A Heart to Serve

by Bill Frist

  The questions continued for more than a year until April 19, 2007, when the U.S. attorney for the Southern District of New York notified my lawyers that they were closing their investigation. They had found nothing awry. The following day, the SEC issued a similar statement. It had all been much ado about nothing.

  Why the SEC and U.S. Attorney’s Office investigations took so long, especially after the discovery of the paper trail proving the time line when I had initiated the actions, I’ll never know. The consensus was that they wanted to do a thorough job, leaving no stone unturned, and they wanted to avoid any suggestion that I was getting special treatment because I was a “high-profile” figure. There were concurrent inquiries going on with a number of HCA employees and we were told my case would not be dropped until all others had been settled. I didn’t expect special treatment; I just wanted fair treatment. This dark cloud hung over me and Karyn daily. That the inquiry took nearly eighteen months was a travesty. And while the investigation dragged on, the financial cost to defend myself against baseless charges kept adding up. Law firms don’t give you a refund when the government closes its investigation after finding nothing amiss. The government doesn’t pay these legal bills—Karyn and I do. And the legal fees were huge. In fact, I am still paying off the loans from those bills today. Ethical public service can be expensive…very expensive.

  Along those same lines, exoneration doesn’t receive the same play in the media as an accusation. When the news hit that an inquiry was under way, the Washington Post, the New York Times, and the Associated Press ran story after story with bold headlines, often above the fold on page one. But when I was totally exonerated, the articles were few and buried deep inside the papers. The headlines in The Tennessean sounded almost disappointed: “Frist Won’t Be Charged With Insider Trading.” 9 In today’s media climate, being innocent does not sell papers.

  Throughout the eighteen-month ordeal, I was appalled by the enormously wasteful inquiry. I’d like to say that I couldn’t believe it, but after serving in the U.S. Senate for twelve years, I had learned not to be surprised by political or personal smear tactics. Moreover, the allegations were even more painful because HCA was the business embodiment of Dad’s values and of my brother’s commitment to serving others. It hurt me deeply that my family’s integrity was on the line, that innocent family members were investigated, and that my family’s reputation for honesty that my father and his father before him had built into a legacy could be so maliciously impugned—and for no reason whatsoever other than political shenanigans and manipulation.

  Saddest of all, perhaps, an inquiry like this one, involving unrestrained celebration of false allegations by media and pundits, discourages good people from entering public service. Who wants to run for office if your reputation can so easily be twisted and sullied? Freedom of speech and freedom of the press are two of our most cherished rights in America, but it bothers me to this day that there is no accountability for those who make baseless accusations. As someone who worked diligently to recruit the best and brightest into elective politics, I know our nation is repeatedly robbed of excellent public servants and has fewer qualified, accomplished, noble men and women from whom to choose come election day as a result.

  THE PHONY SCANDAL SURROUNDING MY STOCK IS LINKED TO A broader problem with our current political system—the erosion of civility. It’s a problem that, perhaps, I saw with special clarity because I came to politics only after a long career as a physician.

  As my dad taught me—and, more important, demonstrated daily by his own example—being a physician is about tolerance and understanding, not judging or condemning others. A doctor’s task is to alleviate suffering and improve quality of life, regardless of whether a patient’s personal choices may have worsened or even caused his or her problems in the first place. Naturally, we try to educate our patients and encourage them to make wiser choices in the future. But our first responsibility is always, simply, to care for others, no matter their background or station in life. That is service.

  Coming from this culture of healing, adjusting to the world of politics was a shock for me. Debate is one thing—I fully expected to encounter clashes of opinions and even value systems in politics. But what I experienced, too often, was outright combat. Worse still, it was often combat not in the service of higher ideals but simply for its own sake—as if winning the latest battle for political power was the highest good.

  This attitude hasn’t always been the rule in Washington. Howard Baker, among others, told me in no uncertain terms how the atmosphere had deteriorated during his years on the scene. Over time, the notion of politics-as-combat has become increasingly institutionalized, with the two major parties growing more and more insular, narrow-minded, and extreme. Nowadays in the Senate, fewer and fewer meetings—even informal lunches or hallway conversations—include members of both parties. Fewer and fewer members of Congress take the time to develop true friendships or even strong working relationships with their counterparts across the aisle. More often than not, legislative discussions center not on what is best for the country or the world but rather on how one party can outmaneuver the opposition, score political points, and improve its chances of gaining seats in the next election. This has got to change.

  This approach has infected the broader political culture as well. The news media are increasingly dominated by self-anointed pundits who seem to prefer shouting one another down to engaging in thoughtful discussion of issues. During my years in the Senate, I sat in the green room of many a television studio, preparing for an appearance to discuss some current topic, usually opposite a Democratic spokesperson or liberal commentator. The producer would generally urge us to “mix it up,” hoping for personal attacks, inflammatory accusations, and slanted, exaggerated arguments. Flying sparks evidently make for “good TV,” even if they do nothing to inform or educate the public.

  This simply wasn’t my style—either in heart surgery (Dr. Shumway taught us not to throw our surgical instruments) or in political discourse—which meant I probably ended up appearing on the cable stations less often than some of my more combative colleagues. That was fine—my goal was to serve the public good rather than promote myself. In retrospect, I should not have listened quite so much to my advisors, who discouraged me from responding early and more completely to my critics over matters like the HCA inquiry and the Schiavo affair.

  In 2008 we elected a new president who ran, in part, on a promise to change the tone in Washington. He has his work cut out for him! Ironically, our previous president made exactly the same pledge—which he proved unable to keep. Like the overwhelming majority of Americans, I hope President Obama will succeed in the effort. But restoring civility to Washington won’t be an easy task. It will surely require a genuine commitment by all of us, both inside and outside government. I would love to see it happen—for the good of the country.

  14

  A Promise Kept

  One afternoon in late October 2006, when the Capitol building was relatively empty and the Senate chamber was quiet, I pushed open the back doors and slipped onto the floor of the U.S. Senate. I made my way to the front of the chamber and sat down at my majority leader’s desk to carry out a time-honored tradition almost as old as the institution itself. I opened the drawer and began carving my name where previous Senate leaders had left theirs: Robert Taft, Hugh Scott, Everett Dirksen, Howard Baker, and Bob Dole.

  Each of today’s one hundred senators has a similar desk, forty-eight of which date back to 1819, when they were purchased after a fire had badly damaged the Capitol’s furnishings. Years ago, before members of Congress had their own office suites, the chamber desk served as a senator’s main work area. Today, the desks are a convenience and a constant, awe-inspiring reminder of the Americans from previous and present generations who have served in the Senate chamber.

  As I pored over my handiwork, it struck me that a name carved into the bottom of the old, oak drawer is the only thing of pe
rmanence that anyone leaves in the place, that my time there, as for all the senators, was but a season. We were there to occupy a seat for a short time, not to possess it, never to own it. And that’s as it should be.

  I had pledged to serve two terms and return home; I’d do that. But should I also consider running for the presidency? Pondering all of this caused me to consider the future.

  One night, Karyn and I hosted some friends for dinner at our home in Washington, partly to thank them for their service and support, but also to talk through some of the pros and cons of tossing my name into the presidential race. The conversation was lively as my loyal communications director Amy Call, insightful and smart chief of staff Eric Ueland, pollster Dave Winston, national fundraiser Linus Catignani, former counsel Alex Vogel, best friend from Nashville (and strongest, most dedicated supporter of all) Steve Smith, and longstanding confidante Emily Reynolds bantered over the issues. Later that evening, reflecting on the conversation, I told Karyn, “Our passions have always been to bring hope and healing to others, and I don’t think running for president is the best way for us to do that. Nothing feels right about it.”

  In the back of my mind, I kept thinking about a series of confidential conversations that I had had long before with the politically savvy and realistic Mitch Bainwol. Just after the 2004 elections and then a few months later at a planning retreat at an inn on the Chesapeake, Mitch in no uncertain terms said that the combination of being leader and the electoral realities of trying to follow a two-term Republican presidency was just too much of a lift. A few months later Mitch came by and suggested that I formally announce that I would definitely not run, and then focus all my energies on the leader role. Mitch said it wasn’t a lack of faith in me (though maybe he was just saying this to be nice!) so much as a sense that the stars just weren’t aligned right. I listened carefully and the words sank in—but then again, never in my life had I closed doors to future opportunities. My chemistry professor at Princeton had instructed always take the road less traveled. I often wonder how the last two years of my tenure would have been different if I had taken Mitch’s sage advice to publicly close the option of ever seeking higher office.

  Just before Thanksgiving 2006, Karyn and I went to Nantucket for a two-day getaway and to make a final decision about whether to throw our hat into the ring to seek the Republican nomination for the presidency. It was exactly two years before the 2008 election—now was the time to take the plunge, if I was going to do it. I had a conference call set up with about thirty of my strongest supporters.

  All the necessary groundwork had been laid. We had a strong core of supporters who were primed and ready to go. We had cultivated a nationwide network of fundraisers over the past four years, many of whom I had gotten to know personally through my chairmanship of the Senate campaign committee. Steve Smith had led, with Nashville-based Linus Catignani, our Tennessee-based leadership political action committee, Volpac. Over the years Volpac had attracted over fifty thousand contributors from around the country who believed in conservative principles; we in turn used those resources to support political candidates at all levels of government, concentrating on the Senate races. Steve, with his wife Denise, had systematically explored the possibility of raising sufficient funds with donors nationwide through a series of one-on-one meetings (staged as a monthly cookout at his breathtakingly beautiful farm outside Nashville). He concluded that sufficient money could indeed be raised for the primary. Barry and Jean Ann Banker had spent countless hours traveling around the country over the previous two years building support for my political endeavors.

  I knew that my consistently conservative principles were in line with the Republican values of the day. And I felt that my own brand of conservatism, characterized by a style of inclusiveness and a focus on personal issues like health and education, not generally associated with Republicans of the day, would connect strongly with the everyday concerns of American families and workers.

  I had crafted strong relationships with numerous leaders of foreign countries. I had met both our allies and our potential adversaries, and I had traveled to most of the hot spots of the world. America wanted action, not just words. My annual medical mission trips to personally deliver needed care to the people of Sudan and other distant parts of Africa, my multiple trips to New Orleans post Katrina, and my early journey to Sri Lanka just days after the devastating tsunami hit demonstrated a genuine caring that were extensions of my life as a healer.

  The political climate was another matter. Two weeks earlier, Republicans had been soundly defeated in the 2006 midterm elections, losing thirty seats in the House and six in the Senate. Only 29 percent of Americans thought the country was on the right track, and President Bush’s popularity was in the tank, his approval rating hovering in the upper thirties.

  But it wasn’t the president alone with whom the American people were disgusted. Congress’s poll ratings were abysmal, too. Only 16 percent of Americans approved the performance of Congress in the last poll before the 2006 election. Exacerbating matters still further, on the day that Congress was to leave for the October break to gear up for the elections, the Mark Foley scandal—regarding the congressman’s inappropriate contact with a House page—hit the news and from there it was all downhill.

  The event played right into the Democrats’ theme that corruption was rampant in Congress—especially among Republicans. To be sure, both parties had egg on their faces. Congressmen Randy Cunningham and Bob Ney had resigned after pleading guilty to corruption charges, and U.S. Representative Curt Weldon was under investigation for alleged unethical conduct. Republican House Majority Leader Tom DeLay, who had earlier been indicted by a Texas grand jury on charges of violating campaign finance laws, resigned after two former aides were convicted of playing roles in the corrupt lobbying activities of Jack Abramoff (the same scandal that had taken down Congressman Ney). The FBI had raided the Capitol Hill office of Louisiana Democrat U.S. Representative William Jefferson, as they conducted an investigation into allegations he had accepted bribes in return for political favors. Yes, corruption existed within both parties, but it was we Republicans who were running the show, and it all fell on our watch.

  Sitting with my notes spread out before me in Nantucket, I listened as Steve opened the 11:00 A.M. call and then turned it over to me. I presented a review of the elections and what the outcomes implied for the party. It was hard to be optimistic, because the results spoke so emphatically for themselves: Americans demanded change. I quickly moved into the pluses and minuses of my running. Now, as I spoke to my key supporters, the negatives seemed to loom larger in my mind.

  First, I was tired. For the past four years, I had served as majority leader, chosen by my colleagues to represent their interests in the Senate. Putting the interests of fifty-four other senators before my own oftentimes meant making difficult compromises and reaching decisions that created short-term frustration for me. And I was tired of investigations and I was tired of false accusations.

  For the eight years before becoming leader, my focus had been on the more than six million people in Tennessee. I had regularly visited each of the ninety-five counties in the state, not to merely pass through and check it off my list, but to visit and listen to the ideas, concerns, and needs of Tennesseans. That meant traveling almost every weekend of the year, being away from Karyn and missing the boys’ weekend sports events that every father wants to attend. I loved connecting with the people across the state, but there is a family sacrifice to politics that most don’t see. The toll public service exacted on my family life was heavy. So I asked myself, Do I honestly want to spend the next ten years of my life with a schedule that is even more demanding in terms of time spent away from my family and friends?

  Furthermore, America wanted change. Americans did not want someone so closely associated with President Bush following him in the White House, and they certainly didn’t want the status quo in Congress. And as the leader of the Senate, I wou
ld have a hard time saying I wasn’t part of the status quo, no matter how forward-leaning my ideas and plans.

  Moreover, I supported President Bush (and still do), and I was not about to betray or forsake that friendship—nor the respect I had for his values, his leadership, or his boldness. Maybe it was just the loyalty that Dad believed to be so fundamental to one’s character. Though he never voiced it directly to them, I knew it deeply hurt Dad when young colleagues left his medical practice to join another because of a better deal. A campaign in the existing political climate would demand a repudiation of the Bush presidency—and I knew that was not for me.

  Finally, perhaps most important was the fact that I really am a citizen legislator. I had pledged in 1994 that I would go to Washington to serve two terms in the U.S. Senate, then return to Tennessee to live under the laws that I had helped pass. And I was determined to do just that.

  Karyn and I were ready to go home and live in the home on Bowling I grew up in.

  As difficult as it was for many to understand—even some of my closest colleagues—my goal in life had never been to become president of the United States. That is not why I ran for the Senate and not why I became majority leader. I wasn’t there to climb a political ladder to the top; I was there to serve. And the more I considered it, the more I recognized the fire in the belly required to run for president was simply not there for either me or Karyn.