Hacks

by Donna Brazile

I was a big part of the negotiations to add debates, town halls, and candidate forums. The Black Lives Matter movement was growing that spring, protesting police shootings of unarmed black men and women. They protested at campaign rallies as well as in the streets and on the freeways. Some people didn’t like their tactics, but they were asking questions that the candidates needed to address. Several times my CNN colleague Van Jones and I spoke with these activists, but we were having difficulty bringing their concerns inside the CNN studios, where Trump’s antics were drowning out everything. My goal in expanding the event calendar was to bring in minority moderators and air the events in partnership with minority-owned networks. I was in daily contact with all the campaigns, the party, and the candidates to develop ideas for topics to include in the debate. But sharing debate questions? I couldn’t remember sharing any questions with any of them.

  Rebecca said the email subject line was: “From time to time I get the questions in advance.”

  What? That was impossible. CNN never gave us the questions in advance. Plus that subject line—bragging like that—did not sound like me. I searched my iPad and my iPhone, but I couldn’t locate an email with that subject line on either of those. Maybe it was on my laptop computer at home, I told Rebecca. I had six or seven email addresses: private ones from my cable provider and my Gmail, three business addresses, a government one, a university one, and a political one. With all these, I usually got six hundred emails a day. At home I could search all of those for any email with that heading.

  Still, I couldn’t be sure that my home computer held the answer. In June 2016, the IT team at the DNC technicians wiped all emails connected with any device they did not consider to be secure. Did the emails from that time survive on my home computer? I didn’t know. Rebecca, my producer and my boss at CNN, didn’t seem too concerned. This was merely housekeeping, she told me. She assured me it would all blow over soon. I went off to the fund-raiser.

  When I checked my phone again at two thirty, the story of my alleged terrible deed was all over the Internet. My jaw dropped. People from the left and the right had the long knives out for me, and it hurt to see how everyone suddenly wanted to take me down. Those from the Trump side emphasized how I was part of the “media elite” and in the tank for Hillary, and so did the Bernie Bros. As much as I respected Bernie, I was exhausted by the self-righteousness of the Bernie Bros. Bernie came into the race as an outsider who had criticized the Democratic Party. Nonetheless, the party embraced him. It worked with him to make sure he was on the ballot. He had legitimate reasons to complain about the actions of a handful of people at the DNC, and I had been totally forthcoming to him about that. But overall the game was not rigged against him. He knew this and has said as much, but his staunchest supporters refused to accept it. Now I was becoming their target.

  Rebecca sent me the allegedly leaked email, dated March 12, 2016, which started:

  Here’s one that worries me about HRC.

  DEATH PENALTY

  19 states and the District of Columbia have banned the death penalty. 31 states, including Ohio, still have the death penalty. According to the National Coalition to Abolish the Death Penalty, since 1973, 156 people have been on death row and later set free. Since 1976, 1,414 people have been executed in the U.S. That’s 11% of Americans who were sentenced to die, but later exonerated and freed. Should Ohio and the 30 other states join the current list and abolish the death penalty?

  I didn’t recall that email, but I did remember that time. My friend Roland Martin, whom I had worked with at CNN, was having a big moment then. He was about to comoderate a town hall with Jake Tapper at Ohio State University. He and I were brainstorming what questions he should ask Bernie and Hillary this weekend before primaries in six states. I wanted to bring up important issues about race and inequality so that both candidates could speak to them. That question was one of those that had made the cut. Roland and I had been tossing around ideas all week long, but I still didn’t recall sharing questions with Hillary’s campaign.

  With the pressure growing, Rebecca needed answers. I suggested she just put me on air, seeing as I was in a hotel right next door to the CNN studios. Rebecca said they didn’t want me on right then. By the next time she called, an hour later, I had begun to understand how this controversy now threatened to overtake the week’s news cycle. I canceled my hotel reservation and after my event at Georgia State and a fund-raiser for the Georgia Democrats flew standby to DC so I could get to my desktop computer.

  Two things motivated this abrupt change in plans. I became increasingly worried that the Trump campaign would use this WikiLeaks dump to sow discord between the Sanders and Clinton supporters. The other was fear of how Donald Trump would exploit this to further attack Hillary’s integrity. I would be his latest villain. To him this was further proof of how the Clinton family secretly pulled the levers of power, how she controlled the media. He would repeat my name over and over in his evening rallies. When Trump linked my name to hers, the harassment would become a category five. As the cab was pulling up in front of the airport, Rebecca called me again. CNN had decided to release a statement abandoning me and any responsibility for this action. The network said that it never had shared questions with me and, since the question came to CNN the day after it appeared in my email, this was my dilemma.

  “Please don’t do this,” I begged her. “You don’t have all the facts. What if it’s not true? How can you trust it?”

  She said it wasn’t her decision. She just wanted me to know.

  “Rebecca, please, no,” I said. “Hold off for just a little while. You do this, you’re putting my life at risk. Please.”

  Again, not her call.

  On the flight I tried to calm myself down, but one glass of wine was not enough. On the second glass I got a little maudlin, reassuring myself that I had value in this world. I steadied myself by thinking about how much I value fairness. I know those who have worked with me would agree this is something I exhibit in my actions.

  As we flew north, I moved from doubt to resignation. What was I rushing home for? The truth did not matter. The accusation had more power than the refutation. And if I did locate the email, everyone’s worst idea of me would seem true. From his treatment of women to his refusal to release his tax returns, we seemed incapable of landing any criticism on Trump for his outrageous behavior. But now I would be a punching bag. I was the liar, the cheat, and the thief. And if I could not find that email, that would not exonerate me. My enemies would maintain that I was covering it up. True or not, I was going to be humiliated. It didn’t matter whether or not CNN released the statement.

  By the time I landed I moved from self-absorption to forgiveness. My friends at CNN were under attack, too. Trump was mocking them, mocking all of the press. At his rallies he put the press in a pen in the middle of the auditorium and invited his supporters to boo at them and throw things. He had a special dark spot in his heart for CNN. They were his most frequent media target. As a result, the network was under enormous pressure. The smallest mistake triggered furious backlash, as Trump used it to whip his acolytes and Internet trolls into a frenzy.

  I realized I needed to resign as I was likely to be fired. This made me sad. It was heartbreaking that I had to part with CNN under these circumstances. I had loved working there for fourteen years. I respected the professionalism of my colleagues and felt fortunate to have lasted as long as I had. Resigning now would take some of the pressure off. It was one of the many things I would have to straighten out after the election, when heads were cooler.

  When I got off the plane, I was grateful to see Mr. Singh standing there, waiting to drive me. I had been arguing with Patrice about using Mr. Singh, who did most of the driving for the DNC. I didn’t want all that fuss and trappings, but Patrice would not budge on this issue. I knew she was right when Mr. Singh took my heavy carry-on and my backpack out of my arms and got my luggage from the carousel. As he drove me home, I emailed my resignatio
n to CNN. Then I started tweeting compliments about the network and some of the fine people I’d worked with. They had given me a platform, always treating me with respect. I knew the gracious thing to do was to acknowledge that in these personal tweets to my colleagues. Looking back on this now, I’m surprised I could concentrate on this task.

  I was relieved to be home, though, even with the controversy raging. I refused Mr. Singh’s offer to bring my luggage upstairs. I was thinking how the next day I’d see Kai when I went to Betsy and Mia’s to bring my dog, Chip, back home. I was smiling at that happy thought but a moment later my smile vanished. As I got to the top of the stairs I saw a white object sitting on the side of the front porch. I stopped to look at the package, but immediately backed away. It was crumpled and about eight by six inches with bugs crawling all over it and Bernie’s name scrawled on the top.

  Mr. Singh, who had not yet reached his car door, heard me gasp and cuss, and then saw me step back. He came running up the stairs and we both stood to the side staring at this thing. I wondered what was in that bag. Mr. Singh took a picture of it with his cell phone, but neither of us wanted to go anywhere near it. My porch was up a long flight of stairs from the street level. No one could have dropped this thing by accident while walking by.

  Mr. Singh made sure I got safely into the house, but then I didn’t know whom I should call. Should I call the police? Should I call Besty and Mia? It was past midnight now. I kept peeking out the French door to look at the package, like it was going to move. I didn’t know what to do. I turned on every light in the house and walked around checking to see if anything was different from when I left. I knew I would not be able to sleep. I popped some popcorn and opened a bottle of wine. At 4:30 a.m. my Spook called.

  His habit was to call me when the Russians had gone off duty for the evening. This was when he’d check in with his spooky friends to report to me if they had detected much activity from them on the web. This time he heard the fear in my voice. When I told him about the suspicious package on my front step, his tone changed from confidential to serious.

  “Do you have a pet?”

  “Yes, I have Chip, my dog, but he’s been staying with my friends while I was away.”

  “Maybe you should leave him with your friends until the election is over.”

  “Oh no! I don’t want to do that. I need him. I mean, he’s my little Boo! Someone for me to talk to when I get home at night.”

  “I know. I appreciate that. But sometimes the Russians go after a target’s pets. They are good with poison. They might try to poison Chip. What do you think was in that package? Was it food?”

  “I didn’t get too close to it, but it looked like donuts.”

  “Like I said, I think it’s best that you let your friends take care of Chip.”

  I agreed, and I felt so sad. This was for the best, and it hurt.

  The next morning I called a man who does odd jobs for me around the house—Mr. Dobson—to come take the package away. He said the package did contain spoiled food. I was relieved it wasn’t anything worse, but I still felt violated. Whoever put it there despised me—and knew where I lived.

  I went over to see Kai and to tell Betsy and Mia that I needed them to keep Chip until the election was over. Mia, a Navy vet, recommended I have a security team come to sweep the house and look for vulnerabilities. She was talking a mile a minute about where to place cameras and motion-sensitive lights, but I was only half-hearing her. She saw that, so she got online and found cameras for every window, motion-sensitive lights, and a controller for it all that would send live pictures from the cameras to my iPad.

  My mind was in a million places. I was thinking about my reputation, built on more than forty years in politics. I had been unable to find that email on my home computer, but that would not be a sufficient answer to my critics. I saw email chains where Roland had reached out to many friends and listeners asking for suggestions for topics at the town hall. I sent him several issues, including one on the death penalty. He sent those questions on to CNN—they didn’t come through me. I saw that I had shared potential topics for that event with Bernie’s camp, too. I found it odd that I would reach out to John Podesta through Jennifer Palmieri, as I have a direct line of communication with John. It all seemed like an election fable, like many that had been cooked up to confuse the voters about the integrity of the election.

  If I had made this mistake, I would own it. But, given all the fishy business of this election, I would have to look further into it to convince myself that I had really done this. But I knew that—no matter what—there was no chance of clearing my name now.

  Stories about me and the email were on every news site and cable show now. Donald Trump had tweeted about me the night before: “Wow, @CNN Town Hall questions were given to Crooked Hillary Clinton in advance of big debates against Bernie Sanders. Hillary & CNN FRAUD!”

  He started using this allegation at his rallies, as I knew he would. At a rally in West Palm Beach, Florida, he said: “Honestly, she should be locked up. Should be locked up. And likewise the emails show that the Clinton machine is so closely and irrevocably tied to the media organizations that she, listen to this, is given the questions and answers in advance of her debate performance with Bernie Sanders. Hillary Clinton is also given approval and veto power over quotes written about her in the New York Times. And the emails show the reporters conspire and collaborate with helping her win the election.”

  This was crazy talk, and I was embarrassed that I was part of it. I didn’t want to add fuel to this inferno. The Clinton campaign was holding steady in its policy of never commenting on or validating any information that was released by Guccifer, DCLeaks or WikiLeaks. No one in the party said I should resign as interim chair, but no one from the campaign came to my defense, either. Perhaps they understood that this was a hit job. Most of the messages I got were private, from colleagues saying they were praying for me, that I should ignore this and go forward. I had no obligation to answer this charge, but I felt badly even if I agreed with those people who were encouraging me to hang tough. I didn’t know where to go. I didn’t want to go home and I didn’t want to go into the office. This whole situation unmoored me, and I didn’t know when it would end.

  The next day, even Jake Tapper took a swing at me, calling me unethical and “journalistically horrifying,” during a radio interview with WMAL even though I worked for CNN as a commentator, not a journalist. When I called him on this, he did not apologize. His attack on me was really about him. He wrote in an email, “I don’t know what happened here except it undermines the integrity of my work and CNN… you have to know how betrayed we all feel.”

  The feeling is mutual, my friend.

  I decided I needed to take evasive action for my safety. I began taking a different route home every night. Often I stopped off at Betsy and Mia’s to see Kai and Chip, but I drove way out of my way to confuse anyone who might be following me. I alerted the DC police, too, asking them if they would tell the patrol officers to swing by my house a little more often. I also asked my neighbors to keep an eye on my house. If there was a car parked in front of it for very long, would they please write down the license plate for me? Maybe they could take a picture of it too, just for my files.

  By the end of the week the DNC had hired a security firm to sweep the house and help me analyze where I needed a security upgrade. The technician brought twelve huge metal cases into my living room that contained electronic equipment to scan for frequency irregularities on my cable and Internet service and my phones. He also looked for listening devices on the outside and inside. He asked me first where I spent most of my time. I said, “In my boobatoir.” He didn’t know what I was talking about. That’s a New Orleans word I’ve heard nowhere else. The boobatoir is that room of the house where you lay down and binge-watch television. It’s the place where you kick off your shoes and set down your purse after a long day. Mine had a comfy sofa and a nice big television.

/>   I watched him scanning it with his devices. Up and down the cables and the windowsills, the doorjambs, and even the floorboards. His verdict was that this was the room that was the most vulnerable. It had so many windows. (That was why I liked it.) There were two entrances to the room—from the house and from the porch—so that made it less secure. He recommended thousands of dollars of security upgrades, and that I spend a lot less time in my boobatoir.

  The day the team came to install the security system I felt so ruined by this whole election. Just as Mia had recommended, I now had cameras trained on every window and door of my house and motion-sensitive lighting on pathways and in the garage. The security team at the DNC were wary for me, too. They installed a special camera at my parking space so they could monitor if anyone was tampering with my car. Donald Trump had created this madness. His philosophy was either rule or ruin, so he was trying to ruin me. He had turned thousands of my fellow citizens, people who never knew me and never would, against me.

  Every morning when I got into work, there were threatening messages from people saying they were coming to get me and that they would make me answer for this. After I made my long and winding way home, the messages on my home line were even more frightening. When I was campaigning for President Obama, strangers had called me a nigger and made all manner of other insults about my race. Now, as I advocated for Hillary, the threats had become even more violent and personal. They knew where I lived, they’d say, and I shouldn’t get too comfortable. Maybe I shouldn’t go to sleep at night because I might not wake up. I had shut all the curtains and drawn all the blinds in my house. There was no Chip for me to snuggle with at night, and I stopped spending time in my garden. I remember standing at the back door looking out with sadness. The plants were growing wildly, weeds starting to make their way up among the flowers, and animals were nibbling on my vegetables. It was hot, but I did not feel safe enough to go out there and water my plants.