Believer: My Forty Years in Politics (25 page)

The next day, Gibbs and I accompanied Obama to the NBC studios in Washington. Before the show, the garrulous Russert greeted us in the green room, a large sheaf of papers under his arm. They were filled, Gibbs and I suspected, with highlighted passages from Obama’s book and likely his public statements dating back to grade school. When the interview began, it was vintage Russert from the first question:

“Let me start with Iraq, because you write about it in your book and you’ve been talking about it on the campaign a little bit,” he said. “This is what you told
New Yorker
magazine: ‘There’s an old saying in politics: when your opponent’s in trouble, just get out of the way . . . in political terms, I don’t think that Democrats are obligated to solve Iraq for the administration.’ Is there an obligation in non-political terms?”

It was a bracing opener, a tough but fair and exceedingly important question, designed to probe whether Obama was a standard-issue Washington politician, crassly thinking about the next election, or something more. We had anticipated it and Barack didn’t flinch or hesitate when it came.

“Yes, and then, you know, if you follow up the quote in that magazine article, what I said is, despite the politics, we have young men and women who are putting their lives at stake in Iraq,” Barack explained, pitching his plan for a phased withdrawal of troops. “We’re making an enormous investment on the part of the American people, and so we do have an obligation to step up.”

For twenty-five minutes they went back and forth, Russert challenging Barack with his own quotes, not merely to set traps but to elicit a deeper understanding of how a President Obama would approach issues ranging from Iraq to North Korea to Darfur. When and where would he commit troops? Would he be willing to negotiate with hostile foreign leaders? Just what had he meant when he wrote that President Bush had a “messianic certainty,” or that his own party was “confused”?

Barack’s answers were thoughtful and confident. He was passing the Russert Test with flying colors. As the interview turned to the homestretch, Russert prepared the ground for the question that had been hovering over the entire interview.

“You’ve been a United States senator less than two years,” Tim said, leaning in. “You don’t have any executive experience. Are you ready to be president?”

Obama was certainly ready for that question.

“Well, I’m not sure anybody is ready to be president before they’re president,” he replied. “You know, ultimately, I trust the judgment of the American people that, in any election, they sort it through . . . You know, we have a long and rigorous process, and, you know, should I decide to run, if I ever did decide to run, I’m confident that I’d be run through the paces pretty good, including on
Meet the Press
.”

His answer all but demanded the question we had anticipated.

“Well, nine months ago, you were on this program and I asked you about running for president. And let’s watch and come back and talk about it.”

Russert then played the tape from January, when Barack firmly disavowed a candidacy for national office in 2008. Was that still his position?

“Well, that was how I was thinking at that time,” Barack said. “And, and, you know, I don’t want to be coy about this, given the responses that I’ve been getting over the last several months, I have thought about the possibility. But I have not thought about it with the seriousness and depth that I think is required. My main focus right now is . . . making sure that we retake the Congress. After November 7, I’ll sit down and consider it, and if at some point, I change my mind, I will make a public announcement and everybody will be able to go at me.” Russert raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“But it’s fair to say you’re thinking about running for president in 2008?”

“It’s fair, yes.”

The day after the interview, Russert called:

“You know, I’ve been doing this show for fifteen years, and no one has ever done that before,” he said admiringly. “No one has ever simply fessed up and said, ‘Yeah, I said that about not running, but now things have changed, and I’m thinking about running. I’ve changed my mind.’”

Tim might have found Obama’s handling of the Question disarming, but not everyone was charmed. While offers of support and encouragement did pour in, there was no shortage of quotes from supporters of Hillary and the other candidates—blind quotes, of course—dismissing Obama’s preparedness and, ultimately, his prospects. Also, not everyone was ready to take the idea of an Obama candidacy seriously.
Time
ran a cover story that week by its seasoned political writer Joe Klein, headlined: “Why Barack Obama Could Be the Next President.” As soon as the magazine hit the streets, Gibbs grabbed a copy from a newsstand in downtown Chicago. As Robert was paying, the vendor glanced over his shoulder at the headline and scoffed. “Fuck
that
!” the man said with a smirk, as if finding the whole premise ridiculous. When Gibbs shared this story, Barack howled with laughter.

Obama had spent the year raising millions and logging thousands of miles campaigning for Democrats and collecting valuable chits for whatever was to come. Entering the midterm election year as the party’s most sought-after surrogate, Barack now emerged from it as its most intriguing prospect.

T
HE
NIGHT
BEFORE
the 2006 election, an exhausted and emotionally depleted
R
ahm called me in despair.
H
e was convinced, despite all objective evidence, that his
H
erculean efforts to take control of the
H
ouse had fallen short.
H
e was inconsolable. “
W
e’re not going to make it,” he moaned. “
I
know it.
W
e’re going to lose.”
A
day later, he was the toast of
W
ashington, shimmying and clasping hands with incoming
S
peaker
N
ancy
P
elosi and other
H
ouse
D
emocratic leaders in a joyous, if awkward, victory dance.

I had a lot of happy options for my Election Night. I could have gone to Boston, where I could personally have congratulated my sister, Joan, for her prescience, as Deval Patrick celebrated a landslide victory in his gubernatorial race. Or I could have taken the short hop up the highway to Milwaukee, where my friend and client Herb Kohl would be rewarded for his excellent service with a fourth term in the U.S. Senate. I decided to spend the night in Washington with Rahm. I knew it would mean a lot to him if I showed up—and I also thought that, just in case the numbers were wrong and the night went sour, I should be there for his very pointed “I told you so!”

I had become accustomed to the campaign cycle and the physical and emotional toll inflicted by the final sprint to Election Day—a blur of urgent calls, quick strategic judgments, last-minute film shoots, and long nights in editing suites. Even when you got a few hours’ sleep, your mind never stopped racing. It is an eight-week rush that comes to an abrupt end, and win or lose, you quickly move into recovery mode. You spend what’s left of the year decompressing, sleeping in, taking deep breaths, acclimating yourself to the rhythms of everyday life and reintroducing yourself to your loved ones.

Yet there would be no break in 2006, no time at all to recover or unwind. The morning after the election, I got on a plane and returned to Chicago for a meeting that would launch the next election cycle—and phase of my life.

As much out of necessity as a sense of propriety, Barack had postponed any in-depth discussions about 2008 until after the 2006 election. Given his relentless campaign and book promotion schedule, it was unrealistic to carve out the requisite hours for such a monumental subject. Nor could his political operatives bring full focus to the next campaign while we were in the final throes of our current races. With time short for a decision, though, we had agreed to convene the day after the election. So, on the afternoon of November 8, a weary team assembled with Barack and Michelle in the windowless conference room of my office to begin the 2008 conversation in earnest.

I could not recall a single campaign meeting Michelle had attended during his race for the Senate, but the Obamas knew the magnitude of the commitment that would now be under discussion, a commitment that would profoundly impact their family and demand far more of Michelle than the past campaigns. If she were going to be a partner in the campaign, as voters now required of their potential First Ladies, she had to be a full partner in the decision to run. Without her blessing, it would be a nonstarter. Without her total commitment, a blessing wouldn’t be enough. And she naturally wanted to hear firsthand what a campaign would entail.

The Obamas had brought two close friends whose counsel they sought in evaluating the decision from a little more emotional distance. Marty Nesbitt was Barack’s neighbor, peer, and basketball-playing buddy. He was a successful entrepreneur who had built a nationwide business from off-site airport parking lots. Though he had helped raise money for Barack’s previous campaigns, Marty was not a big political player in Chicago. That wasn’t his passion. Yet he was passionate about their friendship, and he was there to watch his best friend’s back.

Valerie Jarrett was someone I knew better. A lawyer and real estate developer, she had been involved in city government in a variety of positions since the days of Harold Washington. Valerie hailed from one of the city’s most prominent African American families. I had always found her to be both smart and pleasant, but she also had earned a reputation around City Hall as a tenacious, bureaucratic infighter. In 1991, as Daley’s deputy chief of staff, Valerie hired Michelle Robinson, a bright young lawyer from one of the city’s leading firms. Valerie quickly became a mentor and friend to Michelle and her fiancé, Barack Obama, for whom she opened doors to useful political and social circles.

Rouse, Gibbs, and Alyssa had flown in from Washington for the meeting. My partners Plouffe and Kupper were there, as was Steve Hildebrand, an experienced operative who had run Iowa for Al Gore. It was a mighty small group, I thought, considering such a huge undertaking, but if Obama decided to run, this impressive team represented a solid start. Every consultant or staffer in the room had presidential campaign experience, and most shared the chippy DNA of insurgents. Going in, however, few of us believed that Barack would actually run.

“All this hype has been flattering,” he began. “But running for the presidency, much less being president, is a serious business, so I want to give this the consideration it deserves.”

He spoke of three separate areas of concern on which he would focus in order to make a decision, including the impact on his family and the sheer feasibility of such a race. Then he began making an eloquent case for why it was even worth exploring.

The country, he said, was in a perilous place, confronted by big, long-term challenges such as health care, climate change, and frayed alliances in the world. The special interests were strong and getting stronger, and the middle class was under siege. Against this, we were hamstrung by small, divisive politics that made solving big problems virtually impossible. It was a critical moment in the nation’s history. Could he bring something different, something more useful than just fresh and moving rhetoric, to the daunting challenges facing America?

“That’s a question I am wrestling with,” he said. “Because if the answer is no, Hillary is a very capable person and there are other good folks running.”

Most of the conversation was nitty-gritty politics. Having ceded so much early ground to Hillary, Barack questioned whether it was possible to close the gap. Could we raise the money? Hillary’s team was boasting of reaping one hundred million dollars for the primaries alone. Could we build organizations to compete in states in which Obama had barely set foot? Obama was particularly concerned about whether we could build out a team to compete with a Clinton organization already a quarter century in the making. “I just don’t know if we can attract the kind of talent we need this late in the game,” he said, woefully underestimating his appeal to the young campaign warriors who are the backbone of such efforts. The consensus was that it was possible, and Barack made testing that proposition a priority.

Still, as he surveyed the room, few sugarcoated the magnitude of the challenge or the personal sacrifice it would require. Hillary was an imposing, well-financed front-runner, and Edwards remained a significant obstacle in Iowa, where he was popular with the left-leaning caucus crowd. The harder-edged populism he had now fully embraced sold well there. To succeed, we would have to pitch a nearly perfect game and demand total commitment from everybody involved in the effort—and if we pitched the perfect game and won, Gibbs pointed out, well, that would just be the beginning.

“You shouldn’t think of this as a one- or two-year commitment,” he told Obama. “Because if you get in, I presume you get in because you think you have a reasonable chance to win. So you kind of have to think of this as, possibly, a ten-year commitment, not one.”

Everyone in the room believed that Barack had special gifts and a unique ability to inspire a nation desperate for change. The daunting challenges notwithstanding, we agreed that if ever there was a time for such an insurgency, this was it. Nevertheless, we didn’t want to leave the meeting without having offered an honest portrayal of the downside of the endeavor for the Obamas. Presidential campaigns are endurance tests. The physical, emotional, and intellectual demands are extraordinary and, quite often, excruciating, as befitting a contest for the world’s most difficult job. If Obama ran, the experience would be exhilarating, but it would unquestionably be a relentless ordeal, too. We did not want to be in a position, months down the line, to have either Obama say, “Why didn’t you warn us?”

The only outlier in this was Hildebrand, who let his emotions cloud his judgment. He was so painfully eager to see Barack run that he painted a comically idealized portrait of campaign life. When an apprehensive Michelle asked about the demands on her and the children, Hildy’s description sounded more like a trip to Disney World than two years of unstinting sacrifice.

“Barack will be able to take some weekends off, at least in the beginning,” he said. “And in the summer, it will be great for your girls to come along the campaign trail. There will be fun state and county fairs. They’ll love it.”

We all stared at Hildebrand in disbelief as he spun this fantasy, and politely worked to paint a more realistic picture of what would be required. Plouffe, in particular, made no attempt to dance around the issue.

“Let’s not have any illusions: this is going to be a miserable slog for one year or, if you’re lucky, two,” he said in his best Joe Friday “Just the Facts” tone. “You, Senator, will be on the road constantly, and away from the kids. There won’t be any weekends off. And with all due respect to Hildy, you’re not going to want to drag your kids along that often. So there will be a lot of separation.”

I was impressed with David’s forthrightness, and was sure the Obamas would be, too. Barack didn’t really know Plouffe, who had played a very limited role in his Senate race; Michelle had never met him. No one could accuse David of trying to inveigle Barack into the race under false pretenses. He offered a clear, direct analysis unfettered by sentiment, one that would appeal to a politician whose soaring idealism and high principles lived side by side with a pragmatic willingness to do what was necessary in the heat of battle.

As the meeting broke up, Barack assigned Rouse and Plouffe to probe deeper into the logistical challenges of mounting such a campaign: budgeting, fund-raising, available personnel. Alyssa and Gibbs would work on a sample schedule for the first few months of a campaign, and I would undertake a strategic memo on messaging.

Plouffe and Gibbs were convinced that, at the end of the day, Obama would not run. David called me from a cab headed to O’Hare for his flight back to Washington. “I just don’t see him pulling the trigger.” I wasn’t so sure. It was plain that Barack had been giving this endeavor serious thought, and even after our overheated disclaimers, he was continuing our investigation into the process. Michelle was skeptical and, quite naturally, reluctant, but her participation in the meeting and the questions she raised suggested more openness to the possibility of a candidacy than I had suspected.

As I reflected on the possibility, I wrestled with my own ambivalence. Some of it was on behalf of my friends Barack and Michelle: I knew better than they did what a life-changing commitment this could be for them. I also had more personal reservations, born of sheer exhaustion. Having just finished another grueling campaign cycle, I had been looking forward to 2007 and 2008 as transition years into the next phase of my life, whatever that might be. I knew from experience what a presidential race would demand of me. Moreover, the Clintons had been good to me and my family. I could never forget Hillary’s willingness to be there when Susan launched her charitable crusade against epilepsy, and I knew that the Clintons would see my role in this Obama insurrection as an unforgivable betrayal.

However, I also believed that Barack offered the country something Hillary could not: a fresh start. At a time of growing cynicism and division, he was a healing figure who was stirring a sense of hope and possibility, a phenomenon I hadn’t witnessed since the Bobby Kennedy campaigns of my youth. Also, as in the ’60s, it was the young who were responding most enthusiastically. They saw in Barack an authentic, contemporary leader who, like Bobby in my day, was willing to challenge the cramped dogmas that had come to characterize politics. They saw in him a chance to end the wars, both abroad and in Washington, and lift the nation’s sights toward higher goals. So did I.

Also, the more I contemplated it, the more I became convinced that Barack could actually win. The “remedy, not replica” theory I had developed around mayoral races was even more germane to presidential campaigns, and no one in the field represented a cleaner break from the divisive politics of George W. Bush than Obama. I was not one for long memorandums. My insights tended to come in stream-of-consciousness riffs, which I would turn into catchphrases or thirty-second ads. Yet given the gravity of the decision ahead and the assignment I had been given, I set out to write a thorough analysis, beginning with what I believed would be the most critical dynamic.

“The most influential politician in 2008 won’t be on the ballot,” I wrote, in a twelve-page strategic memo I delivered to Obama shortly after Thanksgiving. “His name is George W. Bush.”

With few exceptions, the history of presidential politics shows that public opinion and attitudes about who should next occupy the Oval Office are largely shaped by the perceptions of the retiring incumbent. And rarely do voters look for a replica. Instead, they generally choose a course correction, selecting a candidate who will address the deficiencies of the outgoing President . . .

Now we are entering a campaign that will be defined by vivid perceptions of Bush, his record and style of leadership. And that is our opportunity.