—JOURNAL, AUG. 12, 1991
The administration was in trouble—with the Congress, with the press, with the people—and neither Feeley nor I could get through the concertina wire (figuratively speaking, that is) Lleland and his cronies had thrown up around the Oval Office.
On August 2 the President announced his ill-fated Territory For Progress initiative, whereby the United States would give back to Mexico 180,000 square miles of territory the U.S. had acquired during the Mexican War. Without going into the merits of such a plan—and there were some, arguably—I think it is certainly fair to say the President was ill-advised to think the country would go along with it, to say nothing of the affected areas in Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona. The whole thing bore Marvin’s fingerprints: bold, unprecedented, preposterous.
If the brouhaha that rose up around the White House as a result of this short-lived proposal had any salutary effect, it was that it was a setback for the Lleland-Edelstein Axis. I had come to think of Feeley and myself as “The Allies.”
Foreign-policy morale was not boosted by the attack, three weeks later, on the U.S. Naval Air Station in Bermuda. Anti-American incidents were becoming common on the island. The same day Mr. George Murray-Thripton, Mayor of Somerset and owner of a large sweater concern, was assaulted while playing golf. When his unconscious body was found, his golf cart had been spray-painted “US COLLABORATER” (sic).
I concurred in the President’s decision not to send a naval battle group, even though I was not asked for my opinion. It was, as he said, “a time for cool heads.” I urged him—in a memo—to “take the moral high ground” by directing our base commander in Bermuda to host an “open base” party for the Bermudian public. I believe this approach might have paid off had it been tried. Unfortunately, my memos were not getting read, because they were not getting through. Lleland had directed that the paper flow be routed through his hoplite Phetlock.
The Right was wasting no time, meanwhile. Senator Hyatt denounced the White House response to the Bermuda attack as “unparalleled pusillanimity.” Similar bovine voices could be heard ululating in both chambers of the Congress. It was an easy time to be Republican. White House morale was very low. Ed Pollard of the Secret Service reported a forty-percent increase in death threats. I felt very badly for the President.
Lleland’s legion of yes men strained to put the best face on things. Hal Jasper, Director of Communications, would send the President fawning, effervescent memoranda whenever some unimportant newspaper ran a favorable editorial. When the Post praised the President for his soil-management study grants, Jasper sent the President a Kremlinesque memo saying he deserved to be hailed as a Hero of American Agriculture. While I did not begrudge the President his due recognition, this was a trifle fulsome.
But it was hardly worse than censoring his news, which they were also doing. When I found out about the news “digests” he was receiving in the morning, I was disconsolate.
Later that month the President’s Gallup Poll approval rating dropped to thirty-four percent. Jasper hailed this wretched development on the grounds that since the approval rating had only dropped one point in the previous month, the trend indicated a “slowdown in the disapproval rate.” I despaired. I tried to bury myself in work. The problem was that there wasn’t anything to do.
Since the President had no need of me in the West Wing, I concentrated on my duties as the First Lady’s acting chief of staff. This work I found agreeable, since it was always a pleasure to spend time in Mrs. Tucker’s company. How fresh she looked every morning, despite the slight shadows under her eyes which denoted not much sleep.
Together we worked on a number of projects. She was, of course, keenly interested in cinema, and her White House film festival was fast approaching. The visit of the Princess of Wales was only two months off, and naturally I was deeply involved in that. We also interviewed candidates for her chief of staff. We thought highly of one, but he was disqualified after a preliminary background investigation turned up the fact that he had had a youthful dalliance with a picador in Seville. Thus I found myself spending a good deal of time in the East Wing. The East Wing was not the West Wing, but it was still the White House.
On August 14 the green button on my phone console lit up for the first time in an ice age. I almost leaped out of my seat. At last! It was the President calling. With an almost trembling hand I reached for the receiver. Just like old times.
“Yes, Mr. President?” I said crisply.
“Mr. Wadlough?” said a voice I did not recognize.
“Yes?”
“This is Wacca [White House Communications Agency]. Sorry to bother you. We’re checking the President’s telephone instrument. You’re not having any problems with your direct line?”
“No, I am not,” I said curtly and hung up.
That week Joan suggested we might think of returning to Boise. The notion was frankly tempting. My family was under considerable stress. Herb, Jr., had been caught by a camp counselor inhaling whipped-cream-dispenser gas with some undesirable teenagers. And little Joan had grown morose and was under the care of a dermatologist who was giving her antibiotics. Joan was taking it on the chin—what a trooper she was—but she had developed a nasty case of shingles.
I had to ask myself some hard questions: was it fair to subject my family to this kind of strain and humiliation? On the other hand, could I just walk away from a public trust? I spent many hours agonizing over the decision. I knew this much: that a struggle for the heart and mind of the President of the United States lay ahead. Washington would be no place for women and children. Over Joan’s wonderful meatloaf the next evening I informed her of my decision. She and the children would return to Boise. I would stay and finish the job, to do what had to be done.
She wouldn’t hear of it. “My place is here with you, Herbert,” she said. “We will have no more discussion about this.” What a gal!
A few days later I had a call from Paul Slansky of The New York Times, wanting an interview. I tried to put him off, but I hadn’t much to do that day, so I assented.
“My sources tell me you’re about to move over to the East Wing permanently,” he said.
“Bird entrails,” I said. “I have work to do here.”
“If I could speak frankly, Mr. Wadlough, that’s not what I hear.”
“Oh?” I replied.
“Then perhaps you could tell me what it is you’ve been doing the last few months.”
“I’d love to, Mr. Slansky, but I’m awfully busy. In fact, I’m due in the Oval Office in a few minutes.”
There was a pause. “But the President is in Orlando speaking to the Baptists.”
I was caught off guard momentarily. “I am perfectly aware of where the President is, Mr. Slansky. It is my business to know where the President is. Now if you’ll excuse me …”
I am the first to admit that dealing with the press is not my specialty. After I hung up, the anger and frustration began welling up inside me. All those years of service, those hard months of campaigning. To come to this. Well, by George, Herbert Wadlough had not come to Washington to explain to reporters why he had nothing to do.
I knew what to do. It was bold, possibly rash. Perhaps someday the historians would call it the act of a desperate man.
I buzzed Barbara. “Hold all calls,” I said. She looked puzzled, since I got so few. “And get me a pot of tea.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. She knew something was up. With that I sat down to write what would prove to be either my epitaph or my passport back to power.
THE WHITE HOUSE
MEMORANDUM TO THE PRESIDENT
FROM: HERBERT WADLOUGH DEPUTY CHIEF OF STAFF
RE: THE SITUATION
It has been many days since our last meeting. While I sympathize with your desire to streamline presidential access, I am concerned that you have deprived yourself of valuable counsel and that in doing so you have isolated the Presidency.
Let me be frank, M
r. President. You are out of touch. The signs are everywhere. Sinister elements are attempting to seize your heart and mind. I fear they have succeeded. I fear, too, that they have their own agenda.
The hour is late, but there is still time. I urge you, for your sake and for the sake of the country, to open the door once again. Let the fresh air of dialogue and reason once again circulate inside the Oval Office, before you are overwhelmed by constricting cobwebs of catastrophe.
I rather liked that last line. I felt it added a sort of literary touch.
I sat there watching the memo as it lay in my OUT tray. Several times I was tempted to seize it and tear it up. Who are you, Wadlough, I thought, to address the President of the United States in such a fashion?
His friend, that’s who.
But my heart was heavy as pig iron. An hour later, when Barbara came in to collect the memo, it was a relief. It’s history now, I thought. The rest of the day I buried myself in work. The First Lady had an upcoming swing through four cities that required my urgent attention.
Three days went by with no response from the President. They were hard days. It was difficult to concentrate. Had the President felt betrayed by my memo?
Finally I could not endure it any longer. I called Lleland.
“Well,” he said after keeping me on hold for four minutes, “how are things over in the East Wing?”
“Quite well, thank you very much,” I said coolly. “It’s not so far as you think. Same time zone.”
“The President was talking about you this morning at breakfast.”
“Was he?” I said without interest. An obvious trap.
“He said, ‘Herb’s doing a bang-up job over there in the East Wing.’ ”
“The President is very gracious. Now about my memo …”
He claimed to have no knowledge of it.
“Then might I suggest you delve into the matter?” I said.
“Get right on it. And Herb?”
“What is it?”
“I don’t want to get out front, but if you ask me, the East Wing job is wide open. I think the President would sign off on it in a second.”
“As a matter of fact, I did not ask you.”
“Anything I can do, you let me know.”
Two hours later Barbara handed me an envelope delivered by one of Phetlock’s people. It was my memo to the President, paper-clipped to a covering memo that read:
The Chief of Staff has read your memorandum to the President (attached), and appreciates your having taken the time to express your concern about this important matter.
Sincerely,
Jamieson R. Phetlock
Assistant to the President and
Deputy to the Chief of Staff
Feeley was very empathetic toward me during this trying period.
“Maybe I should leak it Phetlock’s on drugs or something,” he said one night over several bourbons at the bar on G Street.
Ordinarily, I would have found such a notion outrageous. Now I only said wanly, “Who’d believe you?”
He beerily eyed Nancy, the bosomy barmaid. “For all you know, he might be on drugs.”
“No,” I said. “That would be wrong.”
He stirred his bourbon with his finger. “You heard about Lleland, right?”
“No,” I said. “What?”
“He’s been invited up to Monhegan.”
“Oh?”
“For the weekend. With his wife.”
Lleland invited to the Summer White House. I slumped against the bar rail, and suddenly I felt a great weariness.
13
DAYS OF RAGE
Apparently I am the last to be informed of my own resignation. Intolerable!
—JOURNAL, AUG. 15, 1991
The next morning at 7:45 I sat down to do what had to be done and wrote my resignation. It was not an easy task. I had been with Thomas Tucker for over twelve years, more than one fifth of my life. That is a long time. The memories crowded in around me as I sat with a nice cup of steaming hot water, writing in longhand. How ironic that the fountain pen I used was affectionately inscribed: TO HW FROM TNT. It was the sort of detail you’d find in one of those novels they sell at airports. I agonized over the wording, and by 10:30 a.m. it was done. I gave it to Barbara to be typed. I knew she would be stricken by the news. I stood there by the window of my office, looking out at the Darlington Oak planted by President Lyndon Johnson.
I had always liked the view from here. I would miss it. But there are trees in Idaho, and the air is good there, much better than in Washington. I’d had sinus problems ever since moving here. An odd sense of calm came over me. I’d always imagined that the end, when it came, would be more wrenching than this. I was aware of someone in the room with me.
“Mr. Wadlough?” It was Barbara. I hoped we would be able to avoid tears.
“Just one thing, sir. Did you want to make this effective immediately, or leave it as is?”
Good. She was taking it calmly. I’d always been impressed with Barbara’s grace under pressure.
“Barbara, I know this must come as a shock to you,” I said as gently as I could. Without going into the gruesome details, I explained that the situation had become untenable and that for family reasons I had decided to return to Boise. To soften the blow, I told her she could come back and work for me there.
She began to thank me rather effusively. Since I am uncomfortable with such expressions of gratitude, I smiled and said she needn’t thank me, and that I would be glad to have her.
“Actually, sir,” she said, “I’ll be staying on here.”
“Here?”
She explained she had been “offered” a job as assistant to the chief of staff’s personal secretary. In response to my mute stupefaction, she said that ever since July she had assumed my departure was a matter of time and had begun making “contingency arrangements.”
“Indeed,” I said. “Does anyone else know about this?”
“Only Margaret [Lleland’s secretary], Mr. Phetlock, Mr. Withers, Mr. Lleland, of course. Mr. Tsang. Mr. Jasper—”
“Stop,” I gasped.
She asked if she could get me anything. Even in betrayal she was solicitous.
“No,” I managed.
“Then shall I put through the memo?”
“This is not ‘a memo,’ Barbara,” I expostulated. “This is my resignation!”
“Yes, sir. It’s very well written.”
I sighed. “Thank you, Barbara.”
“I assume we should route it through Mr. Lleland?”
This was insupportable.
“Through Mr. Lleland? For your information, I have known the President for twelve and a half years. This is between him and me, and I am not going to route a highly private letter to him through—that man!”
Regaining my composure, I managed to conclude the discussion in a dignified manner. I resumed staring at the trees on the South Lawn, wondering what had become of Loyalty. I summoned Hu.
“Hu,” I said after telling him of my decision, “you have been a good and able assistant. If you would come to Boise with me, you’d be my right-hand man at Dewey, Skruem.”
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and said he was “unworthy” of my praise.
“Nonsense,” I replied heartily. But my reassurances did nothing to allay his nervous demeanor. After a few minutes of excavating, I mined from him the revelation that he had already accepted a position at OMB.
This was scandalous.
“Am I the last person to be informed of my own resignation?” I exclaimed. “This is outrageous!”
Hu became abject in his apology.
“You needn’t bother with that,” I told him. “And as far as I’m concerned, you can report to OMB today. Out. Out!”
What further nasty surprises awaited me that day? I wondered. Suddenly the South Lawn no longer looked stately and green, just hot and parched.
I checked the President’s schedule. Lunch with Jacques Cous
teau. “Senior staff time” from 2:00 until 3:00. (That was the euphemism for Lleland.) Senators Dole, Hills, Garn, 3:00 to 3:30. (Another one of those ineffectual “reconciliation” coffee sessions.) Infrastructure Task Force, 3:35 to 3:40. 3:45 to 3:50, Commission on the Millennium. National Security Council, 4:00–4:15. That would run long. 4:30–4:45, Chairman of the Federal Reserve Board. 4:50–4:52, photo opportunity, Miss Connecticut. A lot of beauty-queen photo opportunities lately. 5:00–5:30, private time. 5:30–5:45, Ambassador Kutyadikov of the Soviet Union. 6:00, depart for reception, Organization of African States. 6:30, return residence.
Frightful scheduling. No wonder he couldn’t concentrate. I would probably be brought in between Miss Connecticut and the Soviet Ambassador. We had a lot of ground to cover. Maybe he’d cancel the Ambassador—better him than Miss Connecticut. He had an eye for the ladies.
Barbara buzzed me to say that Peter Nelson, the Post’s political correspondent, was on the line.
“What does he want?” I said.
“He wants to confirm you’ve resigned.”
“What?”
Hopping mad, I picked up the phone.
“Peter!” I said, bubbly, “what utter nonsense is this my secretary is telling me?”
He told me two “senior” West Wing sources had already confirmed that the President had accepted my resignation.
“Well, I don’t know who your sources are. But I’m certainly not going to comment on something as ridiculous as that.”
“Then will you confirm you’re being appointed to Mrs. Tucker’s staff?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Are you going over to the First Lady’s shop?”
“Mrs.—?” I couldn’t speak.
Gathering my wits, I told him to address all further inquiries through Feeley’s office.
“I’ll put you down for a ‘will neither confirm nor deny,’ then.”
“Now see here, Peter,” I said hotly, “I have nothing more to say on the subject. You’re not going to trick a quote out of me.”
I immediately called Feeley and told him what had happened.
The White House Mess Page 9