PROLOGUE
“We haven't done one thing in this Administration that has gotten us votes. Every issue that Jimmy Carter has taken on has lost us votes.”
-Evan Dobelle, Carter campaign chairman
January 20, 1985
The White House — Washington, DC
Jimmy Carter entered the Oval Office for his final time as president. Gone were the paintings and photographs that marked his time in this room. The portrait of George Washington that once hung over the fireplace had already been moved. His personal photographs — of Rosalynn, of Amy, of the boys — had been packed away for his return flight to Plains. He approached the Resolute Desk and slowly dragged his fingertips across it. Anyone who had expected it to be empty had learned nothing about the man who occupied this room for the last eight years.
On Carter’s desk stood a gargantuan stack of papers — pardons and commutations all. Most of them involved nonviolent drug offenders. The pardons were for those who had used marijuana. The commutations for more than 50 Americans, many of whom men of color, who had chosen crack cocaine over powder cocaine. Their sentences were adjusted to be in line with the sentences of those who’d used the powder substance, many of whom were white. He sat down at the desk to sign them.
The sun was creeping through the windows behind him, and as he took a deep breath, he thought back to the events that had transpired in this office. Debates over the Panama Canal Treaties. Conversations about healthcare reform — in both terms. He’d sat in this very chair and delivered a speech that, he believed, redefined his presidency: The Crisis of Confidence speech. Some historians would come to call it the moment when Carter secured his second term. In that moment, Carter just thought about the land he’d promised the American people, and the future they’d worked together to achieve.
He came to this room when he learned that Americans in Iran had been taken hostage, and he was here — behind this desk — when he learned they’d been released. He’d discussed energy policy with Congressional leaders, urged them to act on Social Security reform, and pleaded with them to stop racking up the country’s debt. He’d sat in this very room and made decisions about not one but two appointments to the U.S. Supreme Court — to say nothing of the countless men and women he’d named to the federal judiciary. In his first term alone, he’d appointed more women, more African-Americans, and more Hispanics to the federal judiciary than all of his predecessors combined. He continued that legacy into his second term.
He’d been the first American president to confront the scourge of AIDS. He’d learned of political assassinations in this room. He’d sought to normalize relations with China and with Cuba. He’d debated Tip O’Neill and O’Neill’s successor, Kennedy and Dole, Baker and Byrd. He’d met newer members of Congress and state officials in whom he placed great hope for the Democratic Party’s future, leaders like Bill Clinton, Geraldine Ferraro, and Mickey Leland.
Most of all, he’d addressed the deep dissatisfaction that Americans held about their politicians — about Washington. He showed them it was possible for a president to serve not just four but eight full years without ever telling a lie.
Carter thought of all these accomplishments as he signed the pardons and commutations.
With each signature, he grew more grateful for the American people who had placed him in this office. He had been an improbable president — a president who took advantage of the new nominating process and, after winning two close elections, found himself with the most powerful of offices.
Not bad for a boy from Plains. Not bad for Earl Carter’s son.
After he’d finished signing the final one, knowing the headache it would cause his successor, he capped his pen and rose from the desk. With his hands in his pockets, he looked again at the room, knowing it was time to go.
But Jimmy Carter had not been born into privilege. He had not gotten here easily, and he had not held onto the office without difficulty. His years had tried the American spirit. He’d never unearthed the secret to economic miracles. Instead, he sought valiantly to balance the budget and practice the fiscal restraint he thought would set the country on a prosperous course.
His final four years in office were dominated by the thought of what would happen in the Year 2000, when America welcomed a new century — a new millennium. He wondered what the politics of the nation would be, yes, but more importantly, he wondered what the state of the planet would be. He’d touched on this in his 1980 Convention address, his Inaugural address, and just last week in his farewell address to the nation. The boy from Plains was always looking to the future.
He neared the door that would take him along the walkway, beside the Rose Garden, and to the Residence. Rosalynn was getting dressed for the Inauguration of Carter’s successor. They were expected to welcome the president-elect in less than an hour.
Jimmy Carter knew it was time to go, but even he did not understand the extent to which he had shaped the nation in his image. His fiscal restraint and preference for peace had made possible a balanced budget — a reality that would alter the platforms of both major political parties. His defeat of the Moral Majority in 1980 did more to advance the causes of equality than he — or anyone — could imagine. He would live to see another seven presidents inaugurated — including an African-American and a woman. He’d be alive for the national legalization of marijuana for recreational use, witness the legalization of same-sex marriage, watch the fall of Communism, and before he left the Earth, he’d be honored with the Nobel Peace Prize and the Presidential Medal of Freedom.
Historians would call him one of the most consequential presidents in history. Some would praise his steady hand, others would say he squandered a time period that was ripe for progressive advancement. Environmentalists would say his achievements dwarfed those of Theodore Roosevelt. Conservatives would never forgive him for robbing them of what might have been.
On that bitterly cold day — when the inauguration would be forced inside — Jimmy Carter knew not what history would make of him or his administration, but he knew what he wanted them to say. He wanted them to say that Jimmy Carter had changed Washington.
Only time will tell. So, he turned and looked once more at the Oval Office, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply — inhaling eight years of budget negotiations, bill signings, television addresses, and all the rest, and then slowly exhaling. They weren’t his problems anymore. He was about to be a
former president. And then he closed the door behind him.
After eight difficult years, he was leaving with the begrudging respect of the American populace. He awaited a brief respite in Plains, but he knew that it would not be long before he launched into his post-presidency. He was excited about what lay ahead for him and for Rosalynn. He believed to his core that there was just one title in the American republic superior to that of President, and he was ready to don it once more: Citizen.
July 2, 1979
R Street — Washington, DC
Like most Americans, Jody Powell was having trouble filling up his car. He sat in line waiting — as did most folks in the summer of 1979 — until he drove to another gas station and then another. Finally, at the third station, he decided
Fuck it and chose to wait it out instead of trekking across town to another place. And so he sat. And sat. For an hour. All the while, the radio blasted reports about what a horrible, no-good job his boss — and by extension Jody himself — was doing. In other words, a perfectly pleasant way to spend your Saturday afternoon. With a fury, Powell struck the radio, changing the station and replacing the somber reports on the state of the union with rambunctious music.
Powell was on the way to spend the day at R Street Beach — the bachelor pad (complete with a pool) owned by Pat Caddell, his colleague and the president’s pollster. There was a fratiness to the locale, where coke flowed freely (some wondered if it shouldn’t be named Powder Mountain instead) and buxom blondes and brunettes wandered in scantily-clad bikinis to the amusement of the White House staffers, Congressional aides, young associate lawyers, and other young men who — somehow — had been given the role of steering the ship of state. Some of the women were secretaries, some paralegals, some lawyers or lobbyists in their own right, and some — well, nobody knew where some of them came from. One would be forgiven if they searched (unsuccessfully) for some Greek letters on the door.
When Powell finally got to the pump, he looked at the price and sighed. “Goddamnit, Jimmy,” he muttered to himself before searching to make sure nobody had heard him. The gas flowed. His car started. And off he went — to the R Street Beach.
Powell, 35, showed up and parked his car — hearing the crowd before seeing it. As he opened the door, there was no Caddell to greet him. Caddell was somewhere among the masses. No matter. Powell found his way to the pool, doing a double take as one of those buxom brunettes, talking to the president’s right-hand man, Hamilton Jordan, asked the second-most-powerful man in Washington, “So, what’s your major?” Powell shook his head but grinned. He was married, but Jordan (infamously) was not, and his colleague took the question as a sign to wrap-up the conversation.
Probably too young. He called for Jody.
“You didn’t want to tell her it was political science?” the press secretary snickered.
“I think ‘was’ is the operative word in that sentence,” Jordan replied. “Have you seen Caddell?”
“I just got here.”
“What the hell took you so long?”
Powell looked him in the eyes and sighed with his own, “Well, [Hamilton], I hate to tell you this, but I had to sit in line for an hour to get gas.”
Jordan’s smile widened. “Aw buddy! Only an hour! That ain’t too bad these days,” he said, the sarcasm practically flowing onto Powell’s shirt like oil from a well. “You should tell Reagan it only took an hour.”
The pair set out to find Caddell. Their eyes sought out curves and then trailed north, hoping to find Caddell’s face across from the woman holding court. They had no such luck. Caddell was not shirtless by the pool or downing shots at the kitchen counter. He was behind the shut door of his bedroom frantically working on a 107-page memo for the President of the United States — all while Georgetown students ripped shots and dove into the pool just steps away. Caddell was but a few years older (having been born in 1950), but while the co-eds frivolously spent their Saturday, he was putting the finishing touches on what would become one of the most consequential memos ever handed to a President of the United States.
The president had already seen what the original Caddell put together — a 75-page rambling titled “Of Crisis and Opportunity.” He didn’t embrace it, but he didn’t dismiss it outright as Walter Mondale, the vice president, had. In fact, the memo had sent Mondale into such a flurry that he was considering removing himself from the ticket in 1980 or resigning from the office at once.
When Jordan and Powell finally located Caddell, he was muttering the same words he’d been repeating for more than a month. They floated through the air as Caddell paced: “malaise,” “crisis,” “confidence — crisis of confidence,” “reshape,” “Lincoln,” “political and social fabric,” “Roosevelt,” “fundamental.” The final draft, to which Caddell was nearing, would total more than 100 pages, urge the president to deliver a philosophical address to the nation, and — perhaps most outlandishly — call on him to convene a Second Constitutional Convention. Powell, who was with Caddell on a lot of his argument, thought that went a bridge too far.
“Pat, let’s go!” Jordan called. “Come have a beer and talk this all over with us.”
Caddell waved them off. “I’m almost done. I need to get this to the president.”
Jordan rolled his eyes. “Well, we’ll be out there,” he said.
• • •
While Jordan and Powell enjoyed their Saturday, Caddell remained holed up in his bedroom working on the memo. He’d read the poll numbers more times than he could count. Carter’s personal favorability ratings had been turned on their head. Almost no president had seen such a stunning drop in personal favorability — even as job approval numbers danced along the graph. Simply put, Carter couldn’t win reelection with these numbers. He had to inspire the American people. Validate and direct their anger. Give them a reason to hope again. All of it was too much — the waiting in lines, the talk of inflation, the lack of jobs, the culture wars over the ERA and gay rights. People were tired of all of it and just as Watergate had launched a peanut farmer into the White House, the seemingly permanent distrust of government it sowed threatened to make him a one-term president. Pat Caddell knew he had identified the problem.
He also knew that the president could survive this. The polling in the primary was bad, Kennedy would kill Carter if it were accurate, but when it came to the general election, Carter was somehow performing alright — even with depressing personal favorability numbers. In a May poll commissioned by the DNC, Carter led Ford by 5, Reagan by 8, Connally by more than 30-points, Baker by more than 20-points. If every other number was this bad, but he still beat the Republicans than there was hope yet for the scrappy peanut farmer who had already found his way into the Oval Office once.
Carter needed a reset moment. A bold speech to turn the corner. The problems went beyond the energy crisis or inflation. Voters saw them, but they could overlook them if only they believed in Carter. Mondale and the others who thought Caddell was a loon were the real loons. You didn’t need the best plans or the best policies to win an election. You needed people to believe that you’d do the best job — and they didn’t come to that decision because of policy memos or position papers, they came to that conclusion because they had a feeling inside them that told them to go ahead and trust you. And Carter’s only chance to reset the narrative — to get the American people to trust him in that way — was to deliver a primetime address that was boldly honest.
Caddell even suggested a sort of promotional tour to advertise the speech. The White House should announce the president was going off to an undisclosed location. Powell could tell the press that the president was gone, there wasn’t any crisis, he’d just decided to do something he’d wanted to do for a very long time, and then Powell could refuse to take questions. No American would dare miss such a speech. And then, with the whole nation watching, Carter could talk to them about the crisis of confidence they had and inspire them to overcome it.
The president had already decided to give a speech on July 5th, but it was set to be a traditional address on the energy crisis. Caddell knew what to expect: a speech laden with intricate assessments of the problem, uninspiring legislation to fix it, and an audience that couldn’t care less — even as they waited for hours in line to get gas. No, it wouldn’t do. If Carter wanted to win this upcoming election, he had to give a different speech. Caddell banked everything on the memo, even took a first pass at what the speech might say, and sent it off to make sure the president had it when he arrived at Camp David on July 4th for a day of rest. It would be Caddell’s final chance to convince the president he was right — and for Carter to give the kind of speech that could save his presidency.
As he put the finishing touches on the memo, a young woman - the daughter of an influential lobbyist - pushed her way into the room, begging Caddell to finish the memo and entertain her. Caddell was not conventionally attractive, but he had access to power and in Washington access to power was attractive. As Gore Vidal once famously said, “Everything is about sex, except sex. Sex is about power.” And so it was for Caddell in those glorious days of the Carter administration, when he brought actress Lauren Bacall to Carter’s inaugural ball (and went home with her afterwards) and went on more than a few dates with Christie Hefner, the daughter of Hugh. As for the young lady currently wrapping her arms around Caddell, the pollster insisted he needed more time to finish the memo. “Please,” he begged, “it’s the most important thing I’ve ever done.” But as she persisted, Caddell relented. “Fine,” he said, pulling down his swim shorts and unbuttoning his shirt. Such was the life of this young Carter staffer.
• • •
When Caddell finally stumbled out of the bedroom an hour-and-a-half later when everything (and everyone) was finished, he found Jordan on the couch in the living room, watching others snort coke while he looked on. “Atta boy, Jordan!” Caddell said. “You can join them, ya know!” Jordan glared at Caddell. The media had (falsely) reported that he’d frequently availed himself of the powdery substance — and it was a source of agony for the young staffer. Caddell put up both his hands as if to say,
Hey, I didn’t write Cronkite’s story for him. And he mosied to the kitchen. Jordan got up to join him.
“When are you going to give it to him?”
“He wants to read it on the 4th — when he’s in Camp David.”
Jordan nodded. “You’ve got Mondale pretty fucking pissed, Pat.”
“Mondale has me pretty fucking pissed, Ham.”
“The difference is Walter Mondale is the vice president, and you’re not.”
“The difference is Walter Mondale is never going to be the fucking president, and I advise the one we’ve got now. Goddamnit, don’t you people see? This is a deeper issue. This is a big problem. This is something we’ve gotta do something about.”
“I’m just saying, you’ve got Mondale pretty pissed. He’s talking about quitting.”
“Oh shut the fuck up,” Caddell said, pushing Jordan’s shoulder, “There’s no way that egotistical Hubert Humphrey wannabe is going to quit the vice presidency. Besides, we couldn’t get that fucking lucky in this administration. Without Mondale we could pick someone who’d get us votes.”
Jordan rolled his eyes. He viewed the possibility of a Mondale resignation with doom. It would be a disaster for Carter, he thought, and prove that the president couldn’t handle Washington. No, they couldn’t afford to let Mondale go. And Caddell’s attitude wasn’t helping diffuse the situation.
“Alright, well get the president your memo, will ya?"
“It’s all done,” Caddell said, a grin creeping across his face. “Signed, sealed, delivered — well, not delivered. I’ll do that in the morning.”
Caddell may have sounded crazy — and some of his ideas certainly were — but he had tapped into a reality that the Georgia Mafia had not yet come to terms with. Yes, there were a number of problems in America right now. Gas lines were long. Unemployment was on the rise. Inflation was devaluing people’s savings. But Jimmy Carter had done a lot of things right. He’d been calling for solutions to the energy problem. He negotiated peace in the Middle East. He was pushing for the decriminalization of cannabis. His deregulation of the airline industry had made air travel affordable for the middle class in a way it hadn’t been before. But none of this seemed to matter to most Americans. Instead, they remained at war with themselves.
So while Walter Fucking Mondale and Hamilton Jordan dicked around, Caddell was tapping into a broader problem. They wanted another speech. Another typical speech. Something that identified a problem and proposed a legislative solution. But Jimmy Carter had solutions. He was the smartest goddamn president the country had had in a long while, and people didn’t like him. The country needed to
feel something again — like they did with Kennedy.
Carter was not an “Ask not” kind of president, but he did have the potential to talk to the country honestly and ask them to do their part — Hell, maybe he
was an “Ask not” president. It was about what people could do for their country. It was about how we were going to overcome these problems together.
But all around people didn’t want to listen. Watergate made them distrust government. The media in the post-Watergate world had become so obsessed with making everything into a scandal (poor Bert Lance) that people were losing faith in it. Churches. Schools. Nobody cared about them anymore. Nobody trusted them anymore. And what was a peanut farmer from Plains to do about it all? Caddell figured he had to give it to ‘em straight. And if they didn’t want to hear it? Well, at least they tried.
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