was essential to a successful convention bounce.
There was only one problem: Barack Obama was dead set against featuring Clinton at the convention. The last thing he wanted to see was Clinton standing at the podium of the convention hall in Charlotte and sucking all the air out of the place. He rejected the notion that he needed to turn to a former president who had been impeached (though not convicted) for perjury and obstruction of justice by the House of Representatives. It was tantamount to saying that he, Barack Obama, couldn’t win on his own. That he was a loser. He couldn’t do it, and he wouldn’t do it—and he wasn’t alone in his objections. First Lady Michelle Obama and Valerie Jarrett weighed in on the discussion, arguing strenuously against offering Clinton a plum assignment at the convention.
“If we’re going to let Clinton speak at all,” Valerie Jarrett said, “let’s relegate him to a minor, non-prime-time role when the TV cameras are turned off.”
In late August, the Republicans ran into bad luck. Hurricane Isaac skirted Tampa, Florida, the site of the Republican National Convention, slicing a critical day off the three-day program and bumping a video biography of Mitt Romney from primetime TV. To make matters worse, Clint Eastwood was rolled out at the last minute and delivered an incoherent monologue to an empty chair, stealing the headlines and Mitt Romney’s show. Then, as Newsmax’s Christopher Ruddy wrote, “primetime keynoter Chris Christie barely mentioned the nominee or Obama in aspeech that sounded like the New Jersey governor was pumping his re-election.” Even before the Republican convention was over, it was clear that it had turned into a fiasco.
The Obama White House was ecstatic. The Republicans’ pain was the Democrats’ gain. It was just the opportunity that David Plouffe and his campaign staff had been praying for. They would put on a bigger and better show when it came their turn in Charlotte.
However, there was a major sticking point. Bill Clinton sent word to the White House that he would accept nothing less than the all-important nominating speech on the second day of the convention, a role normally reserved for the vice president. And he threatened to boycott the convention unless his demands were met.
No one had to remind Barack Obama of the risk he would run by granting Clinton his demands. What if Clinton veered off message? What if Clinton used his allotted speaking time at the convention to extol his own virtues over those of Obama? What if Clinton became the hero of his own speech?
But under the insistent urging of David Plouffe, Obama finally relented. It was a bitter pill for him to swallow. He agreed to permit Bill Clinton to give the nominating speech during prime time.
On July 25—six weeks before the start of the convention—Obama called Clinton from Air Force One and offered him the choice speaking role at the convention. It was one of the rare instances in which Obama didn’t listen to the counsel of Valerie Jarrett.
And he dreaded the consequences of his decision.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE ILLUSIONIST
B ill Clinton set to work on his convention speech in his home office, which was located in a converted red barn just a stone’s throw away from his Dutch Colonial house on 15 Old House Lane in Chappaqua. This time Hillary wasn’t around to play her customary role as her husband’s sounding board; she was in Asia, tending to business as secretary of state, and staying as far away from the partisan battles as possible. This wasn’t her time; it was Bill’s. Her time would come later.
Over the years, Clinton had promoted a myth about the writing of his speeches. “He wanted even his top staff, his intimate associates, all to believe that his work was one man’s creation—his own,” Dick Morris and Eileen McGann noted in their book Because He Could . However, like all modern presidents, Clinton had always had considerable help
There was only one problem: Barack Obama was dead set against featuring Clinton at the convention. The last thing he wanted to see was Clinton standing at the podium of the convention hall in Charlotte and sucking all the air out of the place. He rejected the notion that he needed to turn to a former president who had been impeached (though not convicted) for perjury and obstruction of justice by the House of Representatives. It was tantamount to saying that he, Barack Obama, couldn’t win on his own. That he was a loser. He couldn’t do it, and he wouldn’t do it—and he wasn’t alone in his objections. First Lady Michelle Obama and Valerie Jarrett weighed in on the discussion, arguing strenuously against offering Clinton a plum assignment at the convention.
“If we’re going to let Clinton speak at all,” Valerie Jarrett said, “let’s relegate him to a minor, non-prime-time role when the TV cameras are turned off.”
In late August, the Republicans ran into bad luck. Hurricane Isaac skirted Tampa, Florida, the site of the Republican National Convention, slicing a critical day off the three-day program and bumping a video biography of Mitt Romney from primetime TV. To make matters worse, Clint Eastwood was rolled out at the last minute and delivered an incoherent monologue to an empty chair, stealing the headlines and Mitt Romney’s show. Then, as Newsmax’s Christopher Ruddy wrote, “primetime keynoter Chris Christie barely mentioned the nominee or Obama in aspeech that sounded like the New Jersey governor was pumping his re-election.” Even before the Republican convention was over, it was clear that it had turned into a fiasco.
The Obama White House was ecstatic. The Republicans’ pain was the Democrats’ gain. It was just the opportunity that David Plouffe and his campaign staff had been praying for. They would put on a bigger and better show when it came their turn in Charlotte.
However, there was a major sticking point. Bill Clinton sent word to the White House that he would accept nothing less than the all-important nominating speech on the second day of the convention, a role normally reserved for the vice president. And he threatened to boycott the convention unless his demands were met.
No one had to remind Barack Obama of the risk he would run by granting Clinton his demands. What if Clinton veered off message? What if Clinton used his allotted speaking time at the convention to extol his own virtues over those of Obama? What if Clinton became the hero of his own speech?
But under the insistent urging of David Plouffe, Obama finally relented. It was a bitter pill for him to swallow. He agreed to permit Bill Clinton to give the nominating speech during prime time.
On July 25—six weeks before the start of the convention—Obama called Clinton from Air Force One and offered him the choice speaking role at the convention. It was one of the rare instances in which Obama didn’t listen to the counsel of Valerie Jarrett.
And he dreaded the consequences of his decision.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE ILLUSIONIST
B ill Clinton set to work on his convention speech in his home office, which was located in a converted red barn just a stone’s throw away from his Dutch Colonial house on 15 Old House Lane in Chappaqua. This time Hillary wasn’t around to play her customary role as her husband’s sounding board; she was in Asia, tending to business as secretary of state, and staying as far away from the partisan battles as possible. This wasn’t her time; it was Bill’s. Her time would come later.
Over the years, Clinton had promoted a myth about the writing of his speeches. “He wanted even his top staff, his intimate associates, all to believe that his work was one man’s creation—his own,” Dick Morris and Eileen McGann noted in their book Because He Could . However, like all modern presidents, Clinton had always had considerable help
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