by Joe Klein
"What sort of drugs?"
"Cocaine," Picker said. "That was the real reason I quit in 1978. That's what caused the problems in my marriage. But I cleaned myself up. I put it behind me. I put it so far behind me that I almost forgot it ever happened. But it did happen, and it seems obvious that it would be wrong for me to continue this campaign. I was a fool to think I could ever . . ."
There was a fleeting, barely discernible patch of silence. The reporters were nonplussed, disarmed by his apparent candor once again. Picker sensed it and seemed to gain confidence. He moved to fill the dead air: "So anyway, I don't think there's much more to say. I'm pretty embarrassed," he said--but he didn't sects embarrassed. He was back performing his old parlor trick, more alive on television than off it. The pack would be after him soon enough; they'd muck around the Picker scandal and pull every last morsel off the bones of his candidacy. But he wouldn't be humiliated on camera, and that represented no small triumph. "God," Stanton said, "it's frightening how good he could have been."
It was almost as if Picker heard hiss. He'd been starting to move away from the microphones, but stopped. "There's one more thing," he said. "I want to thank Jack Stanton for being aware of this situation and not taking advantage of it. I know I'm not in a position to make a recommendation here, but I've gotten to know Governor Stanton a little better these past few weeks--and, maybe, you should try to do the same. He may be the most misunderstood man in American politics. But you can come to your own conclusions about that. And that is all I want to say. Except that I'm sorry. And good-bye."
There were six lines into the phone on Jack Stanton's desk and, instantaneously, every one of them lit up. The intercom--connected to Annie Marie at the statehouse--buzzed. Stanton cupped the phone, spoke to me: "Are you still having doubts about this?"
"Yes," I said.
"Take messages," he said to Annie Marie. Then to me, "I thought you got it, Henry. I thought you understood. This is about the ability to lead. It's not about perfection. Okay, I probably would have leaked the file to someone--and I'da felt real slimy about it, but you know what? The bottom line wouldn't be any different. Picker was going down. It was only a question of when."
"And how," I said. "He might not have been so kind this morning if you'd been the one who pushed him off the cliff."
"Okay. Fair enough. But, Henry, what are we doing here?" he asked sadly, shaking his head. "We're arguing over how many politicians you can fit on the head of a pin. Are you trying to say you've suddenly discovered there's such a thing as hardball, and you don't have the stomach for it--and you're squishing out on me? Come on. I know you too well for that. We've been through too much together."
"Too much," I agreed. I looked over at Susan. She was, for once, leaving the heavy lifting to Jack. She knew it was the only way to close the deal.
"The question you've got to ask is, what are the options?" He said softly, almost warmly, still patient with me, his blue eyes locked into mine. "Only certain kinds of people are cut out for this work--and, yeah, we are not princes, by and large. Henry, you know this better than anyone. You've watched Larkin, you've watched O'Brien, you've watched me do it. Two thirds of what we do is reprehensible. This isn't the way a normal human being acts. We smile, we listen--you could grow calluses on your ears from all the listening we do. We do our pathetic little favors. We fudge when we can't. We tell them what they want to hear--and when we tell them something they don't want to hear, it's usually because we've calculated that's what they really want. We live an eternity of false smiles--and why? Because it's the price you pay to lead. You don't think Abraham Lincoln was a whore before he was a president? He had to tell his little stories and smile his shit-eating, backcounery grin. He did it all just so he'd get the opportunity, one day, to stand in front of the nation and appeal to 'the better angels of our nature.' That's when the bullshit stops. And that's what this is all about. The opportunity to do that, to make the most of it, to do it the right way--because you know as well as I do there are plenty of people in this game who never think about the folks, much less their 'better angels.' They just want to win. They want to be able to say, 'I won the biggest thing you can win.' And they're willing to sell their souls, crawl through sewers, lie to the people, divide them, play to their worst fears--"
"You played to their fears in Florida," I said, trying to stop the torrent.
"You did too," he said. "You never said, `Ohhh, dear, we're not being fair to poor Lawrence Harris.' You never said, 'This is morally repugnant to me.' You know why? Two reasons. First, your blood was up--like it or not, Henry, you're a warrior and we were at war--and you wanted to kill that pious fucker, just like I did. Only not literally, which shook all of us up--made all of us doubt ourselves a little and gave Picker the impetus for his move. But the second reason is more important: You knew I'd make a better president than Harris. You knew it. You may have had your doubts there, for a few days, about whether I'd be better than Picker--but you sate him last night. A very decent guy, smart, good instincts. But a president? No way. He's just barely a politician. I mean, in the end, Henry, who can do this better than me? You think there's anyone out there who'll do more for the people than I will? Think about all those other wonderful possibilities. Consider Larkin. And Ozio. And ask yourself this: Is there anyone else out there with a chance to actually win this election who'd even think about the folks I care about?" "I care about the McCollisters," I said.
"I do too," he said, glancing quickly over at Susan--and calculating that there was no concession to candor he could make here, nothing he could do but tough it out. If I stayed with him, I would have to live with that.
"I was thinking," I said then, "about maybe going over to Montgomery and helping Bill Johnson get himself elected attorney general." That stopped him. But only for a heartbeat. He was, as always, much faster than me. "All right, if that's what you want," he said. "But do you know how long Billy's been talking about running for A. G.? You know how totally convinced he is those peckerwoods'll never vote for a black man? And say he does run, say you help him win--what, then? You know what the attorney general of Alabama does? He gets unsightly billboards removed. He sues the power company--unsuccessfully, always. And he sends Snopeses to the electric chair for knocking over convenience stores and sodomizing their granddaughters. Henry, we are talking about the presidency of the United States here. Are you with me?"
"He might also keep the trees clean," I said, with some heat. "Might keep some black kids from getting lynched." Stanton was surprised by my stubbornness. So was I.
"Look, Henry," Susan interrupted--gently. "We're gonna have to go out there in a few minutes and do this thing. The whole country is going to be watching, so we better spend a minute thinking about what Jack should say."
I nodded. "Henry, come on," Stanton said, stretching his arms out across the desk toward me. His voice caught slightly. His eyes narrowed, burrowing deep, searching my consciousness, desperate to make a stronger connection. His brow, his nostrils, the veins in his neck, his arms, his fingers--everything was reaching out, everything was focused on me. I knew this moment so well; I had seen him do it so many times. He could talk all he wanted about an eternity of "false" smiles: His power came from the exact opposite direction, from the authenticity of his appeal, from the stark ferocity of his hunger. There was very little artifice to him. He was truly needy. And now he truly needed me.
"We've worked so hard--together, Henry--to get here," he pleaded. "And it's there for us now. It's right there. We can do incredible things. We can change the whole country--not just Alabama. If we win this thing, you don't think Bill Johnson's gonna want to come to Washington himself? He can be attorney general of the United States--not at first, maybe, but down the road. That's why he came up to New Hampshire. To make sure I'd remember him when the time came. And it's gonna come, Henry. I can win this thing. We are going to make history. Look me in the eye and tell me it's not gonna happen. Look me in the eye, Henry--and
tell me you don't want to be part of it."
"Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Henry," he said. "You want me down on my knees? I can't do it without you. Don't leave me now." He hesitated, searched my face for an answer. "You're still with me, aren't you? Say you are. Say you are. Say it."
He stopped, and suddenly smiled. I had trouble reading the smile. He was nonplussed, but confident. He wasn't conceding anything. "Aw c'mon, Henry. This is ridiculous: you've gotta be with me."
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