The Long Game

by Mitch McConnell

  What made these election results all the more incensing was that Democrats enjoyed these gains, and a surge in popularity, at the same time their president was about to become the second in the history of our nation to be impeached by Congress. In the end, I believe that the reason Clinton was not removed from office was that Democrats were able to keep public opinion on their side, framing the impeachment trial as a partisan exercise and arguing the popular view that political investigations are nothing more than politics.

  We Republicans had also clearly overplayed our hand. Over Democrats’ objections, the House Judiciary Committee had released Clinton’s videotaped grand jury testimony and more than three thousand pages of the so-called Starr Report, including sexually explicit details revealed in Monica Lewinsky’s testimony and photos of the infamously stained blue dress. Clinton’s testimony was broadcast on television, and rather than turn against him, the public—seeing him sweating through long questioning sessions, looking boxed in—began to feel sorry for the guy.

  While some of my Democratic colleagues, like Senator Robert Byrd, later said that removing Clinton wouldn’t have been good for the country, I disagree. I think what’s not good for the country is the message that the president of the United States can subvert the justice system by lying under oath. But he would, subsequently, pay a price: in 2001, his Arkansas law license was suspended and he was disbarred from practicing law before the US Supreme Court. At the time, however, American public opinion seemed to be that people everywhere lie about sex. Viewing it this way, the exuberance Republicans displayed about the matter conveyed the impression that the issue was only politics, and after admitting to the affair, lying under oath, and being impeached, Clinton’s approval went up while ours went down. My team was going to have to do better.

  As the impeachment trial was wrapping up, Kyle Simmons came into my office with a copy of that day’s Courier-Journal, Louisville’s daily newspaper, which has never, shall we say, had much fondness for its senior senator. “Listen to this,” Kyle said. “‘Never mind all Monica all the time. It’s been preempted by all Mitch all the time. He’s been on CBS, NBC, ABC, PBS, Fox News Channel, CNN, MSNBC, CNBC, even Court TV. If you haven’t seen Kentucky’s senior senator on television lately, your set either is unplugged or broken. McConnell’s face and voice have been on national TV networks forty-two times since December 20, the day after the House of Representatives passed two articles of impeachment.’”

  I had to laugh. Fifteen years earlier, I spent many mornings praying even one local reporter would show up for my “Dope on Dee” press conferences, and here I was now, fielding calls from people like Cokie Roberts and Larry King. Given my understanding of the rules of the Senate, which I had gone to great lengths to study, I’d become the go-to guy for reporters looking for insight on the impeachment process. “Tim Russert is quoted here saying you’re smart, focused, and prepared,” Kyle said.

  “Well, that’s a nice compliment, and it was fun while it lasted,” I said. “And we can now prepare to return to obscurity.”

  That, however, wouldn’t turn out to be true at all, because on its way to the Senate floor once again was that old, nagging issue of campaign finance reform, an issue that would divide the conservative coalition I sought to build and would also raise questions about the way we raised money to support our team.

  When the McCain-Feingold bill was first introduced on September 16, 1999, I knew it was going to get even more press attention than the issue typically does because John McCain, the principal Republican sponsor on the issue, was in a tight race for the Republican presidential nomination, against George W. Bush, and every campaign dollar counted. At the center of this bill was what is called soft money. At the time, federal election law allowed political parties to raise and spend as much money as they wanted as long as this soft money was not spent on the direct advocacy of a candidate’s election. Unlike hard money, with its firm limits on contributions, soft money was largely unregulated, meaning there was no limit on the amount donors could give to a party. S. 1593—the so-called McCain-Feingold bill—was out to change that by banning soft money given to political parties.

  Having made campaign finance reform a principal issue in his campaign, John McCain was prepared to do everything he could to get this bill to pass. But I was equally prepared to try to stop it.

  This, of course, was not going to make me many friends in the mainstream media. During my appearance on CNN’s Inside Politics to discuss the bill, Margaret Carlson of Time magazine called me a thug. The New York Times’s Maureen Dowd likened Congress to a bordello, calling me the “hard-boiled madam.” Liberal columnist Mark Shields compared me to Dracula. In a book about campaign finance reform by left-wing writer Elizabeth Drew, I was roundly demonized from one cover to the other. Fortunately, I’d learned not to be bothered by name-calling and could laugh about it.

  In October, I was asked to discuss McCain-Feingold on CNN’s Capital Gang, alongside Margaret Carlson, Al Hunt, Mark Shields, and Bob Novak. “Let me just say one thing about how wonderful it is to be here tonight with so many friend and admirers,” I said at the beginning of the broadcast. “Margaret’s called me a thug and Al’s called me a legislative lightweight. Mark has equated me with Dracula, and Bob has called me a backbencher. I feel like a lamb at a convention of lions. I can’t wait for the group hug at the end of the program.”

  I was comfortable making light of the situation because not only did the barbs not bother me, they were helpful in demonstrating why I was prepared to do whatever it took to kill this bill. Soft money is what allows conversations on issues to take place. For example, as I pointed out during an appearance on Meet the Press at the time, the New York Times had printed 114 editorials on campaign finance reform in the prior thirty-four months. Under the existing law, as a candidate or member of the Republican Party, I could use soft money to buy issue ads to respond to the New York Times, presenting the other side of the issue. To buy the amount of space the New York Times had used in its 114 editorials on the subject would have cost me $3.5 million. By limiting the soft money, you limit my ability to buy those ads, thus limiting the conversation and allowing the press—the biggest and best-financed special interest in America—to control it. This is particularly perilous to conservatives because the large national corporations that own most of the newspapers in America share views that are remarkably similar—meaning overwhelmingly on the political left. To the extent that conservatives are unable to market their message through the expenditure of money, whether it’s hard money or soft money, the agenda will be set and controlled by an institution like the New York Times, which is free to sermonize 114 times on any issue it wants, whether by what it writes on the editorial page or the front page. And, as I was learning, the media will do whatever they can to continue to control the conversation by using aggressive tactics to shut others up—like calling me a thug.

  They are, of course, free to have their say, but when I once again led the filibuster to kill the 1999 McCain-Feingold bill, it was becoming increasingly clear, to the press and to my colleagues, that I wasn’t going to allow them to shut us up either. It felt pretty good. As Winston Churchill said, “There’s nothing more exhilarating than being shot at without result.” I’d been shot at on this for many years, and they’d missed every time.

  But, I have to admit, I was beginning to wonder how long I could remain unscathed.

  As the elections of 2000 approached I was, of course, hoping that the Republican Party would fare far better than it had two years earlier. When it came to who was going to be sitting in the Oval Office, the stakes were enormous. The next president would likely pick at least two Supreme Court justices, and with the number of seats in play, Republicans had the chance to take control of the entire government for the first time since Eisenhower was president in 1954. I encouraged my Republican colleagues to continue to do the best we could, and the lesson I learned from th
is period was crucial: don’t misbehave, by which I mean, engage in good sportsmanship and be good team players. You can have policy disputes, but don’t smear, backstab, or manipulate. Tell the truth and try not to bicker. The test of how long any party is going to be able to stay on top often depends on the strength of the team as a whole, on whether they get along, with everyone making a conscious effort to minimize jealousies and differences.

  To make an example of this, I organized monthly breakfast meetings with our Republican congressional delegation from Kentucky and strongly recommended that none of us ever criticize one another publicly. History has taught us that no one party will hold political dominance for very long, but I think to the extent that you can provide good government, tell the truth, and avoid bickering, you can prolong your period of power. The work that I put into my position as chairman of the National Republican Senatorial Committee was all about making sure that our moments in the sun were long and radiant, and as 2000 approached I was determined to help Republicans work together not only to win a majority in the Senate but also to give America a whole new type of leader.

  When I watched the 1956 conventions in the basement of the house my parents owned at 5509 Westhall Avenue in Louisville, I never could have pictured, no matter how vivid the imagination of my fourteen-year-old self, that on July 31, 2000, I would speak at the Republican National Convention, which nominated the forty-third president of the United States.

  As an enthusiastic supporter of Governor George W. Bush, I was happy to be involved at such an exciting moment, although I’m sure I didn’t make even half the impression on the convention audience as did my wife. Prior to my 1996 reelection campaign, Elaine had resigned from United Way. She wanted to be with me on the campaign trail and was worried her role as CEO of a charitable organization that was prohibited from political campaigning could pose an issue. She’d since become a Distinguished Fellow at the Heritage Foundation, joined a number of boards, and had an active speaking schedule. She was invited to speak at the convention about her own story of immigration to the United States, and Bush’s belief that immigration is not a problem to be solved, but a sign of the continuing appeal of the American dream.

  There were many things I liked about Bush as our candidate, foremost among them his leadership abilities. During his first four years as governor of Texas, he was faced with a Democratic legislature. Unlike what we’d seen from the Democrats in the last eight years of the Clinton-Gore administration, he didn’t point fingers. Rather, he brought people together and got things done, like signing into law the two most consumer-friendly tax cuts in Texas history, giving nearly $3 billion back to the people of his state, and reforming welfare more than a year before Washington decided to do the same. As a result, he was overwhelmingly reelected for a second term as governor of Texas, garnering nearly 70 percent of the vote. And, not unimportantly, Bush is a very likable guy, unlike Al Gore, who I’ve always thought has the personality of a cardboard box.

  As election night loomed, there was a clear sense the presidential race would be razor thin—the contest between Bush and Gore was tight from the moment Gore earned the nomination—and neither party could count on any coattails, which was bad news for the Senate races I was overseeing as chair of the NRSC. The class of 1994 was up for reelection, and to be perfectly candid, many in this class had been elected more in response to the fanatically liberal first two years of Clinton’s presidency than on their own merit. Even many incumbents who’d had a good four years were running in tough states.

  The offices of the NRSC were abuzz with worry and a tremendous sense of pressure. In Michigan, where Spence Abraham was running, we threw everything we had at Debbie Stabenow but still couldn’t get Abraham over 40 percent in our polling, which, if you’re an incumbent, means you’re going to lose. In Minnesota, we gave up on Rod Grams as soon as it looked as if he, too, wasn’t going to keep his seat.

  The oddest contest by far was in Missouri, between Republican incumbent John Ashcroft and Democratic governor Mel Carnahan. Carnahan mounted a campaign against Ashcroft, who’d held the seat for one term. Just three weeks before election night, Carnahan’s plane crashed outside St. Louis, killing him, one of his advisers, and his son, who’d been piloting the plane. Under Missouri law, it was too close to the election to change the ballot, and Carnahan remained the candidate. In the days following, the local networks aired several tributes to him, and with the prevailing anti-incumbent mood, and a desire among voters to do something good, they began to turn their support to Carnahan. The day before he died, he had a 45 percent disapproval rating. Three days later, it had gone down to 15 percent. The acting governor, Roger Wilson, announced that if Carnahan was elected, he would name Jean Carnahan, Mel’s widow, to fill his seat.

  Come November 7, 2000, I arrived at my offices at the NRSC early in the morning, prepared for a long night. To me, election night shares the air of excitement that surrounds the kickoff of a University of Louisville Cardinals game, or the first pitch of the World Series. And that night, when I stood beside some of my most trusted team members and heard Tom Brokaw open NBC’s election night coverage by saying, “We’re about to take you on an exciting and bumpy ride,” I felt the familiar surge of anticipation.

  Well, nothing could have prepared me for just how bumpy that night would be—a night that began what just may have been among the most miserable thirty-five days of my life.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Resilience

  Spencer Abraham in Michigan. John Ashcroft in Missouri. Bill Roth in Delaware. Washington State doesn’t look good.” I was sitting in silence on a black office chair in our war room on the second floor of the NRSC, while a rowdy crowd of at least a hundred supporters, friends, and colleagues enjoyed an open bar and unlimited hors d’oeuvres in the large conference room downstairs. Elaine sat next to me as Steven Law, the executive director of the NRSC, read out these names—the seats that we were on our way to lose. As the numbers rolled in, the results were grimmer than I’d expected, but all of us were distracted by what was appearing to be an utterly bizarre and worrisome presidential election.

  I was sitting in that chair at 7:50 p.m. when NBC declared Florida for Gore, and the rest of the major networks soon followed suit. I was still sitting in that chair just before 10:00 p.m. when the networks reversed their decision and announced that Florida was too close to call. I could hear the party downstairs breaking up. Typically, Steven and I would have gone down to join the crowd, to enjoy a drink and make a few statements of where things stood, but we couldn’t pull ourselves away. Elaine gave up around midnight and headed home, but there I was, still sitting in that chair at around 2:00 a.m. when Fox News called Florida for Bush. Like lemmings over a cliff, the other networks followed. I could hardly watch. By 4:00 a.m. all the networks had flipped again, and most retracted Bush’s win.

  Just before dawn, with the election bogged down near the swamps of Florida, I finally gave up, got out of that chair, and decided to go home. It was clear we were not going to learn the final results that night and what we did know for sure was terrible. In the Senate, we lost in Florida, Delaware, and Michigan, and there was likely going to be a lengthy recount in Washington. I felt very unsettled when I went to bed, and I slept like a baby—meaning I woke up every two hours and cried.

  That weekend, looking as if we were nowhere near a resolution, I flew home to Louisville feeling miserable. To add to the upheaval, Elaine and I were in the middle of moving. After getting married seven years earlier, we’d remained in the small town house I’d owned since 1980, stuffed in together like sardines in a can, and we’d finally decided we needed more room. So that weekend, between distractedly unpacking boxes and trying to remember where Elaine wanted me to put things, I was completely glued to the television, too afraid to go out in fear I’d miss something.

  On November 10, three days after Election Day, the machine recount, automatic under Florida law,
was complete, announcing Bush the winner, but Gore kept fighting, arguing that elderly people in Palm Beach County couldn’t figure out how to use punch cards. The weakness of that argument, however, is that more people in America voted on punch cards than any other way. I don’t recall anybody else filing lawsuits or having difficulties explaining to their constituents how to vote. On November 26, Florida secretary of state Katherine Harris certified the election results, giving Bush a 537-vote victory over Gore, but there were legal challenges on both sides. As the battle played out in the courts, my staff and I were consumed by it, trying to process every latest bit of news, watching Gore try to become the Tonya Harding of American politics.

  When the Florida Supreme Court ignored the law and decided to let the counting continue, it looked bleak and I was beginning to doubt Bush’s victory. I had an extra reason to be concerned. Since 1901, the Joint Congressional Committee on Inaugural Ceremonies (JCCIC) has been responsible for the planning and execution of the swearing-in ceremonies and inauguration of the president. As the chairman of the Rules Committee, I was named chairman of the JCCIC, which meant I would be presiding over the inauguration. I had been receiving phone calls asking me to review schedules, to approve the invitations, to comment on planned remarks. I did what was asked of me, but the thought of having to introduce Al Gore as the next president of the United States was enough to make me want to call in sick.

  Politically speaking, I don’t think I have ever felt better, including after my own election victories, than when George W. Bush was finally declared our president on December 12, 2000, in Bush v. Gore. People who were unhappy with the result continued to question the legitimacy of the election, but Bush was vindicated in the end. In the months to follow, various news organizations would conduct the recounts the Gore campaign had tried to insist on, and in all the various ways they’d requested. And every time, Bush won.