by Ken Starr
Stanford had experience dealing with famous students. The school newspaper was prohibited from reporting on the offspring of well-known people except in their capacity as students, limiting intrusive gossip. At the convocation for the seventeen hundred incoming freshmen in the Quad, the president of the university was giving his welcome when aides stood up to block photographers from taking pictures of Carolyn.
That afternoon, we had an outdoor lunch with the other parents and met Provost Condoleezza Rice. “We have many friends in common,” she told us with a smile, referring to my days in the Bush administration.
Alice and I left the campus like normal parents after getting Carolyn settled in the coed dorm. However, the second night, campus police gave her one of those huge cell phones, as they were concerned about her safety. During orientation, she accidentally left the gadget behind and two men in dark suits tracked her down. “Where were you? Where’s your phone? We couldn’t get in touch with you.”
Carolyn explained, but the officers were not mollified. Within hours of her arriving on campus, the threats had started. One agent told her, “You’re not going to be alone anymore, young lady.”
The deputy marshals read to me one vivid, nasty letter promising to do Carolyn bodily harm, written by a professional man living in an affluent community in East Bay. When FBI agents interviewed him, the man was devastated and his spouse appalled.
The marshals informed us that they considered the ominous threats serious. From now on, our daughter would have individual protection by deputy U.S. marshals, like Chelsea Clinton, who was protected by the Secret Service.
Carolyn’s deputy marshals were all young and tried to blend in with the students. The detail included twelve agents—six for each twelve-hour shift—with two stationed in the hallway of her dorm, two in a command post in the parking lot of her dorm, and two off duty. Four marshals accompanied her to classes, football games, even went on dates with her.
There were tears. Each month I was briefed on the continuing threats against her. Alice and I couldn’t give Carolyn what she wanted the most: to be a normal student.
My son, Randy, had it a bit easier, but he worried about how his mom and dad were withstanding all the stress and negative press. By now a sophomore at Duke, only his closest friends knew who his father was during the Whitewater phase of the investigation. But in January 1998, he was coming back to his dorm when a senior asked him if he had seen the news on CNN.
“Hey, Starr, I think your dad is going to impeach Clinton,” he said. Now everyone knew.
Randy also received eight to ten threats and nasty notes in his mailbox, probably not from Duke students, based on the grammar. He wasn’t worried. He was living in a fraternity house with sixty other guys. The marshals apparently didn’t think the threats were serious enough to warrant protection. Even so, it seemed like every few days he had to defend his dad.
He later told me it upset him that his father was deemed to be some right-wing zealot, unfairly targeting “a gregarious, brilliant, if a bit flawed (in a wink-wink sort of way) president.”
Things heated up for Randy even more when the Starr Report was released by Congress. Seeing his last name, Starr, literally everywhere, on every TV screen, was truly tough. He became a more private person, and after graduation in 2000, moved to New York City to work at Salomon Smith Barney, where he could become anonymous again.
In mid-October, a few weeks after we got Carolyn settled in at Stanford, I was back home in McLean. One morning, I was climbing into the backseat of the U.S. marshals’ town car when an eerie group of shrieking actors clad in black-and-white Puritan garb suddenly emerged from a van parked on our suburban street. One man wielded a bound copy of “The Starr Report” as a group of women ran around the car, banging on the window, hollering about witch hunts.
The actors yelled and screamed epithets in the direction of our Brady Bunch house. As the marshals and I pulled out of the driveway, with cameramen filming all the while, I spotted filmmaker Michael Moore, dressed in his customary slovenly way.
“That’s Michael Moore,” I said to my deputy marshal friends. “Contact the Fairfax County police. See if he has a license to demonstrate on the streets of McLean, causing a ruckus and blocking the driveway.”
The word quickly came back from county law enforcement authorities. Moore had no license. But he had something better. The First Amendment. The Fairfax County authorities wouldn’t interfere for hours. That amateurish—and erroneous—analysis was put to the test by our concerned neighbor, Donna Hogan, who confronted Moore.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” said Donna, who had three school-age offspring. “There are children on this street!”
It was, in fact, time to hustle kids off to school, and Alice couldn’t leave the house. To avoid Moore’s hired disrupters, my thirteen-year-old daughter, Cynthia, in junior high, was forced to exit our home by the back door, climb through the wooded backyard, hop over two fences, and run through two neighbors’ properties to reach safety. Donna Hogan picked her up and took her to school.
Sobbing, Cynthia arrived at school two hours late. Her adviser—known for being the strictest teacher in the school—took her into his office and comforted her. He promised she didn’t have to remain in school that day, and brought Cynthia’s homework to her. It was an act of kindness she always remembered.
After Moore’s actors eventually abandoned our street, they headed to Capitol Hill, invaded congressional offices, and some got arrested. Moore no doubt felt he was just aggressively doing his job, but his stunt was very upsetting to the families in our neighborhood.
A few kids in Cynthia’s class made mean comments (as you would expect with teenagers), but most were just curious and supportive, thinking it was cool to have an “infamous” father. It helped that she went to Potomac School, where her teachers and adviser were acutely aware of the situation and would not tolerate bullying.
I would come home late almost every night, but still tried to be a loving, upbeat father and husband. I never brought work with me or discussed what happened that day or in the news. That was frustrating for Alice and the kids, but home was for family and for relaxing after a stressful day.
And “stressful” was the only word for my life at that point, though the tide was turning in our favor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
My Testimony
It quickly became evident that even with David Kendall’s rebuttal, the House had no interest in retrying the facts.
David Schippers, a hard-nosed Chicago lawyer brought in as special counsel to the House Judiciary Committee, visited my office several times to explain that the OIC’s role was not limited to the referral. The Judiciary Committee would hold hearings—after the midterm elections in November—and there would be only one witness: the independent counsel. I was to fly solo in the witness box.
This was dispiriting. In effect, I would be on trial, not the president. Pushing back, I told Schippers that our work had been done thoroughly. Our labors had been completed in the face of many White House roadblocks and attacks. We had held nothing back from the House of Representatives.
Schippers was polite but firm. The OIC had done its job thoroughly and well. However, in the committee leadership’s view, the optimal approach going forward was for the “author” of the report to come up to the Hill and testify in open session under oath. I would be sworn in, and be obliged to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
It was abundantly clear that Schippers wasn’t just politely sounding me out to get my reaction, nor was he looking for my guidance. He was telling me what was going to happen. Lacking enthusiasm, I agreed without saying or even thinking about the combative option: “Send me a subpoena.” Weighing in my assessment was this: it was apparent that Dave Schippers was firmly on our side in terms of the strength and reliability of our submission. Whether impeach
ment should follow or not as a remedy for the president’s long course of misconduct was a question for the House.
The stage was set for the nationally televised confrontation with the Democrats: Starr, appearing alone, in front of the entire committee. I knew the Judiciary Committee room well from my days as chief of staff to Attorney General Smith during the Reagan years. It was the squawky roost of the most liberal voices in the entire House of Representatives, including Chuck Schumer, who had just been elected to the Senate from New York, and Detroit’s John Conyers, destined to be drummed out of the House two decades later due to his own sexual-harassment improprieties. But the die was cast. I would testify. We bade farewell to Schippers and prepared for the onslaught to come.
Meanwhile, the special master conducting the leak investigation emerging out of the Brill’s Content episode concluded his elaborate review of our office in October. He rejected the proposition that I or any of my colleagues had improperly disclosed grand jury information.
I felt the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders. But I realized I had brought this on myself and my colleagues. We had been dragged through a painful and lengthy process. The sense of vindication was tempered by my own foolhardiness in the first place, but we could press ahead without that terrible sword of Damocles dangling over our heads.
No sooner did I move on from that chapter, though, when the hopelessly politicized DOJ leadership came after me.
Shortly before my scheduled testimony, I went to the fifth floor of Main Justice for a meeting with Janet Reno. I wanted to discuss the escalating criticism that I had failed to disclose contacts and communications years earlier about the issue of presidential immunity from suit. I viewed all of this as wildly irrelevant political rhetoric. But I thought it wise to alert the Attorney General that I had been contacted by my predecessor, Bob Fiske, who explored the possibility of his office preparing an amicus brief addressing that issue.
Bob Bittman and I entered the Attorney General’s conference room aware that we were not there to receive Justice Department awards. We had been under assault, and the department’s leadership had not stood up for the office. That eroded confidence in the honest administration of justice.
Reno sat at the head of the long rectangular table. I was on her left, and Holder at her right hand.
I explained about Fiske. She asked a few questions but seemed uninterested—or distracted. Then she read a set of talking points from a single sheet of paper. A number of allegations of OIC misconduct had been brought to the department’s attention. There were demands from Capitol Hill that “Starr needs to be investigated.”
She stared fixedly at the paper, not looking up. It was not a conversation. It was as if she were reading a judgment and making sure she got each word exactly right. There was no expression of empathy or concern. She conveyed an attitude that said, “This is the way it is. Life is tough.” I glanced at Holder, who gazed benignly at the AG. The thought shot through my mind: he wants her job.
A blood sport was now being played on the fifth floor of my beloved Justice Department. I speculated what was behind this ill-timed assault.
During Reno’s first term, she had appointed numerous independent counsels to investigate matters in the Clinton administration. But in her second term, she steadfastly refused to appoint one to investigate extraordinary allegations of potentially illegal foreign campaign contributions. In the face of a recommendation by FBI Director Freeh, Reno stubbornly refused to seek the appointment of an independent counsel. When it came to independent counsels, the Clinton administration had had its fill.
The news that the OIC was under investigation was a gut punch, and I received it with ill grace. I was deeply angered by what I viewed as an ultimate sellout. I knew I could not get up and storm out, that I had to remain calm. I did, but I spoke with firmness and determination.
This was a challenge to the independence of our office, I said. It was up to her to remove me or not. But I was not going to allow the DOJ to go poking around our files, interviewing our people, and the like.
After all, Reno reported to the president, and here she was announcing an investigation of the president’s so-called tormenter. Nothing in the independent counsel statute suggested that the Attorney General had such authority.
Indignant, as I was leaving I coldly remarked that the fact of this meeting better not leak. But by the time Bittman and I got back to the office, Mike Isikoff of Newsweek had called to inquire about the DOJ’s investigation of the OIC. Holder was able to report to the Clinton White House that Reno had authorized an investigation into Starr’s operation. I later learned that she viewed my reaction that day as “sanctimonious.” Fine by me. I was standing firm.
We drafted an opening statement. My written testimony needed to put the Lewinsky phase of our four-year investigation into the broader context of Arkansas, the Madison Guaranty trials, and the rampant criminality that had occurred in Little Rock. It needed to be clear, comprehensive, and readily understandable.
By now, the fourteen convictions in Arkansas were a distant memory in the national consciousness. However, though we believed Jim McDougal and David Hale, and were convinced that Bill Clinton had lied, we could not say that we had “substantial and credible” evidence that he had committed fraud or perjury in the Arkansas phase of our work.
Schippers had made clear that I could take as long as I wanted, including reading the entire statement rather than the usual summary, with the written statement submitted for the record. By Chairman Hyde’s ruling, I would not be interrupted during the opening statement, however long it might be, but then the onslaught would begin. It reckoned to be a long day.
Lawyers prepare carefully for oral arguments, and I viewed this appearance as the oral argument of a lifetime. At the urging of several friends, I called my dear friend from Reagan days Merrie Spaeth, in Dallas, for help. Merrie had been a White House Fellow assigned to the FBI with Director Bill Webster, and media relations director for President Reagan; she was married to my DOJ colleague and fellow Texan Harold (“Tex”) Lezar. Her public relations firm, Spaeth Communications, boasted an impressive array of corporate clients, but Merrie hadn’t forgotten her friends back in D.C. I asked her to put me through the always-humbling moot court paces, with the video camera rolling.
To be effective, the moot court inquisitor needs to come at you hard. Along with her colleague Judi Nardella, a longtime friend from Northern Virginia who ran Merrie’s D.C. operation, Merrie posed all the tough questions, and then some.
From the outset of our long practice session on November 16, Merrie attacked, role-playing a clever Democrat on the House Judiciary Committee. At every turn, she egged me on. Her unrelenting bearbaiting assault eventually resulted in my erupting in ugly righteous indignation. I was practically sputtering. “How dare you challenge our motives? Instead of playing partisan games, Congressman, why don’t you look at the overwhelming body of evidence. The facts you’re conveniently ignoring cry out that the president is guilty of serious crimes against our justice system!”
Merrie showed me the videotape. “Do you like that person, Ken?”
My face was contorted and furious. I knew immediately I had to control my temper. I could not afford to lose it during my testimony. I steeled myself for another round.
As Merrie’s brickbats continued, I grudgingly restrained myself and remained calm. Thanks to Merrie and Judi, I had gotten the venom out of my system. It was a reminder that a flare-up of temper, especially when I got tired, would be horribly self-defeating.
I knew that the Democrats—even though many of whom loathed what the president had stupidly done, especially his cover-up—would play to the cameras and to their home base. I didn’t expect any Democrat to express concern in the nationally televised hearing about the president’s lawlessness and arrogance.
The congressional midterm elections in early Nove
mber had not been a GOP bloodbath, but it was a spanking. The American people were not keen on impeachment and they voted accordingly. The president was once again flying high. He had recovered from the dog days of August and his pitiable performance on national television in the wake of his ill-fated grand jury testimony.
All seemed forgiven. The president was not only the Comeback Kid, he was also Mr. Lucky, as the country remained prosperous and at peace. Now here came the judgmental Republicans and their hit man Starr.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Hot Seat
The Judiciary Committee hearing, chaired by Republican Henry Hyde of Illinois, convened at 10:00 A.M. on November 19.
I entered and sat down alone at the witness table, situated close to the more junior members of the committee. I hadn’t remembered how intimate the sprawling hearing room could be when filled to capacity. Behind me were a half dozen members of the OIC staff, including Sol Wisenberg, Brett Kavanaugh, Bob Bittman, Charles Bakaly, and Julie Myers, a young lawyer from private practice in Chicago who had joined the OIC in early 1998. I wanted my senior prosecutors and contributors to the referral there to symbolize the solidarity of our team.
Now, with standing room only, the chamber seemed to close in on me. I felt as if I could almost reach several of the representatives if I stood up and extended an arm to shake hands. I raised my right hand and took the oath to tell the truth, and began my opening statement at 10:48 A.M.
From the outset, I laid out the case carefully and methodically. I sought to make it clear that we were providing the committee with evidence and legal analysis. It was entirely up to the committee what to do with our submission, including tossing it in the trash can.
With the Starr Report in the hands of the American people, my prepared statement followed closely the structure of the referral. With no dissent within our ranks, my colleagues and I believed the ten counts of perjury and obstruction of justice were rock solid. Those built step-by-step to what we viewed as the capstone, the eleventh accusing the president of abusing the power of his office. He had employed the powers of his high office to stand in the way of justice and the rule of law. For self-interested reasons, the president had invoked executive privilege, a privilege entrusted to protect the presidency in our system of separated powers.