First In His Class (58 page)

From the courthouse, Whillock and Clinton drove out to the Methodist parsonage in Berryville, where they met a young minister, Victor Nixon, and his wife, Freddie Nixon, who were leading peace and civil rights
activists. “
We sat
around the front porch and visited for an hour or so,” Whillock recalled. “And Freddie agreed to be Bill's Carroll County coordinator.” That conversation on the porch began a long relationship between Clinton and the Nixons that was marked by deeply emotional moments. Victor Nixon would later serve as the minister at Clinton's wedding. Freddie Nixon would become one of Clinton's aides, and their friendship would bend but not break in a profound disagreement over the use of the death penalty.

The next stop was in the little town of Alpena on the border separating Carroll and Boone counties at a drive-in restaurant run by the wife of an old cattle farmer, Bo Forney, who served on the Democratic central committee. Forney was a rough-faced, gruff-talking, overweight character in bib overalls, seemingly a world apart from the young Rhodes Scholar with the curly hair and long sideburns. But again, Clinton knew how to talk Forney's language and won him over.
The cattle
farmer contributed $405 to Clinton's campaign before the year was through.

Driving east on Highway 65, Whillock and Clinton reached Harrison, the county seat of Boone County and the heart of enemy territory, Hammerschmidt's home. Harrison was a major hub in northwest Arkansas, large enough to have its own daily newspaper, the
Harrison Daily Times
, and Whillock knew the editor, J. E. Dunlap. Whillock realized that Dunlap, who wrote a column under his initials, J.E.D., was an ally of the incumbent congressman, JPH, but he took Clinton in to see him anyway, hoping to “soften J.E.D. up.” It was a surprisingly productive visit. In that afternoon's paper, across page 2 from JPH's “Capitol Report” column opposing congressional pay increases, J.E.D. took note of his visitors from Fayetteville. “
One candidate
has already hit the ground running. He's running on the Democratic ticket for Congress in the 3rd District,” J.E.D. wrote. “Bill Clinton, native of Hope, graduate of Hot Springs high school, a Rhodes Scholar and a graduate of Yale Law School, now a teacher in the U of A Law School, was in town this morning with a former aide of the late Cong. Jim Trimble, Carl Whillock. Clinton was shaking hands on a tour through the Harrison area.”

Highway 62 took the travelers east out of Harrison and along the White River through Yellville and Flippin. It was Clinton's first glimpse of a scenic region where he would later, much to his eventual regret, invest in a vacation home development enterprise known as Whitewater. They reached the northeastern terminus of their trip in Mountain Home, where they met with Baxter County treasurer Vada Sheid at her family furniture shop. “
These two
men walk in,” Sheid recalled later. “I knew Whillock from his days with Trimble. He introduced me to young Bill Clinton, a very personable young man. We found a place in the store to sit down and
visit.” Clinton cast his spell on another older woman. He was “the kind of person,” Sheid thought, “who makes you want to be friendly with him.” It quickly became clear that she and Clinton had much in common. They both loved politics—and more: “He said his birthday was August 19 when I asked him his age. I said, “That's my birthday, too. That makes us both Leos!“I felt Leos had the same ideas about people. I agreed wholeheartedly to support him.”

As Clinton rose to leave, Sheid noticed that a button had fallen off his shirt. “Now, Bill,” she said, “you need a button sewn on your shirt if you're going to run for congressman.” She had him sit still for a minute as she found a needle and thread and made him presentable again. It was the first of many times over the years when the friendly furniture store merchant would come to the aid of her ambitious young astrologically aligned friend. Two years after that first meeting in Mountain Home, she was elected to the Arkansas legislature, and a decade later she would cast a decisive vote that saved Clinton's reputation at the same time that it may have cost Sheid her career.

When they left Sheid Furniture, Whillock and Clinton temporarily split up. Clinton said he wanted to visit the newspaper office. “
You do
that,” Whillock said, “and I'll go find Hugh and we'll meet at the drugstore at four.” Hugh was Hugh Hackler, an old friend who had served in the Arkansas legislature with Whillock in the 1950s. At that point in the afternoon, Whillock guessed correctly that he would find the retired Hackler in the pool hall playing dominoes with his friends. Whillock took Hackler aside after the game.

“Hugh, I'm traveling with Bill Clinton, a fine young man running for Congress. I'd like you to meet him,” Whillock said.

Hackler responded coolly. He said he had already promised people that he would support a candidate from Fort Smith, Gene Rainwater, in the Democratic primary.

“Well, I'm sorry you've done that, but Bill Clinton is going to be around a long time,” Whillock responded. “One of these days he's gonna be governor or senator and you'll need to know him.” That was enough to persuade Hackler to accompany Whillock over to the drugstore.

Whillock and Hackler found a spot in a red and tan booth with a black Formica table. They ordered coffee. Hackler was in his sixties and conservatively dressed. Clinton came in at four, sat down, and ordered a Coke. Whillock was not sure how his old friend would get along with his new one, but he need not have worried. The conversation began with a coincidence and only improved from there.

“Where'd you grow up?” Hackler asked.

“Hot Springs,” Clinton said.

“I've got a good friend in Hot Springs. But I don't imagine you'd know him.”

“Who is it?”

“Gabe Crawford. He runs some drugstores there.”

Gabe Crawford was one of the closest friends of Clinton's mother and late stepfather. This was the same Gabe Crawford who had joined Raymond Clinton in co-signing the loan that gave Clinton the first $10,000 of his campaign. “We practically live at the Crawfords,” Clinton said. “We're over at their house all the time.”

After fifteen minutes of easy conversation, Hackler turned to Whillock and proclaimed: “Carl, I'm gonna call my friends and change this. I want to support Bill.”

The last stops on the trip were in Marshall, the county seat of Searcy County, where they met with newspaper editors, and then the little town of St. Joe, where they visited Will Goggins, chairman of the county Democratic party. It was after nine when they reached St. Joe and Goggins was already in bed, with the lights out, but he answered the door, invited Whillock and Clinton in, and talked with them for an hour. Goggins was a Clinton man for the rest of his life. From St. Joe they retraced their path up and across Highway 65, weaving through the woods and river valleys in the darkness of an early Arkansas spring. It was after midnight when they got back to Fayetteville. Whillock was shocked to see that his wife and children were still up. “
You really
missed it!” one of his kids yelled excitedly. What had they missed? It seems that the latest campus fad had reached Fayetteville that night. For several hours, naked young men and women had been streaking up and down Maple Street past the Whillocks' house.

A few days later, candidate Clinton wa
s a
sked to take a position on streaking. “It's a little extreme for my taste,” he told an Associated Press reporter. “I find it offensive, but I think it's just a passing fad. Something quite similar went around when I was in high school. You may remember it. They called it “Mooning“where you drop your drawers and stick your fat out the window in a passing car.” The story was printed in the
Hope Star
, where Mack McLarty read it. He clipped the article and sent it to Clinton with a scrawled note: “Bill—Excellent press. Appears you handled yourself in your usual style. Trust you rec'd my $—Holler if additional help is needed. Mack McL.”

I
N
the small world of Democratic politics in northwest Arkansas, the center of the action was Billie Schneider's little restaurant at Hillbilly Hollow on the road between Fayetteville and Springdale. At a long picnic table in her back room, Schneider'
s friends
gathered several nights a week to drink
beer and chew on large juicy steaks and even juicier politics. It was an eclectic crowd ranging from long-haired college students who called Billie “Momma” to wealthy lawyers who looked to her for the latest town gossip. One of the regulars was Don Tyson, the bantam rooster of the chicken-processing field, whose lucrative family enterprise was expanding into one of the state's most powerful companies. Momma was the Godmother of Washington County politics, a yellow dog Democrat who sometimes refused to serve diners whom she considered too Republican. She looked like a saloon owner from the Old West: her voice deep and raspy from too many cigarettes, her face craggy and shaped by the ups and downs of her life. She drank and swore and was not afraid to tell people what she thought about them. She had the outgoing personality of Clinton's mother, Virginia, and was not shy about offering the young law professor political advice.

One of the first press releases the campaign issued referred to William J. Clinton, which is how his name was printed in a local newspaper. Schneider saw it and called headquarters. “Ron,” she screamed at Addington, who answered the phone. “
You and
Bill get your butts up here and I mean just as soon as you can!” Addington explained that Clinton was out campaigning and would not be back until later that night. “Well, when he gets in, get your butts up here!” Schneider said. Addington and Clinton walked into the restaurant just before closing. Schneider had some heated advice about what she had seen in the paper that day. The sight of Clinton's formal first name and middle initial sickened her populist soul. She wanted to make sure Clinton understood that he was back in Arkansas. This was not Georgetown, Oxford, or Yale.

“What is this William J. Clinton?” she asked. “You're not gonna run as William J. Clinton. You're Bill Clinton. And you're gonna run as Bill Clinton!”

C
LINTON
was a candidate now, but he still had to make it official. He had to travel from Fayetteville back to Little Rock to file. It was a four-hour drive each way, too long for him to make it down on the day he wanted to go and return in time for a big rally scheduled for that night on the University of Arkansas campus. A local nightclub owner offered the use of his airplane, a four-seat Cessna, but Addington had to recruit a pilot, which was a harder task than he expected. At the last hour, someone told him about a student at the university who had his pilot's license and could make the trip.
They left
on the morning of March 22. On the flight down to Little Rock, Addington told the pilot that he was taking flying lessons. The pilot said he had just earned his license a month earlier. It was a clear day and the trip down was free and easy.

They spent more time than planned in Little Rock—Clinton always
found one more person to talk to. It was dark by the time they took off over the mountains on their way back to Fayetteville. Twenty minutes into the flight, Addington realized something was wrong. “I knew we weren't flying right, I could feel it in my bones. It was dark and this guy starts pulling out maps. Clinton was sitting up front with the pilot. He turned around and looked at me like, “Where did we get this guy?“I said it would be all right.” Addington noticed that they were flying over a town and told the pilot to dip lower so they could get a look at the water tower. It was the tower for Harrison. They were off course to the east. Addington told the pilot to set his compass due west for a flight path that would take them directly to Fayetteville. They arrived safely, though late, and with a furious, red-faced candidate on board.

On the drive from the airport to the campus rally, Clinton, sitting in the front seat, exploded. “
God damn
it!” he yelled, pounding his fist on the dashboard. “Don't you ever line up somebody like that again, Ron! I could have been killed up there. My political career would have been over before it began! I can't believe you jeopardized our lives like that!”

Addington wanted to point out that it was not easy for him to find a pilot, that Clinton had endangered them by being so late and making them fly at night, that Addington was as scared as Clinton and that they might still be flying somewhere toward Missouri if he hadn't had the sense to find the water tower and that Clinton, the worst car driver in the world, had little room to talk about endangering lives. But he could not get a word in. Clinton was fuming and would not stop for breath. Addington had never seen this side of Clinton before. It was a fierce, sudden temper tantrum. Pounding away on the dashboard. Madder than hell. The first eruption of his political life. For Addington and dozens of aides who worked at Clinton's side over the ensuing years, it would become a familiar sight.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
 
AND NOT TO YIELD