What It Takes

by Richard Ben Cramer

  63

  What Perfect Was

  HE KNEW WHAT A perfect campaign was. In ’72, Joe came from nowhere—no one knew him, he was a kid. But something told Joe—like he knew it—J. Caleb Boggs, the beloved two-term Senator, twenty-five-year veteran of statewide office, a man with no enemies, a Republican with labor support ... something told Joe he could beat Cale Boggs.

  “Boggs! Joe, you’re fuckin’ crazy,” pals told him.

  “He’s tired,” Joe said.

  Joe knew—hell, it was no secret—Boggs, already in his sixties, didn’t really want a third term. It was Nixon who talked him into running. Still, when Boggs filed, no big-name Democrat wanted to run against him. So Joe could walk into the nomination. He’d run statewide, at age twenty-nine. Even if he lost, he’d make his name ... but Joe didn’t think he’d lose.

  Neilia believed ... she knew Joe could do it—they’d do it together, door-to-door, like they did the Council race. Mom-Mom would do the coffees—hundreds, before it was over. Brother Jimmy—he was twenty-four—he’d do finance. And sister Val, twenty-seven—she’d run the campaign, like she’d always run Joe’s campaigns, since he ran for class president in high school.

  That was about it, at the start: family, and a couple of friends who couldn’t bet against Joe. Joe’s pal from Syracuse, Roger Harrison, dropped his business career and came to help out—he did ads. Joe put the Biden rush on a lawyer in town, Roy Wentz, and he signed on. Wentz was tax counsel at du Pont, had a world of connections. But Joe’s needs were basic: first thing Wentz did was buy up all of du Pont’s secondhand office salvage—battered old steel desks and chairs. The campaign was working out of Mom-Mom’s basement.

  Joe knew he needed more than desks, more than volunteer kids from the Friends’ School, where Val taught (she told them she’d flunk them if they didn’t help). He’d seen this thing so many times in his head—he knew how it had to be.

  For one thing, he needed experts. He had to know his stuff, better than anyone. He wouldn’t even turn thirty (as the Constitution required for Senators) until two weeks after the vote. He was asking voters to make a hell of a leap. He had to show he could handle the job. So he’d spend all day talking with professors, days at a time with a guy named Dolan, a foreign relations specialist from the University of Delaware. Joe probably should have been knocking on doors, but he had to feel on top of his game.

  The other thing he needed was money. Of course, Jimmy had the Biden brass balls. He’d knock on doors all over the country ... but big givers didn’t want to hear from the twenty-four-year-old brother of a twenty-nine-year-old hopeful, making his first run against Cale Boggs ... Joe who?

  So they raised money in dribs and drabs—crab feasts and backyard picnics. Then they’d spend days arguing how to use it. They must have drawn up five hundred budgets—still didn’t have any money. A hundred dollars was a big deal. There was only one thousand-dollar contribution, and that had to be funneled secretly through the Democratic Senatorial Campaign Committee—it came from a partner at Cale Boggs’s law firm.

  Bobbie Greene, Neilia’s college friend, was in Washington as a researcher for the Kennedy Library, and she introduced Joe to a few liberal thinkers and doers in the capital. They were the ones who saw what he could become. There was something about the kid, something fresh and clean, and sure about the way he handled himself. So he started getting money from national do-good groups, the Council for a Livable This, the Committee for Responsible That. And they put Joe with some campaign ops—a young guru from Boston named Marttila; a kid still at Harvard, but a hell of a pollster, named Caddell ... see, they weren’t going to give to a campaign that didn’t have professionals.

  But it was Joe who called the shots—Joe and Neilia. She was still the only one who could slow him down, or shut him up. He’d get all hot and bothered ... something someone said ... and Neilia’d tell him: “Joe, you don’t say anything about that. That will pass. Don’t make an enemy of him.” Neilia now had their one-year-old, Amy, besides the boys. (“I’m not a keep-’em-barefoot-and-pregnant man,” Joe had told the local paper. “But I’m all for keeping ’em pregnant until I have a little girl. The only good thing in the world is kids. ...”) Still, Neilia spoke at coffees, worked with the volunteers. She was out there, day after day.

  Joe was the one who kept the campaign from sliding into liberal orthodoxy. He did raise his voice against the Vietnam War, but he never would make it the centerpiece of his campaign. He never went for busing, either—that didn’t make sense to him, or to his friends, or to Mom-Mom’s friends. Gun control—why the hell would he bring that up? There were two farm counties downstate where everybody had guns ... Joe meant to listen to those folks.

  He was so sure he knew where the people stood. They were like him, he was like them. That’s what he had to show—that he wasn’t some millionaire from Brandywine Hundred, or a whiz kid from Harvard, come to straighten them out. No, he’d be their voice ... he’d stand up for them. Even if it meant picking a fight. You know, Cale Boggs, sweet old man—“He really is a nice guy,” Joe would say—but could you see him picking a fight? Standing up to Nixon? Forget it!

  The people had been failed by their leaders, their government—that’s what Joe said in his speech at the state convention. He didn’t have to say they’d been failed by Boggs. When Joe’s literature promised an activist Senator ... he didn’t have to say Boggs seldom sponsored a bill. When Joe talked about government letting corporations get away with no taxes, or government that hadn’t got serious about pollution, or government that failed to manage the war, the budget, drugs, crime ... he didn’t have to say Boggs failed. If Joe could just get Boggs on stage, he wouldn’t have to say anything about him: there they’d be, in the glare, Joe and old Cale, and Joe was twenty-nine, graceful, eager and strong, friendly, funny, smart, well dressed, well groomed, well versed ... people would see.

  Problem was, why would Boggs engage? Only twenty percent of the voters knew Biden’s name. Joe was working animal days—door-to-door in the suburbs, the beaches at the shore. But, hell, it was summertime—what did people care? The good news was, when people knew Joe, eighty percent were for him.

  That’s when they started singing that song, that summer, at headquarters:

  To know know knooow him ...

  Is to love love luh-uhve him ...

  That was Val and the kids—the volunteers. Val had hundreds now. It was a children’s crusade. Of course, in ’72, when the young were taking over the earth, that’s how a lot of campaigns ran, but with Biden, it was like Beatle-mania. Those kids adored him, and Val, and handsome Jimmy and Frankie. They’d do anything for the Bidens.

  That’s what made it destiny. That was the first year the eighteen-year-olds could vote ... it was important. And after Labor Day, when school was back in, and the kids started talking to their friends, and their parents, it wasn’t a campaign, it was a movement.

  That’s when everybody started to pay attention. Biden had these tabloids—sharp stuff, well designed, black-and-white: they told his story. And to save money, they never hit the mail. Every piece, to every house, was hand-delivered by those kids—every door in the state, all at once ... a new piece, without fail, every weekend.

  Then Joe was on the radio—all over the radio. They didn’t have the money for Philadelphia TV, but Joe had a great radio voice—clear and calm, not too fast. He’d go to a shopping center and ask the people—man on the street—was it fair when millionaires paid no taxes? Well, Joe didn’t think so, either. “I’m Joe Biden,” he’d tell the folks at the mall. “Would you give me a chance?”

  Then he started showing up in newspaper ads, on billboards ... bus signs. The kid was everywhere! With that beautiful shining smile! ... By the time Boggs woke up, it was late in the game—Joe was on a roll. You could see the sureness settling on him, like a blessing, the way he’d talk to folks—not about Washington mumbo-jumbo—about their lives, and his. They wanted to be with him. They
were sure he could do it.

  Boggs finally came out to meet him—just like Joe had dreamed: Joe and old Cale, toe-to-toe ... it was perfect. At one point... and this was the key, this was the ball game, High Noon ... they were face-to-face on stage, and some wise-ass asked a trick question about a treaty—the General Amnesty Treaty, or some such arcana. Joe happened to know what it was—he’d heard from Professor Dolan. But Boggs was confused. He stumbled around. Poor old guy looked terrible! So it came to Biden—and he knew—he could’ve slammed the guy ... but, no. That was the key. Joe knew exactly how he had to be. If the beloved sixty-three-year-old did not know what the General Amnesty Treaty was ... well, there was only one thing for a twenty-nine-year-old to say:

  “Aw, I don’t know that one either ...”

  That was the moment Joe knew he had him. It was destiny.

  Boggs still had the papers—the News and Journal were owned by du Pont, and du Pont was the Republican Party. Boggs had a special insert planned ... but then, the papers got hit by a strike. No one would see any Boggs insert.

  Boggs still had the big name, most of the unions, the machinable vote ... with cold rain forecast for Election Day—a low turnout—he could still pull it off. But then the wind blew fresh from the west, blew the rain out to sea, and Election Day came bright and clear, a gorgeous day ... there would be no low turnout.

  And the kids were everywhere at the polls, or driving voters with their parents’ cars ... they’d come too far now to let one vote slip. And Joe was out all day, and Neilia, and Mom-Mom, and Mom-Mom’s friends. ... Val had the state wired like a war zone.

  And still, when the polls closed, no one could know. The Bidens gathered at a pasta joint. Joe, Sr., came in early, hauled himself up on a bars tool and said, “Well, no one can say the kid didn’t run a good race ...” Even after dinner, they figured they’d better get to the hotel. Joe had insisted on the biggest ballroom in the state—the Hotel du Pont. What if it was empty? It’d look terrible if the family didn’t show up soon.

  But the Bidens were the last people in. Fire marshals closed the doors. It looked like the whole state was there, cheering ... as the totals climbed, neck and neck, through the night ... until it was clear, at last: Biden had won, with a margin of three thousand votes.

  It was the next day, Joe and Neilia were in the car, when he looked at her—God, her smile that day!—and said: “Something’s gonna happen ...

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But it’s too perfect. Can’t be like this. Something’s gonna happen.”

  Even when they got the call about Kinnock, no one was worried ... not about that. They had High Noon with Bork in four days.

  Of course, the call was serious—the Times. Worse, it was Maureen Dowd. Rasky and Donilon knew the lineup: Dowd was the prima donna of the politics beat—whatever she wrote got play.

  Still, it wasn’t Mayday. The way Maureen was asking about Joe’s close at the Iowa debate, it wasn’t like she was chasing a scandal. It was a tweak—a one-day tweak. Donilon got on the phone: “Maureen, we’re in the biggest Constitutional fight in fifty years, and you want to know whether Biden’s great-grandfather was a coal miner?”

  Alas, Joe had no coal-miner forebears ... but he wasn’t worried. There must have been a hundred reporters at the fairgrounds, and not one asked about the close. Most of them had heard him do the Kinnock stuff before—with credit. For Chrissake, the Times had covered the Kinnock stuff—with credit ... when was that? Must have been a month ago! They had to get that story from their own paper—right? They had to see, he wasn’t trying to fool anyone. ...

  Saturday, when the story hit, Ridley went to Union Station for the Times. He tore through it—every page—couldn’t find a word. Great, he thought, they’d held it for Sunday. Gonna be page 42. ... It wasn’t till he closed the paper, he saw the piece ... on the front page.

  Joe was in Washington, with brother Jimmy, for the christening of Jimmy and Michele’s new daughter, Caroline Nicole. That was an event Joe would never miss. Blood of my blood, as Mom-Mom always said.

  Jill was in Iowa—she was campaigning alone all the time now—and when she called, she was sky-high: the people-were so nice! (The ladies baked cookies, put them in her motel room!) They were glad to see her, they listened ... they understood why Joe couldn’t be there. They wanted him in Washington. No one was for Bork. ... “That’s great, honey,” Joe said. He only talked about the christening, little Caroline, and Jimmy’s party in the afternoon.

  It was after the party, Jimmy and Michele flicked on the TV—CBS news with Connie Chung ... there was Joe ... and Kinnock. Shit, the story looked awful on TV. Ken Bode, on NBC, was worse. He ran the tape of Kinnock—then the same words from Joe ... more Kinnock ... then more Joe. It looked like Joe didn’t just steal the words, it looked like he ripped off Kinnock’s life!

  Jimmy Biden had a nose for trouble, and for a brother’s need. He was on the phone to Joe’s house right away, and the next day, on his way to Wilmington.

  It was Jimmy who got the call about Neilia, December 18, 1972. Joe and Val had gone to Washington, to interview staff. That month after the election was a whirlwind. There was a new life to make.

  Joe had to people a new office in D.C., and one in Wilmington. He had to find a house in Washington—hey, he found a house! Hell of a deal!

  The moving, of course, fell to Neilia. She had a ton of stuff to do, a list that never got shorter. She needed new beds—twins for the boys’ room, a double for the guest room, a double for the master bed, a dresser ... new rugs—green for the dining room, she knew exactly the shade, a deep oriental for the living room ... and she’d have the two green chairs reupholstered, and the Williamsburg chair, and she had to find a mirror and a table for the hall ... meanwhile, Christmas! Kids didn’t care about moving ... it was Christmas! So she got them all in the station wagon, Hunt in the front with her, Beau and baby Amy in the backseat, and drove off to shop. She was at a stop sign, just pulling out, when ...

  The truck smashed into her side of the car and drove it sideways a hundred and fifty feet, finally off the road, backward, into an embankment, where it crashed into three trees and came to a stop.

  People ran from the road. Ambulance! ...

  The car was so bad, they didn’t know who she was—until they saw the Biden brochures fluttering about the trees.

  Jimmy took the call at the campaign office—a friend who worked with the state police. Neilia and the kids were in an accident—no information yet. They’re on their way to the hospital.

  Jimmy called Senator Byrd’s office in Washington—was Joe there? No one knew where he was.

  Then Jimmy heard it on the radio. Jesus! Joe’s going to find out ... so he called Washington again, with a message: “Come home ... I’m on my way to the hospital.”

  Jimmy got the state police to pick up his parents, to get Frankie out of school. He called the family doctor to meet them at the hospital—at least he’d take care of the parents. He called the Hunters’ doctor, in Syracuse, and told him to find Neilia’s folks, and call Jimmy back, when he was at their side.

  Fifteen minutes later, Jimmy got to the hospital. People were starting to gather outside the emergency room—public and press. Jimmy told the cops to keep them out.

  The doctors came out to find him: “We lost Neilia and the baby.”

  The boys were still being worked on—broken hips, legs, arms. Beau was all cut up, and Hunter—concussion. Doctors weren’t sure ... brain damage possible. They’d have to transfer Hunt—another hospital, top pediatrics ... they had to get Beau into traction ... could Jimmy identify the bodies?

  The family was all in the room when Joe burst in. One look, and Jimmy saw: Joe didn’t know.

  Jimmy told him.

  For a split second, Jimmy saw in his brother’s eyes that look—pleading. ... He just wanted Jimmy to tell him—no, it wasn’t so. A mistake. A mix-up. It was ... an instant—the only time he’d ever seen Joe helpless. Then Joe as
ked to see his boys.

  Then, the fucking ghouls started to show.

  Oh, they’re so sorry ...

  Oh, they can’t believe it, it’s so awful ...

  Someone who went to sewing class with Mom-Mom:

  I understand ...

  What the fuck do you understand? What the fuck did any of them know?

  Joe went with Hunt in the ambulance, for the transfer. “I’m gonna be right with you, son.” Tests. X-rays. Skull fracture.

  Then he was back, with Beau. Joe wasn’t leaving.

  The Hunters came down, right away. They couldn’t accept. They had to see Neilia. Joe had to go with them. That was the worst. Jimmy went with Joe.

  Jimmy stayed with Joe. It was raining. Hunt was back. They moved the boys to a private room. The boys’ legs were going into spasms. Shots, IVs, traction. Joe wouldn’t leave. He focused. The boys. This boy. His leg. Raise the bed. That lever. That cloth. Wet the cloth. ... His boys were all that was left.

  Joe watched over his boys.

  The family closed ranks around Joe.

  What the fuck did anyone else know?

  64

  Where Do They Stop?

  THEY DIDN’T DO BADLY with the Kinnock story, considering. ... By Sunday, one day after, Rasky had a good spin going—the Post did a rebuttal on the Times, pointing out that Biden had credited the Kinnock stuff in a half-dozen speeches, all over the country.

  Meanwhile, the story showed up in Iowa. David Yepsen, the big-foot-in-a-small-pond for The Des Moines Register, had done the piece same day as Dowd ... but Yepsen made sure to note: a tape (the “attack video,” he dubbed it) of Biden and Kinnock had been provided by a rival campaign. So Rasky was pushing that, too: Who would be so dastardly as to attack Joe Biden, Defender of the Constitution ... on the eve of the most important hearings of the century? ... Was White House skullduggery behind this?