by Crisis of Character- A White House Secret Service Officer Discloses His Firsthand Experience
Later when I returned the car to the Washington Navy Yard the mechanic said, “G-damn, Gary,” and he informed me the car needed a pint of transmission fluid and a quart of oil and was almost completely empty of gas.
My watch commander tried to write me up. Why was our leadership so risk-averse? Those guys had been up to something bad. For what other reason would three trained guys have stolen a van and run with such reckless abandon?
Officers need leadership that backs them up, but our superiors’ trepidation was only getting worse. Our revolvers were swapped for the extremely formidable SIG Sauer 228 pistol, but some posts were issued nickel-plated Remington Model 870 shotguns meant to shoot beanbags an abysmal twenty feet. Many guys openly refused to use them. As a new guy, I didn’t have that clout, but I silently shared their opinion. The Service wanted to issue Tasers, too. It was all tactically prudent and politically meddlesome.
Luckily, every day didn’t include a car chase scene from Bullitt or The French Connection. We got to deal with some very nice people too, such as President George H. W. Bush and First Lady Barbara Bush.
One day on the South Lawn, when I first walked past First Lady Barbara Bush, she said, “Good morning, Officer.” I nodded and walked on. Per my JJRTC training, I was taught not to engage protectees in conversation. An agent rushed up to me.
“Excuse me, Officer. Is there something wrong with you?” he scolded.
“No, sir,” I replied, mortified.
“When the First Lady says, ‘Good morning,’ you stop and say, ‘Good morning’ back. Otherwise they consider it rude.”
I apologized profusely. I didn’t know! It was just one of those things you have to get a feel for on the job. I was extremely loyal to the presidency, not because they were the Bushes but because they were the First Family, and in doing so I forgot that they were normal folks and regular Americans at heart.
The second time the First Lady passed me, they were heading to a vehicle to run an errand. She said good morning, and so did I, which was a relief—the new guy was finally adjusting.
“And Officer, do tell them to turn down the humidity, please!” she said pointedly.
I nodded, turned, and picked up the phone on my post.
“What is it, Gary?” said the no-nonsense call center.
Then I realized we were outside. I looked over. Barbara Bush and the staff were giggling.
“Gary, what is it?” the voice snapped.
“Uh, never mind,” I replied and hung up the phone.
She got me again! But her humor kept tension at bay around the White House. Mrs. Bush was famous for it. Executive life was constantly stressful and it can consume everyone who works at the White House. She knew it and appreciated us, and it meant the world.
When I finally finagled a White House tour for my family, one of the Bush grandkids ran down the Executive Living Quarters steps and bumped into my mom. Arthur, a residence houseman, was not happy. He and Mrs. Bush sought us out. Practically dragging two of the Bush boys by the ear, she made them apologize to my mother—and then Mrs. Bush apologized to me for their behavior. I never thought I would hear the end of it from colleagues. I was horrified. I just hoped it wouldn’t get me in trouble, but it was how the Bushes operated—100 percent class.
The Permanent Executive Residence Staff is extremely loyal and exemplifies quiet character. They run the White House. Their dedication keeps everything in check. Maybe it’s ironic, but I know it’s true: Though seemingly at the bottom of the White House hierarchy, the Residence crew set the standard for character. Presidents come and go, they stay—thank God.
Part of our job was to create a welcoming environment, not a prison, for the First Family: A smile, a “Good morning, sir,” and simple gestures go a long way in tough times. It took a long presidential history and relationship with the Secret Service to find a balance, and with each president and staff that balance has to be reengineered and tailored again. President George H. W. Bush knew what it was to be on the front line, part of the sword and shield of this country. When he enlisted in the Navy his nickname was Skin because he was so lanky. He piloted an Avenger torpedo bomber against Japanese targets. Taking flak, his engine caught fire yet he still hit his target before parachuting into the ocean. Defying death again, Bush was picked up by a submarine and spent the rest of his time with that sub on a mission.
We all respected him because, in a way, we felt as though the president was one of the guys, albeit of a salty older generation. When he issued orders for a national fight, he understood the consequences of sending people into harm’s way. Everyone in the Secret Service respected him for that. He had no Hollywood notions of combat or politically correct ideas of wartime grandeur. Anyone in our shoes, doing our job to protect others, just wants to look back and see the commander’s hand still at the helm.
The West Wing Staff, also known as the Political or Presidential Staff, run the president’s policy. But no other group is more committed to the White House and the First Family than the Permanent Executive Residence Staff. Many families, like Arthur’s, had served for generations. To Executive Residence staffers, the First Family was royalty. Or maybe these staff members simply understood the burden of the office. I had immense respect for the Residence Staff’s quiet resolve and work ethic, especially during the Easter Egg Roll and Christmas events. People say the Secret Service would take a bullet for the president, but I tell you that many of the Residence Staff would, too. Yes, the feeling is contagious. The more time I spent working around the president, the more I was hooked.
I was being trained for the post outside the Oval Office when we started heading into the election cycle. I witnessed how impeccably the president’s morning briefer arrived at 6:50 every single morning, ten minutes earlier than scheduled. He waited and made small talk until Papa Bush walked into the Oval Office at exactly 7:00 a.m. Both were incredibly punctual. We joked that we could set our watches by their morning routine. They looked us right in the eye, smiled, and said, “Good morning, Officer.” They often knew us by name. Such basic actions were so profound.
President Bush would say, “Good morning,” even if it wasn’t a good morning. Stress didn’t faze him. He didn’t agonize over walking into his office because he knew firsthand of things much worse. He carried a briefcase, as did his briefer. I always wondered why the president needed a briefcase. Everything he wanted could be provided, but it spoke to his work ethic. Seven a.m. wasn’t their time; it was the people’s. Timberwolf (Bush’s code name) understood. He understood what it meant to be presidential.
I also watched Papa Bush and his advisors when a group of Uniformed Division Emergency Response Team members congratulated him on being chosen by Time magazine as person of the year.
“Hey, guys,” the president called over to them, stopping them in their tracks.
He signed the magazine and gave it to one of the guys and thanked each profusely for what he did. Things like that—simple, respectful actions—endeared Papa Bush to us. The president’s mind was constantly being bombarded but he thought of us, and some lucky guy was recognized by the president to whom he had dedicated his life and efforts. That guy, whom I knew well, went home to the wife and kids, with whom he had spent less time than with the president’s family, with a signed copy of Time magazine (which he framed) and a great story to tell.
But we knew better than to confuse the president with the man. He was not our friend, nor should any superior be so misconstrued. Respected? Absolutely. Feared? Certainly revered. The president is never a buddy, though Timberwolf made that hard. He even ordered the creation of horseshoe teams of servicemen and Executive Residence staffers to compete with, and though he was extremely competitive, he wanted everyone to bring their top game. Politics aside—he was great to us.
I served a rotation near the White House Press Lobby. A Presidential Protection Division (PPD) agent walked up to me to shoot the shit. He anticipated that the president was walking out from a diffe
rent entrance from the one called in over the radio. Without warning, someone touched me on the shoulder from behind. Startled, I swung around—ready for anything.
“Whoa, big guy,” said Papa Bush, realizing he’d spooked the hell out of me.
“Sorry, Mr. President. You got me good!” I said, my heart rate coming down.
He smiled and asked me to let out Millie and Ranger, the two First Family dogs, as one of them had been peeing on a couch.
“No problem, Mr. President,” I said.
He kept smiling as he walked away.
“Jesus, Gary,” said the agent.
I shrugged, winced, and made a face as if to say sorry; he’d just startled me severely! Papa Bush was stealthy. His footsteps were inexplicably silent in such a creaky old building. The anxious dog was ecstatic when I let him out to the lawn.
Timberwolf’s light-footedness—and friendliness—kept us on our toes. One day George, the White House butler, and Papa Bush came by the South Portico with a silver platter stacked with sizzling sausage, burgers, and hot dogs. The Bushes loved to barbecue.
By policy, we were not allowed to eat on post but we weren’t supposed to refuse presidential orders. I refused politely, saying something about policy. I, a very fair-skinned oaf of a guy, was stark red in the face. George, a very dark man, turned white. He wanted to teach me a lesson right then in manners: When someone as nice as the Bushes offered me something, I should graciously accept. George also relayed to me a strict direct presidential order to disseminate all these fantastic meats, which were soooo good, to the rest of the guys on post. George was a font of good information; he even showed me a spot in which to hide food in a utility closet.
I phoned my fellow officers (if I put it over the radio, it would have been a mob scene) that if they sauntered over to the edges of their posts, I would walk to the edge of mine to pass out the meats. I was in a trance with a mouth full of presidentially prepared cuisine. As luck would have it, however, the watch commander swung by, welling with fury, but I had my excuse: “Oh, good, you’re here. Watch my post. The president ordered me to take this platter and give it to the guys, sir. I can’t refuse a presidential order. I’ll be right back and you can have some too.” I got the hell out of there, tray in hand.
The staff used to say, “When the president eats, everybody eats.” That kind of leadership is real. I figured the saying applied to every president but really the saying came from Bush 41’s years. He appreciated the lowest on the totem pole because he’d once pounded the Navy pavement.
I assumed every president would follow Papa Bush’s example. The work ethic, love of country, work environment, and respect for the people serving would be constant, and politics would never matter. Soon the late-night phone calls and special assignments came; we were moving into the election cycle—hold on to your butts. Protection was never the same twice, especially with candidates. They had no idea what they were getting themselves into.
And neither did I.
5.
MEET THE NEW BOSS
A brief, to-the-point conversation at a 1992 Bill Clinton campaign rally rocked our procedures.
A man walked up to an agent. The agent looked the man over. No normal person addressed an agent with the protectee less than a stone’s throw away, but the man had a bone to pick. He had the agent’s attention.
“Do you guys have any idea what you’re doing?” he sneered, gesturing to the agents surrounding Clinton. “I’m a sheriff’s deputy and while I am legally allowed to carry, no one screened me. I’ve got a loaded 1911 [pistol] on my hip, and if I had a mind to, well, I’m within ten, fifteen feet of your boy. Anyone here could be like me but less inclined to be nice, and there’s not a damn thing you could do about it. Now, you sure you guys have your act together?”
Alarm bells sounded throughout the Service. Bean-counter Service leaders had dismissed magnetometers as too expensive, and campaign staffers wanted the Secret Service to screen crowds superfast—in reality, in appearance only.
There was an open call that day for volunteers to run metal detectors at campaign events. Emergency was an understatement. I signed up.
It took Robert Kennedy’s assassination to spur assigning Secret Service protection to candidates, just as it took Jack Kennedy’s assassination to finally grant us a countersniper detail. Secret Service vets told stories of unboxing the new on-the-road metal detectors straight from Italy after Ronald Reagan’s assassination attempt. A special detail had sped to Italy—with a big bag of taxpayer cash—to buy the metal detectors directly from the manufacturer. My 1992 trip wasn’t as frenzied, but it was stressful.
The Secret Service couldn’t hire personnel for every election and then not retain them. It’s not feasible and it wouldn’t garner quality personnel. Most agents don’t guard POTUS (president of the United States), FLOTUS (First Lady), or the vice president. As Treasury Department employees, they investigate currency crimes out of nationwide field offices (FOs), but when the election cycle arrives, protection is all-hands-on-deck priority. Yet we could stretch election-level personnel only so far. Occasionally we called upon agencies like the Drug Enforcement Administration to fill gaps—but never the FBI because of long-standing interagency pissing contests. Sure, local police forces can provide perimeter protection, but even they have trouble protecting at large events.
Travel duty agents stay at four- or five-star hotels closer to or at the same location as the event and/or protectee; we stayed a few miles out in roach motels—a slap in the face, but not worth getting excited about. I was at the center of the political action. As long as we, the Secret Service, weren’t in the news and the candidate was—mission complete. As a new guy I was Teflon to stress.
A sudden late-night call, a plane ride, a two-star hotel, ensuring some crazy event went smoothly (in terms of security), another hotel stay, another plane, and I was back home to Maryland and then back to outside the Oval Office. Each special assignment unfolded like that, a dream, a nightmare, a whirlwind, and then back to our normal grind. I was on complete autopilot.
I always feared being so exhausted that I might do something incredibly stupid, like accidentally leaving my pistol in a restroom stall—unforgivable—but stuff like that happened. If you have a healthy fear of screwing up, you’re fine. Lose the fear, careers or lives are over. Thieves once broke into a countersniper Secret Service Suburban parked next to a diner (and a strip bar, but they were in the diner—they swore!). Guns disappeared. So did the agents.
I admit I’d grown sentimental regarding Papa Bush and his family. But I knew we protected the president, not the man. I quickly grew to love the routine and the atmosphere and to sometimes even read the White House morning news briefings, a mosaic of all the major paper’s headlines assembled for the president for his morning read. Seeing how candidates and pundits critiqued the president wounded me. Didn’t they realize how soul-sucking the presidency was? This was how the political “game” was played. But didn’t candidates realize such vitriol would soon turn on them if they won?
I knew Clinton would beat Papa Bush. I read the papers. I worked at his events. Candidate Clinton would become President Clinton, and that person would be under my protection and I had to adhere to “You elect ’em, we protect ’em,” 100 percent.
Scandals have often plagued candidates, but the Clintons exceeded any politician’s call of duty. Mrs. Clinton coined her “vast right-wing conspiracy” phrase a few years later, but back in November 1992 I chalked up the hype that surrounded them as just that—hype. As the Clinton scandals accumulated, however, in the months and years to come, I kept recalling being on detail at a Clinton campaign event, small-talking with an Arkansas sheriff. When I asked about the Clintons’ latest rumors, he gave me a thousand-yard stare.
“Let me tell you something, Gary. Everything—everything they say about them is true. The Clintons are ruthless. And [the media] don’t even know the half of it.”
I didn’t know what to
make of that.
“From what I’ve seen,” he continued, “there’s no doubt in my mind they will secure the presidency—you watch.”
“How can you be so sure,” I asked, “especially with all the scandals, the allegations of affairs, bribery.…”
He just waved me off, saying, “It will never matter. Officer, I’m telling you they can spin shit into gold.”
He spoke with great conviction, looking me straight in the eye, as if knowing that what he said was stranger than fiction. He spoke from a profound well of personal experiences with the Clintons, and it was eerie.
Sometimes it seemed as though the Clinton campaign staff could get nothing right, and they blamed us for many scheduling problems, among other issues. Many campaign staffers were bushy-tailed unpaid college kids eyeing future administration jobs. Woefully undisciplined, ideological, naïve, inexperienced “sophisticates,” they tried to “college” their way out of any problem. The campaign pushed event volunteers ragged, treating them as disposable. The Clintons’ young blood didn’t mix with ours, and when those volunteers graduated to campaign staffers, their egos skyrocketed.
They still had to cooperate with us to guarantee Clinton’s protection but were pissed to ask permission at every step. They complained it slowed them to a crawl and jeopardized their chances at success. Even more, they suspected we would enact sabotage on behalf of President Bush. They even voiced those conspiracy theories around us! It all set the groundwork for a very bad working relationship between the Clintons and the Secret Service. Their staffers wanted the candidate to succeed; we wanted him to live. Previously they had free rein over events; now they played by a different set of rules—and they didn’t like rules.