Orszag, who probably would have preferred a happier occasion to mark his fortieth birthday, anchored the grim presentation. “Between the money we’ll need to spend to stimulate the economy and the revenues we will lose because of the decreased output and higher unemployment, the short-term deficits are going to grow,” he said.
As I absorbed the impact of their words, two things occurred to me. One was that this was the first meeting I had attended in which everyone referred to Barack as Mr. President. The second was that it was a hell of a time to have acquired that title. I was sure I wasn’t the only one periodically gazing over at Obama to see how he was processing the news. If he was panicking or even taken aback, however, I couldn’t detect it. Just as we had seen during the most stressful moments of the campaign, Obama appeared calm, confident, and focused. “Well, it’s too late to ask for a recount, so we had better figure out what we’re going to do about this,” he said with a thin smile, the best he could muster under the circumstances.
For the next several hours, we discussed what was the first essential step to stem the bleeding. Summers and the group argued for a stimulus plan, a quick and substantial regimen of government spending to pump capital back into the economy. The consensus was clearly the bigger the stimulus, the better the result. Romer, however, noted the political problem I had reflected on earlier, and while it was amusing to hear this very proper professor rehearse my “holy shit” language, the challenge was not. How do you sell a massive spending plan to a country that had not yet grasped the magnitude of the crisis and that was already outraged by ballooning budget deficits?
We had promised to tame Bush’s record deficits, swollen by the cost of the wars and two substantial tax cuts. Now we were going to ask the Congress and the public to accept, as our very first act, a major, unfunded spending program that would only add to those deficits. There had already been talk in Washington of a record three-hundred-billion-dollar stimulus in the fall, to be voted on after the election, and that had stirred great angst. Two months later, we were discussing one that might be three times as large.
Obama asked Rahm what he thought was achievable in Congress. “Seven hundred fifty to eight hundred fifty billion, max,” he said. “And that will be a hard lift. But I’ll tell you, they will never accept anything with a t in front of it. They’re not going for a trillion.”
Summers said the nature of the spending was less important than the volume. While some initiatives, such as food stamps, were particularly effective because people would immediately spend the money, any dollar pumped back in the economy would help spur jobs and growth. “Well, let’s think carefully about the components of this package,” Obama said. “I want to make sure we invest in things that help in the short run but also have long-term benefits and fulfill some of the commitments we’ve made. Because my guess is that this is the last new spending we’re going to be able to do for some time.” He suggested as examples clean energy projects and information technology for health care. A major infrastructure program would be included to address the backlog of “shovel-ready” projects around the nation. To win Republican support and provide some relief to the middle class, tax cuts would also have to be part of this package.
Could it have been just six weeks since that sublime evening in Grant Park? It seemed like ancient history as we discussed emergency measures needed to save the American economy from collapse. It was a mission that would consume much of our time and political capital for months to come and, inevitably, shape the contours of the Obama years.
As we left the conference room, Obama commented, with no apparent self-pity, on the dismal hand we had drawn. “I’ll tell you one thing,” I said in response. “We’re going to have a one hell of a tough midterm election.” Yet that must have seemed like an eternity away as well as the least of our problems right then. He looked at me and just walked away.
• • •
On January 4, I flew to Washington with the president-elect to build up support for his stimulus. His family had arrived the previous evening, so his daughters could get situated in their new school. The Bush administration had sent a jet from the presidential fleet to pick us up in Chicago. It was my first exposure to such travel, with well-appointed planes configured for comfort and work, and staffed by a wonderfully attentive navy crew. Barack spent some time at the desk in the office/cabin reserved for the president. When we landed, one of the long, black armored presidential limousines was waiting at the foot of the stairs. Settling into the plush backseats, our eyes were drawn to the phone between us, adorned with direct-dial buttons labeled with the names of Bush’s top aides. Barack glanced over and smiled. “This has been some trip, hasn’t it?” he said, a reference not just to the journey from Chicago to Washington, but from obscurity to the pinnacle of power.
We had spent the last two years condemning George W. Bush’s policies as a failure of epic proportions. Yet from the moment the election’s outcome was known, he and his team were gracious, cooperative, and open. Maybe part of it was due to Obama’s working closely with Bush and Paulson after Lehman’s collapse. Mostly, I suspected, Bush had a respect for the meaning of the transition period. After all, he was not just the president, but also the son of a president. Transitions were a critical rite of democracy, and George W. Bush was intent on managing this one properly.
That became even clearer a few days after our arrival in Washington, when, at Obama’s request, Bush hosted a White House luncheon for Obama and the three living former presidents Clinton, George H. W. Bush, and Jimmy Carter. At the same time, all of our counterparts on Bush’s senior staff invited us to lunch to provide a rundown on their operations and answer any questions.
I had visited the White House several times during the Clinton years, but still felt a sense of awe as I entered, thinking about the larger-than-life leaders who had served there and all the history they had made. The imposing oil portraits in heavy wood frames and even the musty, museum odor of the place reeked of history. The other striking thing about this citadel of American power is its size. Small! Very small! The halls are narrow, the office spaces cramped and limited in number, which made the West Wing the most select real estate in Washington, and it felt surreal that I would have such a prominent spot there, with my office right next door to the president’s.
Ed Gillespie, the counselor to President Bush, was waiting for me in the lobby. Ed, a former chair of the Republican National Committee, played the same strategic communications role in the White House that I would assume less than two weeks later. He spent hours with me, going over the nature of his routine and life in the White House. It was a generous gesture and an invaluable primer.
When we were done, we walked down a tight staircase and past two Secret Service agents and into the Oval Office. I had never before stepped inside. It was like walking onto a movie set. Standing across from us was Obama and his four living predecessors. Has there ever been such a gathering, I wondered?
The curved, windowed door to one side of the president’s desk opened, and Dana Perino, President Bush’s press secretary, led a phalanx of photographers into the Oval Office to capture the moment. Gibbs, who would take her job, trailed along. As the cameramen clicked away, the two Bushes flanked Obama, with Clinton and Carter to the younger Bush’s left. All were smiling, but the taciturn Carter, perhaps revealingly, stood a few steps apart from the group. When the cameramen were gone, Barack motioned Gibbs and me over to meet the elder President Bush. “Mr. President, this is Robert Gibbs and David Axelrod. These guys helped get me elected.” George H. W. Bush smiled his warm, crooked smile and pumped a fist in the air. “Nice going, boys,” he said.
The next day, Summers and I appeared before a closed meeting of the Senate Democratic Caucus in the ornate Capitol room named for Lyndon B. Johnson. A few of the senators had been my clients, and I knew others, but this was my first command performance before the entire boisterous crew. Many were pal
pably smart. Others left you wondering how in the world they had ever reached such heights. Running this circus was Harry Reid, who spoke like the small-town Nevada lawyer he once was, but who managed the show like a firm ringmaster.
We were there to advocate for Obama’s stimulus plan, which we had dubbed the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act after research revealed that people didn’t like or even understand the word stimulus but supported almost anything “American.” I briefed the group on the polling and strategy for the plan, while Summers conveyed the urgent need for its implementation. The size of the emerging proposal, just shy of eight hundred billion dollars, worried some senators. Others were annoyed that one-third of it would come in tax cuts, which they viewed as an ineffective sop to Republicans—even though these breaks would be targeted to the middle class and working poor. Larry made a powerful case and respectfully answered all their questions, including some contentious ones, displaying a patience that belied his prickly reputation.
I would return to the Senate Democratic Caucus periodically over the next few years, often to absorb a beating from allies distressed by the impact of the economy and Obama’s decisions on their reelection prospects. What I quickly learned is that if you go to the caucus expecting to be challenged, poked, prodded, and even slapped around a bit, you will never leave disappointed.
I went home to Chicago the following weekend to see Susan and to deal with lingering details of my move. Before returning to DC on Monday morning, I stopped off to speak at a fund-raising breakfast for Misericordia, the wonderful community for people with special needs where Lauren lived. I shared some reflections on the campaign and thoughts about the challenges ahead. When I finished, Lauren came onstage for a surprise presentation. One of her favorite activities was painting, and she was very good at it. Our vacation house in Michigan was decorated with her nature scenes. The painting she presented me on this day, however, was a new subject: the White House. Lauren had painted the Chicago skyline reflecting in the North Lawn fountain, so I would never forget home. I hung that painting in the White House, where it was the first thing I saw each day when I walked into my office.
The day before the inauguration, I went to the Blair House, the official guest residence across the street from the White House, where the Obamas were staying. I was there, along with Favreau and Michael Sheehan, the speech coach, for a rehearsal of the inaugural address. Barack was late for the session, and when he finally arrived, he waved us off. “Sorry, guys, I’m a little tired,” he said. “Let’s do this later, if we can.” I didn’t think much of it. He had been on the run constantly.
That evening, Susan and I were having drinks with Joel Benenson, the pollster, and his wife, Lisa, when Rahm called me on my cell phone. “Can you call me right away from a hard line?” he asked, giving me his number. Rahm sounded a bit agitated, but that was hardly unusual. What was unusual was his request for me to use a more secure phone line. We were at the Benensons’ apartment, so I used the phone in their bedroom.
“I’m going to tell you something you can’t share with anyone, not even Susan,” he said. “We’ve been talking to Chertoff all day, and there is a serious threat on the inauguration.” Michael Chertoff was Bush’s secretary of homeland security so the nature of the threat was clear. Rahm said that four young Somalis from the United States, who had been radicalized overseas, might have slipped back into the country, and there were concerns that they might target the inaugural ceremonies. While he didn’t go into detail, Rahm said there was sufficient worry that contingency plans were being made to disperse the crowd quickly. If that were necessary, he explained, the Secret Service would alert Obama, who would proceed to the podium and inform the assembled crowd to follow directions and leave in an orderly fashion.
“I can’t read the speechwriters into this,” Rahm said, “so I want you to write a brief statement for the president-elect. Meet him right before the ceremonies in the Speaker’s office and give it to him. He’ll put it in his pocket in case it’s needed.”
As instructed, I kept quiet, and as Rahm requested, I wrote out the emergency instructions for Obama. I couldn’t sleep that night, one of the first I would spend in the apartment Susan had rented for us six blocks from the White House. All night long, I tossed and turned, listening to police sirens and wondering if they were related to the search for the fugitive Somalis. In the morning, I was booked for a series of TV interviews, during which Susan and our son Ethan would join the Obama and Bush families at the traditional ecumenical worship service at St. John’s Episcopal Church, across Lafayette Park from the White House. I was frantic. What if an attack happened there? I desperately wanted to tell them to stay away, but that would have violated Rahm’s edict. As I watched my wife and son disappear through the door, I worried that I might have made a terrible mistake, one I would regret for the rest of my life.
I wended my way through a fortressed Capitol to the Speaker’s office to wait for Obama, who, in accordance with tradition, would ride to the ceremony together with the outgoing president. Bush came into the room first, and I thought I would take the opportunity to thank him for the generosity he and his team had shown us.
“Mr. President,” I said.
“Yeah, Axelrod,” he replied. It made sense, after all the exposure I had gotten, that he would recognize me, yet it surprised me nonetheless.
“I was on television this morning—” I began to say, but he cut me off.
“I don’t watch TV,” he barked, with a wave of a hand.
“I know, sir, but I wanted you to know what I said. I said that you handled this transition like a true patriot, and we really appreciate it.”
Bush shrugged and put his hands on my shoulders.
“Axelrod, I’ve been watching you,” he said, in that familiar Texas twang. Given the many unkind things I had said about the Bush administration over the past two years, I wasn’t sure what would come next. “I’ve been watching you, and I think you’re all right. You’re going to do just fine. Listen, you’re in for the ride of your life. Just hang on and really enjoy it, ’cause it’ll go by faster than you can imagine.”
I believed then, as I do today, that the decisions Bush made in office—the war, the tax cuts, the derogation of policy making to industry lobbyists—were epically wrong, and that America will be living with the consequences for generations. Yet I will never forget his kindness to me in that moment. It gave me a window into George W. Bush as a person and an understanding of why so many who had worked for him were unwaveringly loyal.
A few moments later, the president-elect walked into the Speaker’s office. After he greeted the luminaries assembled there, I cornered him and handed him the sheet of paper with the emergency instructions. He tucked it into his pocket without even looking at it—and thankfully, he would have no reason to read it later.
“Thanks for an incredible journey,” I said. “It’s been a great partnership.”
He smiled and extended his hand. “And it’s only just begun.”
PART FIVE
TWENTY-THREE
NEXT DOOR TO HISTORY
THE MORNING AFTER THE INAUGURATION, I cast my bleary eyes on the White House and my first full day as a presidential aide. The buoyant memories of the long, historic day and night were fading fast. Now I was late for my first senior staff meeting with the man I had known for years as Barack, but from this moment on would call only Mr. President.
What made my late arrival particularly embarrassing was that I didn’t have far to travel. Rahm had assigned me the room adjacent to the Oval Office, which was the small but coveted space he occupied during his years as senior adviser to President Clinton. In those days, there was an interior door that led directly into the president’s private dining room and, beyond it, the Oval Office. Yet this back door to the inner sanctum had long since been walled over.
The rest of the senior staff was already in place when, de
layed by a call, I hurried into the Oval to join them. These meetings took place in a seating area opposite the president’s desk. There were two chairs with coffee tables near the fireplace and a couch on each side. The conversation was already under way when I slipped into the chair across from the president. As soon as I sat down, Rahm locked disapproving eyes on me and motioned vigorously with his head until I got the hint and moved to the couch. It turned out that the chair I had grabbed is traditionally reserved for the vice president—even when the VP isn’t in attendance.
I was entering a new world, and I needed to adjust to it.
Just the ritual of waking up before dawn and putting on a suit was for me an unnatural act. Ever since my new suit was ruined covering a tornado on my first day at the Tribune, I had seldom worn one. My new uniform felt confining. Far worse, though, was that, after the inaugural week, I would be waking up alone. The apartment Susan rented us had a balcony overlooking the Washington Monument. It was a swell view, but most of the time I was gazing at it on my own. The encrypted national security phone installed in my apartment; the card I carried in my wallet instructing me on where to go to be evacuated in case of attack; the Secret Service detail assigned to me after a deranged gunman was found with my name and address in his notebook—all added to the sense of how profoundly my life had changed.
In those first days, as I sat behind a desk staring at a card filled with my appointments, I missed my family, friends, and freedom—the life I had left behind. Yet with all hell breaking out around us, there was little time for brooding or doubt. The challenges confronting us were monstrously complex. Even in more placid times, there is no easing into life in the White House. It operates at full bore, every hour of every day.
Believer: My Forty Years in Politics Page 42