police officer twice, drawing attention to them. A group of bystanders who were rushing to the square to help after hearing the explosion heard the shots and saw the men sprinting away from the dead police officer. They chased after the assassins, forcing them into the street where a car struck Çelik, killing him instantly. Ağca avoided the car but soon found himself pushed to the ground from the group of bystanders who kept him there until police were able to put him under arrest.

News of the assassination and bombing spread quickly, and in Washington, Watson informed the president in the Oval Office. Carter was devastated at the display of such violence. He himself had already survived an assassination attempt. What is happening to the world? Carter thought to himself.

Eizenstat quickly noticed the politics of what was happening. “You need to call Senator Kennedy,” he said, “and deliver him the news yourself.” It was the kind of display of presidential humility that had been lacking from the Carter White House in the first term. Eizenstat saw an opportunity for the president to make a genuine gesture towards Kennedy, a devout Catholic who would be devastated by the news. Carter said he couldn’t be bothered, but Eizenstat pressed him, and the president gave in.

He placed a phone call to the Senator and delivered the news himself. Kennedy was immensely grateful for the personal call, and Carter asked Kennedy to join him at the funeral when the arrangements were prepared by the Vatican. Kennedy, touched by the invitation, thanked the president.


May 19, 1981
Air Force One — Over the Atlantic Ocean

On May 19, 1981, the world gathered for the funeral of Pope John Paul II. That night, Carter, Kennedy, and the rest of the entourage returned home to the United States aboard Air Force One. It had been a long day, and Carter was having trouble falling asleep, so he went outside his cabin and started to pace the plane. He saw Ted Kennedy slipping Rosary Beads into his pocket, and the president invited him back to his cabin for a conversation.

It began slowly enough. Awkward pleasantries about their families. Carter wasn’t sure how to ask about Kennedy’s — he was well aware of the divorce. Exhaustion weighed down on both men, even though neither could get to sleep, and it suppressed their inhibitions just enough for Carter to turn back and face Kennedy after staring out the window for a minute or so. He asked, “What was today like for you?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. President?”

“Well, I’m not a Catholic,” Carter reminded Kennedy. “I was just wondering what today — laying a Pope to rest. What did that feel like? To you?”

The question caught Kennedy off guard. Not in the way that Mudd’s had. Most people assumed Ted didn’t know the answer to that question. It wasn’t that. It was more that Kennedy had too much he wanted to say. Too many policies to pass. Too many ideas to turn into bills to sign into laws. He’d been overwhelmed. So, he’d just shut down.

But this question — Kennedy really hadn’t considered it before. What did it feel like? He thought about that for a moment. “I suppose it’s hard to put into words.” He bit his lip for a moment longer. “I appreciate the invitation. It was an honor, Mr. President.”

That wasn’t what Carter had meant. Damnit, where’s this man’s soul? The president looked out the window. At the stars. He thought of Romeo & Juliet — the part Bobby Kennedy quoted in his convention speech in ’64.

Without thinking, Carter let the words trickle out: “When he shall die take him and cut him out into stars and he shall make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night and pay no worship to the garish sun.”

“Mister President?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, turning to Kennedy. He noticed a glimmer in the corner of Kennedy’s eye. Carter looked away. He had meant the Senator no disrespect.

“I think that’s why today was so hard for me. To see what senseless violence could do to my brothers, to my country, and now … to my faith.” Kennedy let the words hang between them. “I was so shaken…” His voice trailed off. The sentence was left hanging — never to be completed.

“Did you question your own faith?” It was a remarkably personal question, but Carter was at ease. He’d spent many Sundays teaching the Bible. Discussing faith. He did not think about how those classes had been amongst fellow Baptists. How the Catholics, carrying the guilt of centuries, did not discuss, in the same way, the Bible and its teachings. They relied on a different code — a different religion and a different type of faith.

Kennedy bristled at the question before tentatively answering, “I did.” His voice betrayed his hesitation, a feeling he carried not because he was ashamed to admit it, but because this was a new thought for him and a new conversation for them. Just days earlier, he and Carter had no desire to answer each other’s phone calls. “I think we all — there are those moments…” His voice trailed off again. He searched for what he wanted to say. He wasn’t done speaking, just thinking. Carter noticed and sat patiently, looking into the Senator’s trembling lips as he fought to find the words.

“When Bobby died, I remember my mother cried out, ‘But how could they have taken the father of ten children?’ And what she meant, though she couldn’t bring herself to say it aloud, was, ‘How could God?’” [3]

Carter nodded as Kennedy continued: “My mother, the most devout and the persistent believer I have ever known — even she…” He didn’t need to say more.

The silence sat between them, Carter looking over Kennedy’s shoulder, imagining the pain he had felt. The pain Rose must have felt. And then Kennedy interrupted him: “And you, Mr. President? Have you ever — what Kierkegaard called ‘fear and trembling’ — have you ever been there?”

“Certainly,” he said with ease. He was an Evangelical. These conversations happened all the time. With each increasing hesitation of Kennedy’s, Carter was slowly reminded he was discussing faith with a Catholic. “The Hostage Crisis challenged me in a way I’d never been challenged before. I prayed more then than at any point in my entire life. And they were answered, but it was agonizing.”

Almost instinctually Kennedy replied with a cliche: “I can’t imagine what that must have been like.”

But surely, Carter thought, he must have tried. Kennedy ran against him for the presidency. He wanted to sit in the Oval Office, the Situation Room. He wanted to handle situations like the Hostage Crisis — or, at least, he’d asked the American people to let him. No president wants to handle such situations. But here he was offering a platitude that surely must have been devoid of meaning because the alternative was that his entire campaign had been devoid of meaning. Carter pondered what it all meant. What did it all meant to him? Why did he run?

Of course, Kennedy had struggled with that own question himself when he ran. Helped by drink, he gazed out at the night sky as Air Force One hurdled back to familiar shores. The water. He thought of the water below them — of the force with which it swallowed him, her, the vehicle whole. It was shallow, but it had been deep enough. The water began to fill the car, and he forced his way out. He emerged gasping for air. Swallowing hard with each breath. Panting in search of more air, of more life.

He’d stumbled back to the motel where he was staying, leaving Mary Jo Kopechne for dead. The memory struck him like an icepick to the spine. A jolted chill sped through his shoulders, his spine, his elbows and fingers. He clenched his eyes shut to force out the memory, and Carter noticed, for the first time, that the Senator was struggling. He averted his gaze.

When he turned back, his eyes met Kennedy’s. The president feared that Kennedy might jolt upright and leave the conversation, but he didn’t. He stayed and asked Carter another question, “Do, uh — doyaevah wondah why us?”

Carter started to answer, but Kennedy continued on: “I’ve made — uh — made mistakes in my life, and sometimes I wondah, why this was all meant for me? What did I do to, uh, to diiiisuuuuuhhhvvv —” He stopped there.

Carter didn’t agree with the insinuation behind the question. “I’ve come to realize the idea that we are saved by the grace of God through faith in Jesus Christ corrects the belief that we must do something good in order to earn God’s grace and love.” He let it sit between them. After all, he was raising the ancient disconnect between the Catholics and the other Christians. It was a disagreement over that core tenet of Carter’s faith — the idea of faith and works. What was their relationship? “We do not need to live a perfect life, nor even a morally decent one, to be loved and accepted by our Creator.” [4] So said the Baptist.

The Catholic paused. It did not take much time for him to begin shaking his head.

“No, no,” he began. “We have to live a virtuous life —”

“You mistake me,” Carter interrupted. “Of course we should, but faith brings about good works, but doing good things does not result in faith. And if we fail to do good works, we are loved by God nonetheless. It does not mean we should ignore His teachings, it just means we are allowed to fall short of them.” [5]

Kneeling at the altar, rosary in hand. Sitting in the box, a screen between him and the preacher. Bless me father for I have sinned…

Allowed. To fall short. Of them. Allowed to fall short of them. Allowed to fall short. Allowed.

Carter’s words were as foreign to Kennedy as Hinduism or Islam may have been. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his face once more. Bless me father for I have sinned… Bless me father for I have…

And as the president watched his one-time rival rub his face, as if to wash away the guilt, it occurred to him — like a bridge emerging from a blur into a haunting focus — why the man across from him had run for president. It swallowed Carter whole, like the icy water of the Atlantic.

“Ted, I think…” but Carter’s voice trailed off. Even he wasn’t sure what to say.

Kennedy thought about leaving. Shifted uncomfortably in the chair. But then Carter spoke, taking the attention, which seemed almost permanently fixed on the man before him, and bringing it back so he could breathe: “When I was on that table — I wasn’t prepared then. I am now.”

“To die?”

“I am. It surprises me even now, but — yes. I am.”

Kennedy thought about the plane coming down into the Massachusetts soil. He shuddered.

“I don’t know that I am,” he admitted. “There’s so much left to do…” Again, his voice trailed off. But Carter wanted to know what it was he meant to say.

“Finish your thought,” he urged, as if he were back at Bible study. CCD, as a young Teddy may have called it.

“Uhh, you know our mothahs… I think they have shaped, in real ways, both of us…” Kennedy wasn’t sure why he was speaking for Carter, but the president was simply nodding and so Kennedy continued. “Well, when our fathah was away at work…” He was failing to finish any of his sentences.

Carter didn’t interrupt.

“Luke 12:48: ‘And to whomsoever much is given, of him shall much be required…’ Jack and Bobby did so much…” His voice trailed off again, but Carter didn’t need to hear anything else to understand.

The president nodded in agreement, his chin resting in his folded hand. He rubbed his chin with his index finger as if in thought. It really is that simple for him.

“So, I suppose I feel we have a lot of work left to do,” Kennedy said, standing up and ending what may have been among the most awkward conversations of his life. But when he returned to his seat, he looked out the window, and thought about how grateful he was to have had it.


May 28, 1981
St. Peter’s Basilica — Vatican City

Tradition dictates that smoke shall be emitted to tell the people the results of a ballot of the College of Cardinals. Black smoke indicates that the College failed to elect a pope. White smoke indicates that the Lord’s word has been heard and that a new pope has been elected.

At the May 1981 Conclave, the Cardinals were a college divided. It had taken eight ballots to make Karol Wojtyła Pope John Paul II when they last gathered. In October of 1978, when the cardinals met for their second conclave that year, they were divided between the archbishop of Genoa, Giuseppe Siri, a conservative, and the archbishop of Florence, Giovanni Benelli, a liberal. Though Benelli came close to the Papacy, his inability to win over conservatives denied him the chance and Wojtyła emerged as a compromise candidate.

According to the Catholic doctrine, the Pope was really chosen by God. He won because God, working through His Cardinals, scrawled the chosen name on the paper. He is considered a direct successor of Saint Peter. One does not arrive at the Papacy through politicking. At least, that’s the Church’s official story. In reality, the continuous balloting is not all that dissimilar from the process Republican and Democratic delegates performed at their conventions for more than a century. There are no noisemakers at the Papal Conclave. No long-winded nominating speeches. No voice from the sewer. No balloon drops. But there is the pressure to arrive at a consensus choice, and just as how the Democratic Party — long divided between the conservative South and the liberal base — forced this compromise through the two-thirds rule, the election of a pope required a two-thirds majority in order to be named Pope. It meant that the liberal wing of the Church and the conservative wing of the Church had to compromise.

Given the recent rapidity of conclaves, the dynamics of the 1978 conclaves were still very much in play just a few years later. The 1981 conclave was just as fraught with tension as the others had been.

For two days, once the first day, four times the second, black smoke gushed from the small chimney. There was no Pope. Once again, Benelli found himself near the Papacy. On the fifth ballot, he was just four votes shy. Those final votes, however, are always the hardest to win.

The cardinals adjourned that evening and went to their rooms to pray. The black smoke bellowed as the waiting crowd sighed in disappointed. Many thousands got on their knees and prayed. Let there be a Pope tomorrow, they asked the Lord. Those cardinals inside the conclave who most ardently supported Benelli believed that would secure the Papacy on the sixth ballot the next morning.

Part of Benelli’s success on the initial ballots stemmed from the fact that conservatives were divided on who they would support. Some voted for Giuseppe Siri, as they did in the October 1978 conclave. Others felt they needed a new candidate and they began to rally their votes behind Bernardin Gantin, Cardinal Bishop of Palestrina, who would have become the first Black pope.

It became clear to the conservatives that a new compromise candidate was needed, or there would be a rush to Benelli on the next ballot. In the dark of the night, they whispered to one another. A name passed from one Cardinal’s lip to another’s ear. It was shrouded in secrecy. It had to be. Some heard the name of the new candidate. Others heard only, “Stay firm. Do not give in. A compromise can be reached.” There was no Haley Barbour on the floor to stir mischief. There was no Roger Stone to count heads and report back to Benelli. There was only the delicate, invisible hand of God.

The next morning, when the cardinals gathered once more, they were handed their ballots — simple sheets of paper folded in the middle. On the top, it read “Eligo in Summum Pontificem,” I elect as Supreme Pontiff. The cardinals then wrote the name of their choice on a blank line on the bottom half of the ballot.

When the counting began, Benelli looked confident, but his smile soon dissipated. He had been through this process before and new what to look out for. To hear a new name — at this stage — could spell an inevitable, if long, road to a new compromise candidate. He wished so dearly that they had not adjourned last night. If they had only been in the Basilica for another vote, he could have won it through exhaustion, he believed. But after only a few ballots he heard the new name. Sebastiano Baggio.

Ballots bore Baggio’s name in conclaves past. He was an influential leader among the Cardinals — the Prefect of the Congregation of Bishops since 1973. He had prepared lists of candidates for the episcopacy from all around the globe, and he was responsible for assessing the work and conduct of existing bishops. [6] In that sense, he had yielded significant power and had many friends within the Conclave. He had not seriously considered the Papacy his destiny, but with a deadlocked group of Cardinals, it was natural that they would turn to someone to whom they all owed something.

Baggio had also shared Pope John Paul II’s views on Latin America. In fact, he was in the midst of disagreements within the Church over the unitary policy proposed for the region. It had been Baggio who who recommended that the late Archbishop Romero be stripped of his duties.

The Sixth ballot showed once more just how confused the October 1981 Conclave was. A new candidate was emerging, but Benelli held the most votes.

Sixth ballot, 1981 Papal Conclave
Giovanni Benelli … 72
Sebastiano Baggio … 20
Giuseppe Siri … 18
Bernardin Gantin … 2
Joseph Ratzinger … 2

Black smoke. They voted again.

Seventh ballot, 1981 Papal Conclave
Giovanni Benelli … 72
Sebastiano Baggio … 40
Giuseppe Siri … 1
Joseph Ratzinger … 1

Black smoke.

The cardinals looked around. Not a single Benelli vote had moved. Baggio was coalescing the opposition, but could they ever come to a final agreement? Many of the Latin American cardinals would not give in to the idea of Baggio, who had betrayed Romero and characterized their region of the Church, unfairly, they believed, as sympathetic to Marxism. If Baggio was the new conservative candidate, that was fine, but he would not be a compromise candidate.

They voted again, but the eighth ballot matched the seventh. They would vote just one more time that evening. Electing a pope seemed impossible.

Franz König, the Archbishop of Vienna, had played a key role in electing John Paul II. He was widely aware of all the tensions within the current College. There was a general unease permeating the group. They had assembled for the third time in three years. It was not a habit they wanted to make. There was pressure for a young pope. But the ideological beliefs had prevailed. The liberals hoped that Benelli, the most electable of their lot, would last long enough to appoint more cardinals to ensure a majority in future conclaves — even if those conclaves came sooner.

König knew that while Baggio may have been ideologically acceptable, he was not globally acceptable. The Latin American representatives would never vote for him, and those who were more liberal would not compromise to support him at the expense of their Latin American colleagues. Once more, the task of selecting a Pope fell to König. He did not say a word. He merely wrote out a new name for the ninth ballot.

Ninth ballot, 1981 Papal Conclave
Giovanni Benelli … 72
Sebastiano Baggio … 41
Basil Hume … 1

Black smoke. And a new name.

Basil Hume went to sleep that evening wondering the same question that all of his colleagues were wondering. Who wrote him down? And, perhaps more pressingly, Could there be an English Pope? An Englishman as the Heir to Saint Peter? It could not be, many reasoned. They would gather the next morning — for the third day of voting — and the conservatives would break. They had to. Until they didn’t.

Tenth ballot, 1981 Papal Conclave
Giovanni Benelli … 60
Basil Hume … 43
Sebastiano Baggio … 11

Black smoke. Benelli knew, however, that the next ballot would not yield the same result. A tear formed in his eye, and he brushed it away quickly. His dream denied. His fate sealed.

Eleventh ballot, 1981 Papal Conclave
Basil Hume … 99
Giovanni Benelli … 15

Habeas Papam. The Cardinals broke into applause and the ballots were burned with the chemicals needed to emit the right color smoke.

The anxious crowd gathered in St. Peter’s Square — the very place where just weeks earlier John Paul II was shot dead — erupted into cheers. Many broke into tears as they finally saw it at last.

White smoke.


June 1, 1981
California State Capitol Building — Sacramento, CA

Jerry Brown’s stomach growled. The quixotic young Governor of California had skipped breakfast. He was in the midst of his most torturous budget negotiations to date, and he had only just made up his mind about his political future. Two years ago, he announced a long shot bid to challenge Jimmy Carter for the Democratic nomination. His campaign went nowhere. Now, he was facing a question of whether to run for a third term as governor or try his hand at a campaign for the Senate. Neither option looked promising.

The Los Angeles Times had just published a story they thought might be the beginning of their own Watergate scandal. Brown had been using a computer — still a novelty at the time — to make a complete list of political supporters and then convert the names into a usable mailing list for political purposes. And he was using taxpayer dollars to do it. So the story went. And suddenly the same Jerry Brown who railed against corruption, who eschewed gifts and established a Fair Political Practices Commission to keep corruption out of government, found himself under investigation from said Commission. [7]

There was a lot weighing on the 44-year-old’s mind. He was dating Linda Ronstadt. The state’s surplus was disappearing before his eyes. He had gotten a heads up about an upcoming report from the CDC about a new pneumonia affecting gay men, particularly in the San Francisco area. Whatever that meant. And, now, pacing his office before a scheduled news conference, he was beginning to regret the announcement he was about to make.

The polls were grim for Brown. The budget debates and the Times investigation into the mailing list had brought his approval ratings down to their lowest number. Republicans continued to paint his administration as weak on crime, and now they’d accuse him of mismanaging the surplus and taking a Nixonian approach to public office. Polls showed him facing a humiliating defeat against Lieutenant Governor Mike Curb.

The other option — a Senate bid — was no better. At least not on paper. Senator Hayakawa had no political base to speak of, and it looked increasingly likely that he’d lose the Republican primary, possibly to Barry Goldwater, Jr, a Congressman and son of the conservative stalwart who just lost his own Senate bid in Arizona back in November of 1980. There was a palpable energy to Goldwater’s campaign, and polls showed him winning comfortably against Brown. It looked like no matter what Brown did, he’d go down in defeat — and his career would be over.

He considered not running for either spot and just running for president again in 1984. He’d had the support of popular figures in the Democratic Party during his last campaign. Jane Fonda was on board. Tom Hayden and Jesse Jackson, too. But Brown knew that running for president three times in a row would diminish his credibility. He also knew he was unlikely to win. So, for Jerry Brown, the path to a political future was winnowing, but the promise of life outside of politics was growing more alluring.

He enjoyed the life that came with being a politician — dating well-known actresses, models, and singers — women like Linda. She’d been with him throughout the presidential campaign, and he thought if they could survive that — well, who knew. Maybe she’d become Mrs. Brown. He thought about that earnestly. And he also wondered if maybe this wasn’t all for him. Maybe they were right about Jerry Brown. Maybe he was too weird for all of it.

But he also knew that he was Pat Brown’s son. He had to do something with his life, and he’d always been drawn to the grandeur of the office and the promise of the ballot. Governor? Senator? What could he do? Where would his future take him? Brown pondered it all again as he waited for his news conference.

When it came time, he marched out in a brown suit — one LA Times reporter thought it was a bit … weird of him — and marched into the room as bulbs flashed and reporters shoved microphones in his direction. What’s Jerry Brown about to do?

“Uh, thank you all for coming today. I’ll be brief. I just want to make an announcement.

“In recent days, I know, there’s been some question — uh, some have asked me what I intend to do in 1982. They’ve asked if I’ll seek a third term as governor, or perhaps run for Senate. I have listened to my friends and my family when weighing what the next step — the right step — is for me.

“And so, I’ve decided that the name ‘Jerry Brown’ will not appear on the ballot in November 1982. Not for Governor. Not for Senator. I’ll be a private man, living a private life, after eight years as your governor.”

The bulbs flashed again, and Brown squinted as he looked forward into their glare.

“I want to thank the people of California for the trust they’ve put in me over the last — uh — throughout my time here. Thank you. And I’ll take your questions now.”

The room erupted in shouts: Governor, governor! Governor! Governor Brown! They whirred by him in a dizzying storm. They wanted to know if it was because of Linda. They wanted to know if he’d called his father. What was happening with the budget negotiations? What about the list of political supporters? Was he admitting wrongdoing?

Brown answered their questions for half an hour, a handkerchief blotting his ever-more-present forehead. Then, he told them it was enough. “I’ve got to go,” he said, and off he went — out of the room, down the hall, out the doors, and out of the Capitol Building. Off went Jerry Brown into the tranquility of a private life. It was only a matter of time now.

Within minutes of hearing the news, some 87 miles southwest, the Mayor of San Francisco started calling her rolodex. She had a campaign to put together.


June 8, 1981
The White House — Washington, DC

The president decided it was time to bring the Congressional leaders together, at the White House, to decide whether or not healthcare reform was an issue to which they were committed. Carter was unwilling to stake his political capital and the success of his second term on legislation that Congressional Democrats wanted even less than he did. If they were going to pass something, they had to do it together, and they had to be on the same page from the beginning.

He had sensed in Kennedy a deep and genuine desire to get the legislation passed. Carter knew from press reports that the issue was real for Kennedy given his son’s cancer. But he saw Kennedy’s deep anguish on the night they returned home from Pope John Paul II’s funeral on Air Force One. He saw the guilt Kennedy carried from the mistakes he’d made in his life. In Carter’s eyes, Kennedy’s entire presidential campaign had been an exercise in one of Catholicism’s most peculiar traditions: confession.

He also saw in Kennedy the deep fear that he would not measure up to the legacies of his brothers, and in that fear, Carter believed, was the hope for compromise. There was no guarantee that Fritz Mondale would occupy Carter’s office in 1985, and there was no guarantee that he would have the kinds of Congressional majorities that Carter had at present. If liberals wanted to put the country on the path to universal healthcare reform, their best hope was to come to an agreement with Jimmy Carter — and if Ted Kennedy wanted to secure his legacy and ensure that his name would be remembered alongside his brothers’ not as an embarrassment but as a continuation of the familial legacy, then he would need to come to the table with Jimmy Carter.

In fact, Carter believed he already had Kennedy close enough to his side that the bigger obstacle remained the Congressional opposition to his hospital containment bill. He was adamant that the containment bill pass before the larger implementation of HealthCare. Carter was unwilling to hand the American people a bill for rising healthcare costs, and he also believed that containing medical prices was essential to getting the larger issue of inflation under control. To win, he would need to turn Congress against the American Hospital Association and other lobbyists on K Street who typically reigned supreme.

Jordan skipped the meeting. He was not friends with Kennedy nor Byrd, Rostenkowski nor O’Neill, nor any of the others coming to the meeting. He was also unsure that the foray into healthcare was worth it. Instead, the president was joined by Watson, Eizenstat, and Wexler.

A host of Congressional leaders, Democrats all, joined Carter in the Oval Office to discuss the issue. Carter sat behind the Oval Office with the members sitting on a couch and various chairs in front of him. Behind them stood a host of Congressional staffers. White House staff sat on a couch behind the members, taking notes and occasionally turning around to join the discussion.

Kennedy started the meeting, thanking the president for calling them together. “I assure my colleagues that there is no more important work this session than that of healthcare reform.”

They went around the room, sharing how important they each thought the issue was, until President Carter decided it was time to start having a conversation instead of agreeing the conversation needed to be had. “We cannot move on this until we address the issue of hospital cost containment.”

Immediately, from the periphery, Dick Gephardt’s Chief of Staff chimed in. “Mr. President, let me say first of all, that we understand the importance of lowering the costs of healthcare for all Americans, but I want to be very clear that hospital cost inflation is on par with the rest of the economy. The votes are not there for a hospital-specific cost control measure. It failed rather significantly in the House.”

Carter forced a weak smile. “I was there,” he said to scattered laughter. “I also remember that not everyone in this room was on board with the proposal.” He tossed an icy glare in Gephardt’s direction.

“It is important that if we do this, we are on the same page. I am not interested in spending political capital and the American public’s time on an issue where the disagreements between us stand in the way of any real chance for progress. If you’re not with me, we don’t have to do all of this again.”

Kennedy looked down at his shoes. At first, he’d thought the president had maybe learned a lesson — that he had to involve Congress at the outset. But then, he realized that it was once again classic Carter: My way or the highway.

The conversation continued around the hospital cost containment bill with the staffers chiming in to add their sense of vote counts and technical language. It devolved into a heated argument between Eizenstat and the House Democratic staffers.

“Get out,” the president said, rising from his seat. “I want all of the staff out of here. If you’re not a member of Congress or the President or Vice President of the United States, leave the room.”

All of them, except for Eizenstat, moved towards the door.

“Stu, did you win a Congressional election I don’t know about?”

Eizenstat turned pale and moved towards the door.

About an hour later, he had long stopped pacing, and was instead leaning up against a desk and looking up at the ceiling. Eizenstat counted the cracks and grooves. He looked over at a bookshelf and read the titles and authors. He was halfway through the third shelf when he heard the door click open. And then he saw it.

He saw it in Kennedy’s nod. He saw it in Long’s pace. He saw it in the way Rostenkowski and Gephardt looked down at the floor and the way Wyche Fowler followed close behind Rostenkowski. Stu Eizenstat looked through the cracked door, and he saw it there, most of all, in Carter’s grin.

White smoke.

>>>>>>>

[1] As part of my research for the timeline, I scrolled through years and years of discussions on these boards. Every one of us have our own niche interests and knowledges, and so I was delighted to turn up a comment from now-banned member who talked about McCormack’s role in the fusion space. McCormack lost by a pretty healthy margin, so I don’t think he’d overcome that, but things still work out for him on this issue ITTL.

[2] IOTL, the legislation opened 95% of the state for oil and gas development, but buoyed by his reelection, Carter secures additional protections for state lands.

[3] This comes right from True Compass, 479.

[4] This comes from Faith, 99.

[5] The root of this comes from Faith, 99.

[6] Characterization of the role and the man comes from this obituary of him: https://www.independent.co.uk/news/people/obituary-cardinal-sebastiano-baggio-1499403.html

[7] Man of Tomorrow, 211.

 

[Vidal]

Now that it's official...

As many of you know, the question of Jimmy Carter winning a second term has pretty much always interested me, but recently when I read Reaganland, I started to really think about taking the project up in a serious way. On May 26, 2021, I posted in my test thread about the idea. In July of that year, @Yes encouraged me to take it up in earnest, and on April 7, 2022, this story went live. I did not anticipate to win the Turtledove less than a year into sharing this project with all of you, but I’m honored. Thank you all!

I’ve already done a long list of thank yous to the people who helped me get the project off the ground. Now, I just want to say thank you to everyone who has read and liked this timeline. Your thoughtful commentary in the thread, your likes on the chapter posts, and your encouraging and inquisitive DMs keep me in the chair writing and researching.

The fun part is: We have a lot of road left to go. The project outline (as of now) calls for another 26 chapters before we wrap up Jimmy’s second term. They’re in various states of planning and writing, and who knows what the final count will be. There’s a lot of ground to cover – a Supreme Court nomination (or two!), CarterCare, unrest in Egypt, Iran and Iraq, the 1982 midterms, some lame duck policy proposals, Cuba, nuclear arms, and, of course, the race to succeed Carter. I can’t thank y’all enough for being along for the ride.

Finally, I just want to send best wishes to President Carter and his family. Keep them in your thoughts, and, if you pray, your prayers.

 

[Vidal]

THE JACKALS

“I devised the Bert Lance Toe Test then — you go out on the front porch of the house, turn The Washington Post over with your big toe, and if your name's above the fold, you know you're not going to have a good day.”
-Bert Lance

​

June 19, 1981
The White House —Washington, DC

For some politicians, it was the handshake. They’d go up to a voter and reach their hand out, but really it wasn’t just for a quick shake, it was an invitation. They’d grasp the voter’s hand and then it was over. It was firm, yes. It was supposed to be wasn’t it? Firm handshake. Nice firm handshake. That boy was raised right, you know why? Nice firm handshake. But its power didn’t come from being firm — its power came from what happened next. The clasped hands started out on the side of the voter, but the politician — the smooth politician, the successful politician — inched it back to him with each successive pump, until all of a sudden they were so close the voter could smell the coffee on the politician’s breath. And then — where did that left hand come from? It was on the voter’s forearm, or their bicep. Sometimes it was on their shoulder — and all of a sudden they were practically hugging the man. That’s right. Hugging him. Hugging the next President of the United States. And they were looking in the next president’s eyes. And he heard the voter’s problems. No, really, honesttoGodsonofabitchheardtheirproblem. Yes, he did. He heard it. The voter would bet their life that the politician understood him. He’d remember the story about the voter’s gramma, or Auntie Clarice, or cousin Tish. He’d remember they didn’t have healthcare. They’d lost their union job. They were a teacher paying out of pocket for school supplies. And then, on the cold blistering snowy first-in-the-nation primary, that voter would go out and they’d pull the lever next to their name. And they’d give that politician the most powerful job in the world because of the most powerful handshake in the world. [1]

That was how some politicians won elections, but it wasn’t how Jimmy Carter had gotten here. Reclining back and rotating in his desk chair, pen between his hands, brows furrowed. That was the Jimmy Carter who had won Iowa. Beat Ford. Beat Kennedy. Beat Reagan. A statesman, a prince, and an actor. Dispensed with all three. It wasn’t his handshake. It was — well, Jack Watson, Anne Wexler, Ham Jordan, and Jody Powell were watching it now. The grin.

Every time — no, really every time — it started with a twitch. The corners of his lips wiggled, and then they gave in. They parted, stretching towards his ears, and then those gorgeous pearly white chompers flashed you. Right now, the staff was sitting around, talking about the good news they’d just gotten, but when It Happened during a speech — that was the best grin, because the keen observer had fun along the way.

The part that would make him want to smile would enter Carter’s brain before it left his lips. He was always a few steps ahead. So, when he was giving a speech, he would realize where the text was taking him. The Land Promised. The Paragraph Promised. And so it would start. The faintest twitch on the corners. And then he’d start fighting it — like it was a bunny rabbit in the stream (Powell still laughed at that one), like it was a killer deficit, like it was a Prince of Camelot. He got on top of it. Pushed it down. Wrestled with it. And you’d see it on his face. Oh, he’d be speaking. He’d be going through his sentences. And he’d be fighting that urge all the same — because it wasn’t time. No, not yet. Not time yet. But it was coming, and then he’d join you. By the end, his eyes were lighting up, and then he got there: The Applause Line. The Promised Line. And the audience would cheer, and he would grin, and he would earn their vote.

But right now, there was no speech. Jimmy Carter was just twirling in his chair, and he was taking it all in. He was going to name a Justice to the United States Supreme Court. It was one of those responsibilities that reminded the president he wasn’t just the president — he was the Most Powerful Man In The World. He was making a lifetime appointment to the most important Court in the country, and the person he chose would make big decisions — brave decisions. Decisions like Brown v. Board of Ed. He was naming a Justice. He was also naming someone who would compel America to meet Her promises. Someone to keep America honest. And here he was, four-and-a-half years in and he’d not a lie told. What better way to celebrate than to name someone who would keep America honest?

Even if Jimmy Carter had never put someone on the Highest Court, he’d have done more to shape the federal judiciary than any other president. His expansion of the federal circuit enabled some of the greatest legal minds of their generation to find a Court on which to preside, and Carter had made sure that his nominees were diverse — in race, in gender, in background. He appointed more Black judges, more Hispanic judges, and more woman judges than all of his predecessors combined. He’d remade the federal judiciary. And now he got to choose a Supreme Court Justice. What a day. What a day.

They were all gathered — Fritz and Anne, Ham, Jack, and Jerry — as if there was room for discussion. But there wasn’t. Jimmy Carter knew who he was putting on the Court. He’d known since January 20, 1977. Just like how Bert Lance was always — in the back of his mind — his choice for Fed Chair. He’d known that when he got to the White House, he had to bring Georgia with him. There was only one person he was going to name to replace Potter Stewart. Just one person.

“We’ll get you a shortlist, Mr. President,” Wexler said. “I think we should look seriously at naming a woman. Reagan promised it on the campaign trail, and the women groups will wonder why we couldn’t meet his standard. I’ve got two I think you should consider: Shirley Hufstedler and Ruth Bader Ginsburg.”

Carter nodded. He liked both. Hufstedler was whip smart. A good judge. A great cabinet secretary. She’d make a helluva justice. Same for Ruth. She was a bit more liberal than he’d have liked, but nobody could deny her intelligence. She’d gone up against the men, and she’d proven she was twice the lawyer half of them could ever be. She’d make a helluva justice, too. Either of them would. Next time. He liked them both, but neither was why he was grinning.

“That’d be great, Anne. We should look at a few names. I’d like you to put Charlie Kirbo on the list.”

Ham knew it was coming — knew the boss couldn’t help himself. Bert Lance. Charlie Kirbo. That was the blessing of Jimmy. That was the curse of Jimmy.

Kirbo was supposed to be Chief of Staff, but he had more of a brain than Jordan or Powell or any of the others who’d followed Carter to Washington. He knew That Town would chew ‘em up. Make ‘em regret having run in the first place. So, Kirbo said he just couldn’t take the job. He had to make money. Jimmy understood. So instead he just called Kirbo, practically every day, and got his take on things. And Kirbo watched from Georgia, running the country with his pal Jimmy from afar. Nobody had the president’s trust like Charlie Kirbo did. It was never any question that Jimmy Carter was going to want Charlie Kirbo on the Supreme Court.

Ham didn’t grin. He smirked. And Wexler looked over at him with that look that just asked questions she didn’t want the answer to. Anne was doing great. But she wasn’t one of the Georgians. She hadn’t been there from the start. She only knew the first few layers of Jimmy — she hadn’t really seen the core yet, the part of Jimmy that said I’m here. She didn’t really see that. She saw the Jimmy most Americans saw: Kind. Compassionate. Genuine. Ready to make his difference. Eager, even, to do it. Humbled. He was a humble man, that was the part about Jimmy that people didn’t seem to get. They knew he was humble, but they didn’t realize he was also proud. It didn’t make sense, but Ham understood it. Ham knew.

Jimmy Carter was the President of the United States. You didn’t get there without a few contradictions along the way. Thomas Jefferson wrote the goddamn founding documents and preached about executive restraint and about checks and balances. And then he tripled the size of the country and forgot to ask Congress for their permission. Abraham Lincoln wanted to keep the country together so badly that his very election split it apart, and then he suspended the Constitution to bring it back together. They were men of contradictions. They were paradoxes. Jimmy Carter wasn’t any different. Simple men didn’t become president. Just ask the actor back home at Rancho del Cielo.

“We’ll put him on the list.” That was all Ham said. And Carter grinned.

When they got back to her office, Ham shut the door.

“Ham —”

“I know.”

“It’s Bert Lance all over again.”

“Anne, I know. You’ve got to call Biden.”

“Biden?”

“He likes Biden. Biden was the first one to endorse him. He’s the Chairman now, so he’ll have an opinion. You’ve got to call Joe Biden, and you’ve got to say, ‘Joe, here’s what the president’s thinking,’ and he’ll take care of it.”

“Joe Biden?”

“I’m telling you, Anne. Joe Biden will talk him right out of it. He’ll preach about how this is the president’s chance to make history. Put a woman on the Court. You know he will. And the president will listen. You’ve just got to talk to Biden.”

Anne nodded. Alright. I’ve just got to call Biden. She thanked Ham for the advice, and when he went off to his own office down the hall, she followed him and said to her secretary, “Get me Joe Biden.”

• • •​

Joe Biden had the only grin in Washington that rivaled Jimmy Carter’s, and he entered the Oval Office wearing it. He reached out his hand and shook the president’s. “Mr. President, good to see ya. Good to see ya. How’s it going over here?”

Carter had an affinity for the young senator. Biden was the first Senator to endorse Carter, and he came over in the early days of 1978 to give him the report: Ted Kennedy was running in the primary, Biden told him. That was that. Carter should watch his left. Jimmy Carter appreciated it — the friendship, the loyalty. He trusted Biden’s judgment, and he was glad it was Biden, not Kennedy, in charge of the Judiciary Committee as he tried to get his first nominee on the Supreme Court.

“Senator, have a seat,” Carter said, motioning to one of the couches in the Oval Office. Jordan and Wexler were there, too.

“So, Stewart?” Biden asked. One might have expected some small talk, or for the president to get them down to business, but Joe Biden was among friends. He didn’t need to belabor the point — he wanted to hear what the president was thinking.

“That’s right,” Carter said. “I want your opinion on something. How would you feel if I nominated my friend Charlie Kirbo?”

“Love it!” Biden said. Wexler glanced at Jordan. What was going on? Biden was supposed to talk him out of it. Jordan just shrugged. It’s not like he could have known. “Ford got his guy. Kennedy got his guys. Ike got his guys. You should get your guy — whoever you think, Mr. President, we’ll get him through.”

There was that grin. Well, now there were two of them. “Thank you, Joe —”

Biden wasn’t done. He had to make it real — had to tell the president what he meant, had to show him how serious he was. “Mr. President, we’ll get Charlie Kirbo on the Court. My word as a Biden.” For Joe, there was nothing more serious than that.

“I appreciate it,” the president said.

“How’s Rosie?” Biden asked. He knew the president’s nickname for her. They were friends. And so Carter told him, and he asked about Jill and Beau and Hunter. And the newborn. Now, there was Ashley.

“How’s Ashley?” Carter asked. “Did you bring me pictures?”

And it was, for them, as if the conversation hadn’t started about a Supreme Court seat. There was no getting it back. It was going to be Charlie Kirbo. And Jordan looked at Wexler, and Wexler looked back at Jordan. Fuck.


June 29, 1981
The White House — Washington, DC

“Mr. President, this should be brief,” William Foege, CDC Director, began the meeting. “We wanted to get you up to speed on an emerging issue that we’re keeping an eye on.”

In reality, Jack Watson had requested the meeting. He’d read an article in the Los Angeles Times about infections among gay men. The article had been based on a CDC report, and it had quickly gained some attention for similar diseases linked to gay men in New York. Watson felt that the issue needed to be on the president’s radar.

“On June 5th, the CDC published an article on pneumocystis carinii pneumonia, otherwise known as PCP. The article focused on Los Angeles, where five young and previously healthy gay men developed the infection. What’s particularly bizarre about these men is that it seems their entire immune systems are not working. They have a host of other unusual infections as well. Unfortunately, two of the men have already died.”

“Their immune systems stopped working?”

“That’s right, Mr. President.”

“Because of PCP? It shut down their immune systems?”

“Not exactly. Rather, PCP is an extremely rare disease — limited to those who are severely immunosuppressed. It is very odd that five otherwise healthy young men would have been susceptible to it given there was no history of immunodeficiency.”

“I understand.”

Patricia Roberts Harris, the Secretary of Health and Human Services, asked about a report the CDC had obtained about a closer of Kaposi’s Sarcoma, a rare form of cancer, among gay men in New York and California.

“That’s right, Madam Secretary. When we published our report about PCP, a New York dermatologist called us and reported that he was seeing a number of patients who had Kaposi’s Sarcoma, which is a rare and aggressive cancer that produces spots on the skin.”

“And this is a rare cancer?” Watson asked.

“Yes, sir. Very rare. Once again, it’s the kind of disease you expect to see in those who are severely immunocompromised, not those who are otherwise healthy.”

“And these men in New York with KS — they’re homosexuals?”

“Yes.”

The room sat in the silence. It was odd indeed. “Mr. President, the reality is we don’t know what we don’t know here, but it’s clear that something is happening within the homosexual community. We have launched a task force to look into KS and other opportunistic infections in hopes of identifying the risk factors and establishing a definition that we can use for whatever it is that is compromising the immune systems of these men. From there, we hope to set up a national surveillance of new cases so that we can study them quickly and begin to understand treatment.”

“Dr. Foege, please keep the Secretary and Jack in the loop on this. Whatever you need in terms of resources, consider them yours. Jack, I want regular updates on the CDC’s progress in our weekly meetings.”

Everyone nodded as the president rose. Meeting adjourned. [2]


July 2, 1981
The White House — Washington, DC

It was about 10 o’clock in the morning and not yet 80 degrees when the members of the press and invited guests stood for the President of the United States. They were outside in the Rose Garden for the announcement of a new Supreme Court Justice. In the days leading up to the announcement, many had wrongly predicted that Carter would name a woman — pick up the gauntlet Reagan had thrown down during the campaign. Carter never saw it that way. Reagan had been desperate. He had to do that. Of course, the 39th president shared his challenger’s sentiment. His appointments to the Judiciary demonstrated a clear commitment to both judicial integrity and to diversity, but Carter’s election marked the beginning of a new era in American politics: The Gender Gap. He had women’s support. They already trusted him. He was going with Kirbo.

“Who is that?” a reporter asked a colleague. Not any DC Circuit Court judge or 2nd Circuit Court of Appeals judge he recognized. Certainly not Hofstedler or Ginsburg like some of them had been betting on.

“That’s Charlie Kirbo. The president’s lawyer.”

Wexler had tried again after the Biden meeting. She laid it all out for Carter — the hearings might get rocky, the women’s groups would be upset — but Carter didn’t want to hear any of it. He was the president. This was his prerogative. And besides, Joe Biden — the Chairman — said it would be fine. Kirbo was a good friend and the best damn lawyer Carter knew. Why wouldn’t Carter put him on the Supreme Court?

Charlie Kirbo might have been the closest person Jimmy Carter had to a best friend. It started during Carter’s first race for State Senate. Carter lost that race by just enough, or so it seemed. The decisive county, Quitman County, reported 496 votes, only 136 of which were for Carter. But then, Carter learned only 333 people signed in to voted in Quitman County. Someone was stealing this election, and it had to go to court, and that meant Jimmy Carter needed a lawyer. Everyone told him there was only one guy to call: Kirbo.

During those days of contesting the election, it was just Jimmy and Charlie in the car, driving back-and-forth to Georgetown, speaking with voters and election officials and asking them to sign affidavits about the peculiarities of the election. Eventually, their hard work paid off and the election got brought to a judge who ordered them to retrieve the ballot box (which was stored safely under the bed of Joe Hurst’s daughter — Joe Hurst was the state representative backing Carter’s opponent in that race). And so, they opened the box, and Charlie Kirbo couldn’t believe what he saw: There they were — the crooked ballots. Neatly folded and placed on top. Nobody had even tried to shake it up, make it look like people had actually placed their ballots through the slit. Nope. Nobody had bothered to contest the stolen elections in years past. But Jimmy and Charlie did, and Jimmy Carter was ruled the Democratic nominee for State Senate, and then he went on to win the general election. And then he became governor. And now he was president. And he owed it all to Charlie Kirbo. [3]

Sun shining down, Carter squinted through to look at the press in front of him. “Good afternoon, everyone, thank you for coming to this very important announcement.

“When I first ran for this office back in 1976, I said it was my responsibility to reestablish the confidence of the American people in their government. That includes our judicial system. Today, I take a step in that direction.

“I am thankful to Justice Potter Stewart for his service to the American people. In his place, I will nominate Charles Kirbo of Georgia, a man of profound personal integrity and legal expertise.

“Mr. Kirbo may not be known to most Americans now, but when they learn about him, they will be nothing short of impressed. Most notably, Charlie Kirbo spent his time as a lawyer in Georgia fighting for fair elections at a time when stuffing a ballot box was so common that no one so much as feigned outrage.”

Carter went on to describe Kirbo’s resume in more detail before adding, “It is my expectation that with all due haste the United States Senate will vote to confirm this man of deep personal integrity, and I predict it will do so with broad and bipartisan support.”

Then, he turned it over to Kirbo, who stated he was humbled by the nomination and eager to meet with Senators to address any concerns they may have.

The press corps was dazed, but they found it in themselves to shout questions as Carter and Kirbo walked back to the Oval Office. Wasn’t this just rewarding a personal friend with a government job? Why wasn’t a woman selected? Carter, his hand on Kirbo’s back, joked with his friend as they walked away.


July 8, 1981
Russell Senate Office Building — Washington, DC

Liz Holtzman deserved to be there. She knew that. She had no hesitations, no hang-ups about being a woman in the world’s most exclusive club. She was one of two ladies there. The other, Nancy Landon Kassebaum, was a moderate Republican from Kansas. She was the only Democratic woman, and she was the only woman on the Senate Judiciary Committee. Some of the men were outraged by the appointment, but Joe Biden had lobbied Bob Byrd. He wanted her there, because when she won, Liz Holtzman’s first calls were to Ted Kennedy and Joe Biden. She called them on her Election Night to tell them she wanted to be there. She wouldn’t take no for an answer, she’d told them. They listened.

Her career really began when she knocked off Emanuel Celler in a Democratic primary back home in New York for the U.S. House of Representatives. Celler had been there fifty years. Holtzman was 31 years old. He was the Dean of the House. The Chairman of the House Judiciary Committee. Holtzman was unafraid, and she won. And she joined the House Judiciary Committee, where she gradually became a household name.

First it was the Cambodian bombing campaign in ’73. She’d filed a legal challenge, voted against the Case-Church amendment to reign Nixon in. She didn’t care. It didn’t go far enough, and it didn’t solve the problem quick enough. She was elected for a reason, and she wasn’t going to let Washington change her. She was an outsider who wanted a more honest government and a more responsive government — not all that unlike a certain peanut farmer from Georgia who landed himself in the Oval Office four years later.

She endeared herself to the Party’s left flank with that protest of Nixon’s conduct in the war, and that was before Watergate. In 1974, Liz Holtzman found herself at the center of the nation’s most infamous political scandal. She was tough in those hearings, grilling members of Nixon’s team. Many Americans tuned in and watched the whole thing. They remembered Barbara Jordan’s eloquent opening statement. It brought many of them to tears. Many also remembered Liz Holtzman, and they remembered how she didn’t let anyone get away without an answer — certainly not Gerald Ford.

When Jerry pardoned Richard Nixon to spare the country its long national nightmare, Holtzman thought it was time to go back to bed. If the country woke up in a sweat — well, maybe it deserved it. The nation had to purge itself of the Nixon stench. That meant sending him to jail if we had to. Presidents weren’t above the law. So, she asked Gerald Ford right there in front of the cameras: Was the pardon part of a quid pro quo agreement? Ford said no. Holtzman wasn’t sure she believed him.

So, by the time she ran for the Senate in 1980, Holtzman was sure she would win. She knew it deep in her bones. She’d held the Nixon and Ford administrations accountable. She extended the ratification deadline for the Equal Rights Amendment. She was young and fierce, and she worked harder than half of the men she served with — combined. She would become a United States Senator, because she wasn’t going to let anyone outwork her.

She beat back the Queens District Attorney and John Lindsay, the former New York City Mayor, and Bess Myerson, who was Miss America in 1945 and a New York City commissioner to win the primary. She wasn’t a candidate for the bosses — she was a candidate for the people. She said it over and over again. Hugh Carey, the Governor, was out campaigning for Bess Myerson — introducing her to voters and helping her raise money. Holtzman loved it. As far as she was concerned, that was great. It only proved her point: Politicians had their candidate in the primary, and the people had theirs. And the people won. Liz Holtzman won that four-way primary by nearly 10-points.

In the general election, things got trickier. Moderate Democrats wanted to help Jack Javits get six more years. He’d just been tossed out by Al D’Amato, a strange conservative man who seemed emblematic of the Reagan wing of the Party. New Yorkers knew Javits, and they liked him, but enough of those Democrats decided not to split their ticket. They voted for Jimmy. And then they voted for Liz. And she won that three-way race, even if it was with less than 50% of the vote, and she harbored no reservations about taking a seat in the Senate. She’d earned it — outworked, outfought.

That’s how Liz Holtzman saw the world: You earned your spot. Like she had in the House. Like she had in the Senate. Like she had on the Senate Judiciary Committee. So she didn’t like that a small town lawyer with no judicial experience was getting tapped to serve on the Supreme Court of the United States. And she didn’t really care what the president wanted. Her job was to advise and consent. The Constitution said so. There was no reason to think she had to go along with the president’s choice if she didn’t think he was qualified for the Court. But what about the fact you and President Carter are of the same party? She could hear the question already. Didn’t matter. Celler was in my party. Myerson was in my party. Carey was in my party. Didn’t matter then. Didn’t matter now.

The New Yorker reporter sat across from her and tried to read between the lines of what she was saying. It was part of a profile on the new woman senator, and he’d just been lucky enough to have their meeting set for a few days after Jimmy Carter made his announcement for a Supreme Court pick. What did Liz Holtzman think?

“I’m not sure the extent of his experience,” she began, “but I look forward to reviewing his record and meeting with him to discuss his jurisprudential philosophy.”

What did that first part mean?

“Do you think he’s qualified to sit on the Supreme Court? Some have voiced concerns about that — that he’s another Abe Fortas.”

“Abe Fortas had argued several major cases before the Court, and by the time he was nominated for Chief Justice, he’d been on the Court for three years.”

“So you don’t think the comparison is fair to Mr. Fortas?”

She wasn’t going to mince her words, she decided. Why start now? “At the moment, I am not convinced that Charlie Kirbo is qualified to sit on the United States Supreme Court. That’s why I intend to meet with him and ask him about his background, and I look forward to the hearings on his nomination, where I will again ask him questions about his judicial philosophy and his experience as a litigator.”

“So you haven’t made up your mind on his nomination?”

“No, I have not. I may very well oppose him.”

That’s news, the journalist thought. That’s a story!

• • •​

Over at the White House, Anne Wexler, tasked with ensuring Kirbo’s confirmation, and the rest of the staff were trying to make sense over a press release Holtzman had put out that morning. There was no line about supporting the nominee, but only a commitment to be “engaged in the process,” and the headline — maybe she was new? Maybe she hadn’t figured it out yet? Maybe her press guy was fresh off the block? The headline read: “Senator Elizabeth Holtzman Awaits Nominee’s Qualifications.”

“She’s just raising Hell,” Jordan said, dismissing it. “She’s a freshman Senator. She’s going to fall in line. They have to. Biden’s on board.”

Wexler saw it, heard it, smelled it — the same righteous indignation that had hobbled the Carter boys’ first term. They were in charge. Congress had to follow along. Anne Wexler knew enough to know Liz Holtzman didn’t follow anybody. Not even Joe Biden, who helped put her on the Judiciary Committee.

“I think I’m going to go over there and talk to her,” Wexler offered. She really didn’t mind. This is my job, her eyes pleaded with the boys in the room.

“I really don’t think that’s necessary, Anne, but you should do what you think you need to do.”

She was going to the Hill.


July 11, 1981
The White House — Washington, DC

“Mr. President, before we go I want to raise a potential problem we’re going to have with the Kirbo nomination.”

Charlie? Who has a problem with Charlie? “Go ahead,” the president said.

“I went to the Hill yesterday to talk to Senator Holtzman, and I’m not sure she’s going to be an easy vote.”

Carter nodded. Thought he understood. “I’m sure she’s doing what she has to do, but you can let her know that my next nominee will be a woman. I mean that.”

“No, Mr. President, I’m not sure it’s that. She seems to have real doubts about Kirbo’s qualifications to sit on the Court. These are some of the things we raised before the nomination.”

“She’s one vote. Have we heard from anyone else?”

“Well, no, sir, but —”

“Anne, she’s one vote. I don’t expect Charlie to get 100 votes, but I’ve talked to Biden, and he assured me Kirbo would get a fair shake at the hearings, and after that — well, nobody has to vote for him. She’s one vote.”

“But she’s on the Judiciary Committee. She’s going to be in the hearings. And if she feels comfortable speaking out, who’s to say more Republicans won’t tack on to her messaging?”

The president heard Wexler, but he didn’t understand why it would be an issue. Every president named Supreme Court nominees. Some of them had embarrassing things in their past, and they didn’t get through, but Charlie wasn’t like that. He was honest. He was smart. And he was Carter’s friend. And Carter got to pick who sat on the Supreme Court. These things weren’t political — not like Anne was saying.

“Jordan, keep an eye on it,” the president answered, standing up.

Jordan? She was angry. Ham Jordan is the least liked person we’ve got by folks on the Hill. Why Jordan? It couldn’t be like this.

“Mr. President, with all due respect to Ham —”

“It shouldn’t be me, Mr. President. We’ll all keep an eye on this, but I shouldn’t be running point on the Hill for this.”

“Alright,” the president shrugged. “Anne, you — or whoever you want — can follow this. Let me know if there’s an issue, but Charlie’ll be fine.”


July 18, 1981
The White House — Washington, DC

On July 18, 1981, the president stepped up to a podium in the press briefing room to take a round of questions. In particular, Carter hoped to demonstrate support for the Kirbo nomination. Whispers had been brewing that his nomination may be imperiled. Carter knew that Liz Holtzman was making some waves. He figured he could take a few questions, steer the reporters back towards the overwhelming support for Kirbo’s nomination, and move on.

They had a few back-and-forths about the nomination. Carter reminded the reporters in the room that he had spoken with Chairman Biden and that the nomination was on “solid footing.” He also told the anecdote about Kirbo helping expose the bosses and their attempt to rig his first election for the State Senate. The president was easy going and the banter with the press was light.

The questions were winding down when the New York Times reporter raised his hand for a second question. Carter made a joke about going back for seconds and then called on him.

“Mr. President, I wanted to ask you about some of the spending amendments being discussed on the Hill. In particular, some previous cuts to public health research have been shifted around to restore that funding. Any reason why?”

Powell hadn’t prepped Carter for the question. He hadn’t anticipated they’d ask him much besides the latest Kirbo updates, and some of the other news of the day would likely have gotten mentioned ahead of some routine Congressional debates. It was no issue, though. Carter was well attuned to the happenings on the Hill, especially with regards to his budget.

“Sure. I had a briefing a little while ago about pneumocystis carinii pneumonia, otherwise known as PCP, and the impact it was having on homosexuals, and I spoke with members of the CDC and they encouraged me to restore some of that funding so that we can learn more about what’s happening.”

“A gay cancer?” It was another reporter now, asking the question with a bit of an edge — and a chuckle.

“Oh, I don’t think it’s funny. It sounds pretty concerning. I hope the CDC gets to the bottom of it. Any other questions?”

Hearing none, the president folded his binder and walked out of the room. Powell wasn’t sure what was about to happen and called the Times reporter back to his office to feel him out and see if any clean-up was needed.

The next day, in a front-page story about Kirbo’s nomination, there was a paragraph at the end that mentioned the president’s comments about what the world would come to know as AIDS. In San Francisco, his answer was the headline — right on the front page of the Chronicle: CARTER WANTS RESOURCES DIRECTED TO STUDY GAY MEN’S PNEUMONIA.

The president’s inadvertent answer soon became a national story. Pat Robertson lead a forceful rebuke of the president’s statement during The 700 Club and urged Christians to write their legislators to not spend money on research for a disease focused in the gay community. Jerry Falwell started talking about it in his Sunday sermons. So did other Evangelical preachers. Carter had set off a firestorm.

He also complicated the politics in California, where a competitive Senate election was brewing. Jerry Brown had announced he wasn’t going to run for the seat and a number of prominent Democrats were jockeying for a chance to be the next Senator from California. Among them was San Francisco Mayor Dianne Feinstein, who was perhaps more aware of the disease than any other elected official in the United States. At the same time, she was concerned about what would happen to her statewide chances if she was seen as being too close to her city’s gay community.

Henry Waxman, a Los Angeles Congressman, had already been leading the fight on the issue of public health funding in Congress. He had opposed Carter’s initial cuts and lobbied the Carter White House hard to get funds restored. He was leading those amendments in the House — now with White House support. Waxman’s’ district was actually home to the first deaths from the disease. He represented West Hollywood, known as the “gay ghetto” of the city. Waxman was also planning to seek the seat in the U.S. Senate, and he was not at all interested in walking back his stance on public health funding, especially not as it related to the state’s gay community.

In Washington, the debate over Waxman’s public health amendments — a seemingly innocuous series of changes to dull legislative text — took on new life. The Evangelicals were calling their members of Congress and demanding that they cut public health funding. That’s not quite how they were wording it, though. They were asking their members of Congress to vote against the amendment that would “fund homosexuality.” Moderate Republicans were perplexed by the outrage. Even some conservatives thought the whole thing had gotten a bit bizarre. Others felt it was time to jump ahead of the curve. Freshman Senator Dan Quayle of Indiana, in his maiden speech on the floor of the Senate, urged his colleagues to reject an “endorsement of the homosexual lifestyle.”

Eventually, cooler heads prevailed. Carter met privately with Bob Dole, the Senate Republican Leader, and asked him where he was on the whole thing. Dole had no problem with letting the amendments get through (though his own presidential aspirations meant he would be personally unable to support them). Next, Carter deputized Stu Eizenstat to touch base with the chief Republican appropriators in the House. Where were they on the whole thing? Naturally, they were opposed to spending the money, but after Carter’s team touched base with Tip O’Neill, they were able to make sure there were enough Democratic votes to overcome some Republican opposition.

Throughout the fight, O’Neill deputized one of his favorite members, Geraldine Ferraro, to help with the vote counting. An Italian-American Catholic, Ferraro was a particularly useful surrogate in support of the amendments. She came from a comparatively conservative area of New York City, and her own personal religious beliefs suggested she was a bit more tempered on social issues than a West Coast liberal like Waxman. It all worked. Ferraro and O’Neill got Carter and Waxman the votes in the House. Dole encouraged his more reasonable members to go along with the amendments, and they prevented any serious issues from arising in the Senate.

Carter got his wish, and his public health funding, and at the CDC, research dollars were spent towards understanding what the Chronicle was still calling “gay men’s pneumonia.”


July 20, 1981
Dirksen Senate Office Building — Washington, DC

When Orrin Hatch thought about it, he really couldn’t understand how it had all ended up the way it did. Back in ’76, Hatch was running against Frank Moss, an entrenched incumbent everyone told him was too popular to beat. He started his campaign thinking everyone else might be right. But then he’d won, and he thought his election was a harbinger of things to come.

Hatch was one of the earliest victories of the New Right. He’d campaigned, in the same year Jimmy Carter took the White House, using the message Jimmy Carter did: He was an outsider. His opponent was an insider. Voters couldn’t trust insiders anymore, Hatch argued. Times had changed, didn’t they know? And while some Republicans toed the lines of the conservatives (back then being called a ‘Bircher’ actually meant something to a general electorate), Orrin Hatch figured he had one way to win: Run to the Right. He met with Reagan’s pollster, Dick Wirthlin, and Wirthlin confirmed his suspicions: The state was trending that way. Privately, Wirthlin thought Hatch might be jumping the gun a bit, but hey — they had money to throw around. So they did.

Ronald Reagan endorsed Orrin Hatch in that election, and Hatch told everyone he could. All the names that would conspire to get Reagan to the White House had been there for Hatch. Richard Viguerie. Paul Weyrich. It didn’t take long for Hatch to put Moss on the run. Suddenly a favorite of the Senate’s liberals was doing all he could to remind voters he wasn’t that far left after all. That’s when Hatch knew he could get him.

Hatch was about as conservative as they came. He ran on passing an anti-pornography law. He promised voters he’d protect their hard-earned tax dollars. He was preaching from the same book Goldwater passed down to Reagan, and then he won. He knocked Frank Moss out of the Senate. And so then he added some notes in the marginalia — some tricks for the Gipper and the ones who would come in ’78 and ’80 — and he handed the playbook right back to them. Hatch had won. So why hadn’t Reagan? [4]

It grated on Hatch, though it didn’t much matter now. On Election Night 1980, Hatch saw it all flashing before his eyes: The term that was not meant to be. The tax cuts. The collapse of the Soviet Union — Reagan would’ve shown ‘em. Chief Justice William Rehnquist. Associate Justice Robert Bork. No more Roe. No more Griswold. A Solid South — for the Republicans. A 16-year-lock on the White House. It had all been right there. But then it was dashed.

That Orrin Hatch and Elizabeth Holtzman had very different visions for what America’s future should look like did not stop the Utahn from noticing when his colleague commented on the nomination of Charlie Kirbo to the Supreme Court.

Hatch wasn’t pleased that Potter Stewart, appointed by Eisenhower, had decided to retire while a Democrat was in the White House. But he’d done it, and the way Hatch saw it — the way nearly all of them saw it — the president got to name his choice. Except Holtzman. Hatch didn’t know what her motivation was. Like most, he assumed she just wanted Carter to appoint a woman to the Bench. No matter, she’d raised doubts about Charlie Kirbo, whom Hatch was sure was a fine man and would make a passable justice on the Supreme Court. But Hatch cared less about the Court than he did about delivering a blow to the Carter administration.

It seemed Carter was getting it all together now — more than he’d done four years ago. He and Kennedy were moving healthcare right along — soon some big socialized medicine bill might be on the president’s desk. The horror. And what about their energy bill? Carter was doing everything he could to put the oilman out of business. That didn’t sit well with Hatch either. And this homosexual pneumonia Hatch had been hearing about. Carter went out and tried to make it seem like it wasn’t some plight afflicting only the homosexuals? Tried to divorce it from sexuality? Hatch didn’t know much about the science, but he read the paper enough to know where these deaths were coming from: San Francisco. That was all Hatch needed to know.

Hatch was worried the White House was getting away with too much. A liberal paradise — that’s what Carter was building. Someone had to throw the White House off their stride. And Hatch thought Liz Holtzman was just a good an impetus as any.

So there he was, nine o’clock at night, meeting with his staffers to review his remarks for the Senate floor the next morning.

“It’s about qualifications,” Hatch kept saying. “What has the guy done? Nothing.” Hatch answered his own question — because the answer was so obvious. “I don’t want to make this about politics. I don’t want a debate about abortion, birth control, privacy — none of it. This is about if Charlie Kirbo can do the job.”

His communications director kept writing it all down. Qualifications. Fitness. He was scribbling.

Hatch snatched the legal pad from the man’s lap and started pacing the room, reading it aloud until it sounded right. “We were not asked for our advice, but we have since been asked to consent to a nomination that lacks the experience Senators have come to expect.” That was good.

He cut a part about Nixon’s failed nominees. He didn’t want this to seem like payback. It had nothing to do with politics, that’s what Hatch believed. Not about politics at all. Just about having a qualified justice. That’s it. Hatch wanted to underscore that point. He kept pacing the room. How do I do it? He tapped a pen against his lips until it came to him. He could name some potential nominees. Afterwards, though, in the interviews. There was Ginsburg. She was sharp enough to be on the Court. She wasn’t the president’s buddy from back home, she was a real jurist. She was the kind of nominee Carter should name. [5]

The next morning, Hatch took to the Senate floor and made his case.

“Mister President, I rise this morning to voice my concerns about the nomination of Charles Kirbo to the United States Supreme Court.

“This will be my first time evaluating a potential justice for the Court, and I am disappointed that the President of the United States has sent us someone who lacks the kinds of qualifications I had expected to review when making my decision.

“There will be no boxes filled with judicial opinions. For Charlie Kirbo is not an appellate or district judge.

“There will not be scholarly articles in peer-reviewed publications for us to read, underline, and ask Mister Kirbo about, because Charlie Kirbo has not served as a legal academic.

“Instead, it seems, we are being asked to evaluate Charlie Kirbo on the only qualification it seems he has for the Court: He is the president’s friend. If I also believed that was all it took to sit on the Highest Court in our land, I, too, would intend to vote for Mister Kirbo. But I see things differently, Mister President, and so I await the ruling of the American Bar Association, and I await the confirmation hearings.

“But allow me to be perfectly clear: I expect Mister Kirbo to present some justification for his appointment when he appears before the Judiciary Committee. It must be something other than the fact he helped the president win an election some eighteen years ago.”

Hatch went on a bit longer — included some lines about the history of the body, the importance of the Court, the reason the Founders included those three words “advise and consent” — and then he yielded back the balance of his time, went down to the Capitol Rotunda, and did an interview for that new network everyone was watching: CNN.


August 8, 1981
The White House — Washington, DC

It was raining that day, Carter later remembered. He remembered incorrectly. There was no rain on September 21, 1977. Carter could be forgiven the mistake, though — it was a dreary day in his administration. Indeed, as he would pen in his diary, it was “probably one of the worst days I’ve ever spent.” [6]

Washington was abuzz that day. The president was in the midst of the negotiations over the Panama Canal Treaties, and everyone in the White House was doing what they could to ensure their final passage. But another cloud loomed over the administration: Bert Lance.

He was another dear friend from Georgia. Unlike Charlie Kirbo, who turned down Carter’s initial ask to serve as Chief of Staff, Lance was eager to join Carter in Washington. He loved the idea. And he became the Director of the Office of Management and Budget. Quickly, his tenure became embroiled in scandal. William Safire wrote an article alleging that he’d mismanaged Calhoun First National Bank in Georgia, and that he’d improperly taken loans. Safrie even suggested that Lance might have traded on his relationship with the president.

In most administrations, the scandal would likely have gone nowhere, for it wasn’t much of a story to begin with (as Safire would later concede himself). But Jimmy Carter had rode into town on the promise of cleaning up government after Watergate. Now it seemed his own guys were corrupt. It was the same kind of cronyism that made Richard Nixon famous. Years later, journalists and historians would opine about the benign nature of the “Lance Affair” and how it had all been exaggerated by a gaggle of reporters who thought they were the next Woodward, the next Bernstein.

No matter. On that perfectly sunny September day, Bert Lance submitted his resignation to Jimmy Carter. Looking back on it now, Carter could still feel the sharp pain in his stomach. Here was a good man, one of his dearest friends, consumed by the Washington frenzy. This Town… Carter hated it. But even more than the pain he felt from seeing Lance hand over the envelope containing his resignation, Carter felt the words LaBelle Lance had spewed in his distraction.

Lance’s wife did not hold back with Carter. He’d betrayed their trust. He’d destroyed her husband. “I want to tell you one thing: you can go with the rest of the jackals, and I hope you’ll be happy.” The words still stung when Carter heard them back in his mind.

That was why, now, he was determined not to let it happen again.

In the last few weeks, the sentiment was turning against Charlie Kirbo. The American Bar Association divided in their ruling on Kirbo’s ability to do the job. He’d squeaked by with a “Qualified” rating, but a significant number of the panel had voted for “Not Qualified,” and the ABA noted that in their statement. Now, it wasn’t just Hatch — some right-wing Republican. It was the American Bar Association. Some of them were wondering if Charlie Kirbo could do the job.

Jimmy Carter didn’t understand. He knew Charlie Kirbo better than any of them, and he knew he could do the job. And Jimmy Carter was the President of the United States. And the President of the United States got to pick who was on the U.S. Supreme Court. It has to be Kirbo, Carter thought to himself. It has to be. I can’t let him down.

And that was Jimmy Carter. Here he was, the president, nominating someone — a friend — to the Supreme Court, and he was worried about letting his friend down. Worried that a fight for the nomination might be some blight on his friend’s record — not the other way around. No matter what the Kirbo nomination might say about Carter, his administration, his judgment. Carter didn’t give a damn about any of that. He wouldn’t let this town do it to Charlie.

But just the day before, Joe Biden had come into the Oval Office, head down, slump in his shoulders, and he couldn’t even look the president in the eye. He just sort of whispered: “Uhh, Mister President, I don’t know how to tell ya this, but I don’t know, Mister President. The votes…” Biden didn’t want to say it. Couldn’t Carter spare him the pain of admitting it? He’d let the president down. He was having trouble with the votes. “…Thurmond. Hatch. The Republicans — they’re sayin’ … and there’s Liz. Holtzman, I mean. She’s — Well, Mister President, I just don’t know. We’ll do the hearings, if you want. And I’ll let ‘em know what I think…”

The last person Jimmy Carter blamed was Joe Biden. If anything, the ordeal had brought them closer together. Biden had called every member of the Judiciary Committee two or three times. He’d brought Holtzman out to dinner — asked her every which way why she was being so hesitant about Kirbo. He met with Kirbo on the Hill, and he told him everything that Holtzman was worried about. He even came by the White House and sat in on the prep meetings with Kirbo before he went around and met with the other senators. Joe Biden had done everything he could to help out Charlie Kirbo.

“Mister President,” he continued. “I just don’t know what to say. I sat right there, and I gave you my word —”

Carter put his hand on Biden’s shoulder. “Joe, you did everything you could. Now, tell me: Could the hearings change this? Could we get the votes together?”

Joe shrugged. “It’ll be tough, Mister President, I won’t lie to ya. They’re going to hit him with everything they’ve got, and I’m not sure where Liz will be when it’s all over…”

Carter nodded. He’d heard what he needed to hear; he just wasn’t ready to admit it.

Forty-seven months had passed since Bert Lance’s resignation when Charlie Kirbo walked in — a thin envelope with a tri-folded letter of resignation in his pocket.

Carter forced a smile, and he sat down with Kirbo on the couches in his office. “I met with Biden yesterday. He’s not sure where Holtzman is going to land, but you said your meeting with her went well. I think you’ll sway ‘em in the hearing. I’m not worried.”

“Mr. President,” Kirbo began.

Carter knew it was coming, so he decided to talk right past it. “And I don’t think every Republican’ll be a no. It sets a terrible precedent, Charlie. They’ll get that once they hear from you.”

“Mr. President…”

“So I think we’ve just got to focus on the hearings. That’ll be the most important part, but that’s your chance to sway public opinion, too, and once the American people see —”

“Jimmy!”

Carter stopped and looked back at Kirbo. He knew.

“Mr. President, I’m sorry… Mr. President, I have here —” He reached to grab the envelope from his jacket. “— a letter withdrawing my nomination.”

Immediately, Carter resisted. “Charlie, I’m not accepting that. I’m not letting them do this again.”

“It’s not like with Bert,” he assured him. “I don’t want it anymore. It means the world to me, Mr. President, that you nominated me, but I just don’t want it anymore. Back when you got elected, and you asked me to be Chief of Staff, I knew Washington wasn’t for me. I’m not comfortable here. But a lifetime appointment — well, it got to my head. But all of this — it just shows me. I don’t want it. It’s not for me. I want to go home.”

This town. He could hear LaBelle’s words ringing in his ears. You can go with the rest of the jackals. The rest of the jackals. The jackals.

Carter had tears in his eyes as he brought Kirbo in for an embrace. This town…

When Charlie left, the president called Jody Powell and told him to draft a statement. He dragged his lips into a frown. It was over.

• • •​

In the days after Kirbo’s withdrawal, Anne Wexler drew up a list of five possible nominees to the United States Supreme Court. Carter interviewed three of them: Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Shirley Hufstedler, and Phyllis Kravitch. All three were eminently qualified. All three were likely to gain bipartisan support. His initial instinct had been to name Kravitch, but after the Kirbo debacle, Carter was worried about picking another Georgian and being accused of a home state bias that might imperil Kravitch’s nomination. He was eager to get it all over with. Wexler believed that Hufstedler was the easiest to confirm as she had an impressive resume. She also noted that Ginsburg, while a respected jurist who Carter had already elevated once, was attached to the legal feminist movement, which may prove an unneeded complication in the confirmation fight, especially with the Equal Rights Amendment hurdling towards its death.

Anne had decided to keep one name off the list: former Texas Congresswoman Barbara Jordan. Anne liked her a great deal and thought she’d make an excellent justice, but one of Washington’s worst-kept secrets was that Jordan had a live-in woman partner. Any nomination of Jordan was sure to end up in a conversation about her sexuality — especially as Carter pushed for more research dollars to get to the bottom of this gay cancer.

The president decided to name Hufstedler, with whom he had the most personal relationship. She was currently serving in his cabinet, though she’d previously been a federal judge on the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals for eleven years.

Carter announced Hufstedler’s nomination from the press room, and he refused to answer questions about Charlie Kirbo’s withdrawal. Liz Holtzman was among the first to praise Judge Hulfstedler, and the nation watched as Holtzman, the first woman on the Judiciary Committee, asked questions of Shirley Hufstedler, who would become the first woman Justice on the U.S. Supreme Court. She was confirmed in November by a 97-0 vote. Even Orrin Hatch voted for her confirmation.

Hufstedler’s ascension to the Court meant that Carter needed a new Secretary of Education. He interviewed several candidates but ultimately named Bob Martinez, the Mayor of Tampa, Florida, who had been the director of a teachers’ union during the Florida teachers’ strike of 1968. It was a bone to organized labor — one Carter had to make as he tried to woo them his way during the healthcare fight — but Carter did not see Martinez as inherently ideological. He had since been elected Mayor of Tampa, taking office in 1979, and was seen as a rising star in Florida politics. Now, he moved to Washington, DC.

>>>>>>>>>>

[1] May or may not have written this scene after watching Primary Colors.

[2] I used this website and And the Band Played On for my research on AIDS ITTL.

[3] His Very Best, 118


[4] My summarization of Hatch’s Senate race is based on the chapter about it in Reaganland, 30-48

[5] Hatch actually recommended that Bill Clinton choose Ginsburg for the Court.

[6] White House Diary, 102.