Game Change_ Obama And The Clintons, McCain And Palin, And The Race Of A Lifetime Part 13

The Bitter End Game.

THE VOTERS OF WEST VIRGINIA didn't give a d.a.m.n about Russert's certainty or Obama's hold on the nomination. A week later, in the state's primary on May 13, they delivered Clinton a victory by the kind of margin normally reserved for blowout football games: 6726.

Obama had wanted to play hard in West Virginia, but his advisers told him no way. There were too many "bitter people" there, they said, employing what had become their rueful shorthand for white working-cla.s.s voters. Obama bridled at the ever-growing perception that he couldn't win those voters, and wanted to dispel any impression that he wasn't competing for them. For three nights running, he kept asking, Are you sure we can't go? Are you sure we can't win? Are you sure we shouldn't even show the flag? Yes, we're sure, Plouffe said. It would be a waste of your time and our money.

But now, in the wake of a forty-one-point sh.e.l.lacking, the campaign faced the prospect of a welter of stories about Obama's weakness with a key general-election demographic. It needed something to quash that coverage, and to show the superdelegates that West Virginia had changed nothing, that the nomination was still in Obama's bag.

Barack had an idea. For the past week, his emissaries had been pus.h.i.+ng hard to land (finally) the endors.e.m.e.nt of Edwards, whose blue-collar cred might have given Obama a b.u.mp with the bitter people. They were close, so close, the go-betweens said, but apparently Edwards was still waffling.

"I'm going to call John one more time," Obama said on the campaign's conference call the night of West Virginia, "and tell him that if he wants to do this, tomorrow is the last day when it's gonna matter."

Obama had been chasing the endors.e.m.e.nt since Edwards dropped out at the end of January. They talked by phone the day Edwards quit, and a few weeks later Obama trekked down to Chapel Hill to make his pitch. Obama and Elizabeth got into a squabble about health care, in which she criticized his reform plan as weak beer. Obama liked John well enough, but didn't exactly consider him a policy heavyweight. Being lectured to by his wife on substance-well, Obama found that pretty rich.

The trouble with Obama, from Edwards's point of view, was his refusal to get transactional. He wouldn't engage, wouldn't promise anything, wouldn't so much as deign to stroke Edwards's ego. When Edwards told Obama that he wanted him to make poverty a centerpiece of his agenda, Obama airily replied, Yeah, yeah, yeah, I care about all that stuff. Clinton, by contrast, proposed that she and Edwards do a poverty tour together, even hinted that Edwards would have "a role" in her administration. Edwards still had his eye on becoming attorney general, and thought the odds of getting that plum were better with Clinton than with Obama. But after South Carolina, the chances of Clinton claiming the nomination just kept falling-and Edwards didn't want to back a loser.

So, instead, Edwards sat there, perched on the fence, squandering his leverage. Making the situation all the more absurd was the birth in late February of Rielle Hunter's baby, a girl she named Frances Quinn. In a crib somewhere, secreted away, the out-of-wedlock child was peacefully gurgling. And yet here Edwards was, still believing, beyond all reason, that he could be nominated and confirmed down the road to run the U.S. Department of Justice.

Obama reached Edwards the night of West Virginia not long before midnight, and managed, however momentarily, to pierce his bubble of delusion. At 1:15 a.m., Obama sent an email to his staff: Edwards is a go.

The endors.e.m.e.nt was unveiled seventeen hours later in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Edwards enjoyed the experience more than he thought he would. (His att.i.tude on the flight up had been, let's get this over with.) And he didn't come away empty-handed. At a meeting with his donors in New York, Edwards bragged about securing a prime-time speaking slot at the Democratic convention, though for the Obamans, that was a small price to pay. Timed to coincide with the network evening news, the endors.e.m.e.nt succeeded not only in stepping on Clinton's West Virginia headlines but in s.h.i.+fting the narrative about Obama's demographic dilemma.

There was another set of problems, not unrelated, that Obama was determined to fix, and they involved his wife. The criticism of Mich.e.l.le over "proud of my country" had grown more vociferous and pointed; that week, the Tennessee Republican Party posted a four-minute Web video skewering her for the remark. Then there were the rumors buzzing in the political world about the "whitey tape": footage that supposedly existed of Mich.e.l.le at Trinity United railing against the sins of Caucasian America, using the term "whitey." The chatter hit the blogosphere three days after West Virginia. A pro-Clinton site claimed the tape-"video dynamite"-was in the hands of the Republicans, who were planning to deploy it during the general election as an "October surprise."

The Obama campaign found the idea of the "whitey tape" preposterous. But after the Wright fracas, no one was taking any chances. Jarrett was dispatched to raise the topic with Mich.e.l.le. "Did you ever say anything about 'whitey' at Trinity?" Jarrett asked.

What? Mich.e.l.le said. I never spoke at Trinity and if I had, I would certainly not have used that word. Later, she joked to Jarrett, It's such a dated word. I'm much cooler than that! Mich.e.l.le said. I never spoke at Trinity and if I had, I would certainly not have used that word. Later, she joked to Jarrett, It's such a dated word. I'm much cooler than that!

Barack was in no mood for jest. He expected that the fall campaign would be ugly, and told himself he was ready for the freak-show attacks on him. I'm a big boy I'm a big boy, Obama thought. I can take it. I can take it. What he wasn't prepared for, what he wouldn't countenance, was seeing his wife in the crosshairs. "They're coming after Mich.e.l.le," he told Jarrett. "I want to shut it down." What he wasn't prepared for, what he wouldn't countenance, was seeing his wife in the crosshairs. "They're coming after Mich.e.l.le," he told Jarrett. "I want to shut it down."

On May 18, while campaigning in Oregon, the Obamas taped a segment for the next day's broadcast of Good Morning America. Good Morning America. When the interviewer brought up the Tennessee Republican Party Web video, Obama pounced. "If they think that they're gonna try to make Mich.e.l.le an issue in this campaign, they should be careful," he said, fairly growling. "For them to try to distort or to play snippets of her remarks in ways that are unflattering to her, I think is just low cla.s.s." Obama added, "These folks should lay off my wife." When the interviewer brought up the Tennessee Republican Party Web video, Obama pounced. "If they think that they're gonna try to make Mich.e.l.le an issue in this campaign, they should be careful," he said, fairly growling. "For them to try to distort or to play snippets of her remarks in ways that are unflattering to her, I think is just low cla.s.s." Obama added, "These folks should lay off my wife."

In truth, Obama was talking as much about the whitey tape as the GOP video-and the folks he was addressing weren't just Republicans but Hillary and Bill. In case they were considering a last-ditch, scorched-earth campaign, he wanted to draw a bright line underscoring the limits of what he'd tolerate.

After the interview, Jarrett asked Mich.e.l.le what she thought.

"Look at my husband," she said, beaming. "That's my husband."

OBAMA HAD REASON TO be concerned about where the Clintons' heads were at. Without a plausible road still open to carry Hillary to the nomination, they seemed to be left with only two options: giving up or going postal. Rahm Emanuel, one of the few people in the world talking to both sides, was counseling Obama to give Hillary s.p.a.ce, even as he urged Bill Clinton not to turn the final days of the race into a shooting spree. But Emanuel was blunt with Obama about one thing. Quitting, he said, simply wasn't in the Clintons' bloodstream.

Certainly there had never been any evidence of that particular form of plasma in the former president's veins. And his recent behavior gave no indication that he'd received a transfusion. Besides his smalltown stumping, Bill Clinton's main a.s.signment was continuing to make phone calls to superdelegates, in which he pressed the case for Hillary and against Obama aggressively-at times, too aggressively. Clinton's message, sometimes implicitly, sometimes explicitly, was that the country wasn't ready to elect an African American president. Some recipients of the calls found them discomfiting, others embarra.s.sing; few found them effective. Complaints were registered with the campaign. Bill's call sheet was duly adjusted.

Hillary's avoidance of ringing up superdelegates had long driven Ickes and others in b.a.l.l.ston to distraction. From Texas and Ohio onward, with a loaded gun pressed against her temple, she finally got with the program. The calls she made were softer in tone, but not much different in substance, than her husband's. Citing her strength among white voters in rural Ohio and Indiana, she would refer elliptically to the racial att.i.tudes that she believed would keep them from pulling the lever for Obama in the fall. "You know how people are," she'd say.

Yet after Indiana and North Carolina, the Clintons realized that highlighting Obama's existing vulnerabilities would do little to reverse the tide of superdelegates flowing into his column. Desperately, feverishly, they clung to the hope that a bombsh.e.l.l of some kind would fall from the sky and explode on top of him. A corps of conspiracy theorists around them encouraged such notions. Penn believed that a late-breaking story on Rezko might disqualify Obama. Blumenthal was obsessed with the "whitey tape," and so were the Clintons, who not only believed that it existed but felt that there was a chance it might emerge in time to save Hillary. "They've got a tape, they've got a tape," she told her aides excitedly. It just goes to show, Hillary added, "You never know what can happen."

Clinton had other, less fantastical reasons for remaining in the race. After one of her rallies that May, she sat down with her friend Ted Strickland and asked what he thought she should do. "I'm under so much pressure to get out," she said.

"I think you should do what you perceive to be in your best interest," Strickland told her. "But let me tell you what a part of me wants you to do, and that's to fight this thing to the bitter end, because you deserve to do that. No one has a right to try to push you out of this race."

Hillary heard that kind of thing all the time, and not just from party bigwigs but from ordinary voters, the kinds of people who crowded ten deep along her rope lines now, the women and men screaming, crying, brandis.h.i.+ng countless items for her to autograph: T-s.h.i.+rts, books (Living History) (Living History), pink boxing gloves, crumpled c.o.c.ktail napkins. (She always signed simply "Hillary.") As she'd located her groove on the campaign trail, she'd begun inspiring great pa.s.sion and devotion in her fans, and it meant the world to her.

These people, her supporters, millions of them, wanted her to stay in. So did two of her most trusted advisers, Penn and Mills. And so, of course, did her husband.

The matter of Bill's approval and his example loomed large in Hillary's mind. "When he had his toughest test, impeachment, he never gave up, never quit," an old Clinton hand observed. "How could she ever lie down before the race was completely over? Losing is one thing, but throwing in the towel would mark her as a failure in his eyes."

But those were not the only voices in Clinton's ears. Quietly, discreetly, Garin and Wolfson were trying to escort her to a graceful exit. Their arguments didn't revolve solely around the fact that she could no longer prevail. They spoke to what came next. If Clinton stuck around and aimed to destroy Obama, which was what winning would require, the effort would not only miscarry (they were sure of that) but shred her reputation, hobbling her ability to have any kind of meaningful future in the party.

Clinton, however reluctantly, agreed. She resolved to strike a delicate balance, staying in the race until the end, but eschewing criticism of Obama.

That was easier said than done, as Clinton would learn to her regret. Barely twenty-four hours after Indiana and North Carolina, she was quoted in USA Today USA Today saying, "Senator Obama's support among working, hard-working Americans, white Americans, is weakening again." saying, "Senator Obama's support among working, hard-working Americans, white Americans, is weakening again."

When the inevitable ruckus ensued, Clinton wailed to her aides that she was merely trying to make a demographic point-that the press was yet again casting her words in the worst possible light. "I feel like I'm living in a fun house," she complained.

Two weeks later, it was more like a house of horrors. Campaigning in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, ahead of the state's June 3 primary, Hillary sat down for an ed-board interview with the Sioux Falls Argus-Leader. Argus-Leader. Clinton mentioned that she found the calls for her to leave the race strange. "Historically, that makes no sense," she said, "so I find it a bit of a mystery." Clinton mentioned that she found the calls for her to leave the race strange. "Historically, that makes no sense," she said, "so I find it a bit of a mystery."

"You don't buy the party unity argument?" she was asked.

"I don't because, again, I've been around long enough," Clinton replied. "You know my husband did not wrap up the nomination in 1992 until he won the California primary somewhere in the middle of June, right? We all remember Bobby Kennedy was a.s.sa.s.sinated in June in California."

Clinton went on to her next event, at a supermarket in Brandon. As she spoke to a couple hundred voters in the produce section, she noticed a sudden commotion among the traveling press-reporters swarming around her aides, her aides waving their arms and yelling.

The cause of the uproar was a fresh story on the website of The New York Post The New York Post, whose reporter had watched a video feed of the ed board and wrote of Clinton: "She is still in the presidential race, she said today, because historically, it makes no sense to quit, and added that, 'Bobby Kennedy was a.s.sa.s.sinated in June,' making an odd comparison between the dead candidate and Barack Obama."

Clinton, of course, had made no such comparison, but the horse had left the barn. Soon enough, the story was bannered on the Drudge Report and being jibbered about on cable news. Stoking the frenzy, the Obamans quickly put out a statement, saying her comment "was unfortunate and has no place in this campaign."

After Hillary finished in the produce area, her staff hustled her into the market's stock room and explained what was going on. Standing amid shelves of canned goods, they ran through the chain of events, explaining that her remarks had set off a firestorm-one in which much of the media was now reporting that she had said, in effect, that she was still in the race because Obama might get shot.

"Unf.u.c.kingbelievable!" Clinton said, and shook with fury. How could anyone report that? How could anyone think that I meant that? How could they think that about me about me?

Mo Elleithee, one of her aides, told her Wolfson was adamant that Hillary needed immediately to face the press and clean up the problem. We tried to explain, Elleithee went on, but the reporters are pus.h.i.+ng back because Obama's safety has been such an issue.

"Don't talk to me about safety," Hillary snapped. "Don't talk to me about threats on your life. I've been living with threats for fifteen years. I've had threats on my daughter's life. I've had guns and knives confiscated from my campaign events this year. Don't give me a lecture on safety!"

A few minutes later, Clinton dutifully went out and made a statement. She mopped up the mess, or, at least, she tried to-but, really, she didn't care. All the frustration she'd felt with the press through the campaign was encapsulated in that moment. She flew back to New York late in the night, her anger draining away, replaced with dysphoria. Watching her recede into herself, deflated, dejected, one of Clinton's aides on the plane had a thought: The campaign is over. The campaign is over.

ON THE NIGHT OF Tuesday, June 3, Obama clinched the Democratic nomination. Having split the last two primaries that day with Clinton-him winning in Montana, her in South Dakota-and receiving a final-hours influx of support from superdelegates, he had made it to the magic 2,025. At the Xcel Energy Center in St. Paul, Minnesota, where the Republicans would hold their convention that summer, Obama strode onstage to the strains of U2's "Beautiful Day," clasping hands with Mich.e.l.le, hugging her, then sharing with her the most famous fist b.u.mp in the history of humankind.

After the speech, Barack, Mich.e.l.le, his team, and his friends retired to a bar inside the arena to watch Clinton's event in New York on television. The Obamans were expecting a concession speech-or, at least, remarks that were courteous and maybe even cla.s.sy. So was the press. So were even some of her supporters.

But the address Clinton gave that night in the bas.e.m.e.nt gym of Baruch College was instead seen by many as a churlish attempt to stomp on Obama's buzz. After being introduced by Terry McAuliffe as "the next president of the United States," Clinton didn't concede, didn't endorse, didn't so much as acknowledge her rival's historic triumph. "Now the question is," Hillary asked the crowd, "where do we go from here?"

Her audience chanted, "Denver! Denver! Denver!"

She seemed to revel in it.

Back in St. Paul, some brainiac in the Obama communications shop had decided it would be a good idea to let the media be in the bar while the Obama team viewed Clinton's speech. As Hillary spoke, all the air went out of the room. Obama walked over and punched Jarrett in the arm.

"What?" she said to him. she said to him.

"The look on your face," Obama said, noting her sour expression. "The press press is here." is here."

The next morning in Was.h.i.+ngton, a conference call of the senior Hillarylanders was convened to discuss their boss's next steps. "We have three choices," Penn said. "She can just get out. She can negotiate. Or she can park." By parking, Penn meant suspend active campaigning but not concede-waiting around, hoping for a landmine to explode under Obama's feet.

The group quickly coalesced around option number one, but Penn's preferred option was that she park. "Let's kick the can down the road," he said, maybe all the way to Denver. Or at least let's negotiate. Hillary had won eighteen million votes; her support was a valuable commodity. She should extract concessions from Obama.

"We need to make him grovel," Penn said.

As the call was going on, Clinton and Obama were at the Was.h.i.+ngton Convention Center for the annual meeting of the Jewish lobbying group AIPAC. Obama spoke first, then Clinton. When Hillary finished, she hurried backstage for a photo shoot for an upcoming magazine cover story-and ran smack into Obama and his traveling party.

The unfolding scene was a semiotician's fantasia. For months, Clinton and Obama had battled (and battered) each other more or less as equals. But now there was no longer even a faint hint of parity. When they first spied each other in the cluttered hallway, Clinton hugged the wall deferentially to let Obama pa.s.s. Obama took her aside, put his hand on her shoulder, leaned in for a few words. When their chat was over and Obama marched toward the freight elevator to leave, his Secret Service agents brusquely shooed away Clinton's aides: "Make way for Senator Obama! Make way for Senator Obama!"

The question was whether Hillary herself would heed that directive. A few minutes later, she would head off to b.a.l.l.ston to figure out her end game. She was somber, prideful, aggrieved, confused-and still high on the notion that she was leading an army, Napoleon in a navy pantsuit and gumball-size fake pearls. Clinton knew she was being pummeled for her speech the night before, but she'd convinced herself that she was, in fact, helping Obama. Her voters were angry, they felt insulted, they had to be coaxed along. If she'd simply endorsed her rival, her supporters might have washed their hands of both of them, either staying home in the fall or voting for McCain. The situation was volatile.

Clinton was hearing from countless allies about what she should do now, but much of their advice-as it had been all along through the marathon campaign-she considered useless. A war was raging inside her between rationality and denial. Maybe she should wait a week before doing anything. Or maybe two. Keep her options open. You never knew what could happen.

It didn't take long for Hillary's high command, huddled in a conference room in her headquarters, to disabuse her of those thoughts. Grunwald told Clinton that she had to avoid letting the past twelve hours become "the last snapshot" of her campaign. The perception that she'd behaved badly had taken hold in the media, and fairly or not, threatened to eclipse everything she had accomplished. She had to get out and get behind Obama, quickly and graciously, but do it in a way that served her interests and her image. "You should own the moment yourself," Grunwald said.

Tina Flournoy, a savvy labor politico who'd joined the campaign in its late stages, drew an a.n.a.logy to the Civil War. A lot of people who weren't ready for the battle to end took to the hills, Flournoy said. You can go to the hills for a while, but you have to come down eventually. You can't stay in the hills.

Clinton polled the table as to whether Obama could win in November. "Yes," Flournoy said. "With your help, he can win." Everyone but Penn and Mills agreed.

Clinton was persuaded to exit and set in motion plans to concede and endorse Obama that weekend.

The former combatants arranged to meet secretly Thursday evening at the home of Senator Dianne Feinstein in northwest Was.h.i.+ngton. They had much to discuss-Hillary's role at the convention, what help Obama might offer in retiring her campaign debt, how they would campaign together in the fall-but only one thing really mattered at this moment: whether Clinton would be Obama's running mate.

Speculation on the topic had been raging in the media for the past few days. Many of Clinton's supporters considered the veep slot Hillary's due. BET's Bob Johnson had launched a public campaign on her behalf, telling the press that Clinton had informed him that "if asked to do this, she must accept because she believes that it is in the best interest of the party."

The truth was, Clinton's ambivalence at the prospect was deep. If Obama offered her the number-two spot, Hillary did did feel she would have to take it-but mainly to avoid being blamed if she declined and then Obama lost in the fall. Though her husband was all for her being on the ticket, Hillary found it difficult to muster any enthusiasm for it. "I've already done that job," she told Penn. feel she would have to take it-but mainly to avoid being blamed if she declined and then Obama lost in the fall. Though her husband was all for her being on the ticket, Hillary found it difficult to muster any enthusiasm for it. "I've already done that job," she told Penn.

Obama's view of the matter was complicated, too. For all the heartache and heartburn of the campaign, he respected and admired Hillary, but he wondered if she would ever be able to see herself as his subordinate. There was also the issue of the baggage she brought, especially that one steamer trunk permanently strapped to her b.u.mper. You can't have three presidents in the White House, Obama told some friends at a dinner in New York.

The Feinstein meeting played out against this psychological backdrop. Seated in the California senator's living room, each with a gla.s.s of water, Obama and Clinton cut right to the chase. Hillary indicated she was willing to be considered, but unwilling to be vetted unless Obama was all but certain that he planned to pick her. Obama indicated he was willing to vet her, but that he was unlikely to pick her.

Then, as if to make Clinton feel better, but actually putting the sting in the tail, Obama added, "You didn't run to be vice president."

Clinton left the Feinstein meeting and focused on her official exit. The event was less than forty-eight hours off, a Sat.u.r.day morning rally at the National Building Museum in downtown Was.h.i.+ngton. For many of those hours, Clinton's speechwriters labored over her speech, cranking out twenty drafts. Late on Friday night, the speech was locked-or so everyone thought. In fact, Hillary and Bill stayed up late revising and reworking, editing and reediting the thing. Early the next morning, their new text landed in the email in-boxes of the high command.

"Wow, they really, seriously, f.u.c.ked this up," Garin wrote to his colleagues after reading it. "They have turned a gracious endors.e.m.e.nt of Senator Obama into something that will (and should) be seen as stingy and small, and turned nice pa.s.sages about the causes of the campaign into turgid and self-reverential prose. The problem isn't just what they took out, it's also what they put in. How many more uses of the word 'I' do they have here?"

A furious scramble ensued. The Clintons had removed the word "endorse"; it was put back in. The Clintons had deleted many of the references to Obama; they were reinserted. Hillary uttered not a peep of protest, insisting that her goal all along had been to give a speech that was generous and unimpeachable.

It wound up being an address the Obamans could have written themselves-though it would be best remembered for a stanza that spoke not to Clinton's praise for the winner but to what she'd accomplished even in losing. "Although we weren't able to shatter that hardest, highest gla.s.s ceiling this time," Hillary said before an adoring throng, "thanks to you, it's got about eighteen million cracks in it. And the light is s.h.i.+ning through like never before, filling us all with the hope and the sure knowledge that the path will be a little easier next time."

THE PATH TO PEACE between the Obamans and the Clintonites would not be strewn with primrose. The battle between Barack and Hillary had been historic across every dimension, from the amount of money spent and the numbers of voters who had partic.i.p.ated to its sheer closeness-roughly 150,000 votes out of nearly 36 million cast divided the candidates. The fighting had been too long, too messy, and too mean for cuddling to commence right away.

The candidates had agreed to have Plouffe and Mills work out the details of how the two campaigns would come to a practical detente. At the center of those negotiations was the matter of Clinton's $12 million debt. The Clintonites wanted the Obamans to help pay it off by asking his supporters to cough up contributions to her. The Obamans were reluctant, or, in Plouffe's case, downright recalcitrant.

Though the press was starting to hyperventilate about polls suggesting that Hillary's voters were up for grabs or even leaning toward McCain, Obama and the suits didn't buy it. Sure, there were a handful of PUMA-"party unity, my a.s.s"-women who would vote for G. Gordon Liddy before they voted for Obama. But the suits were convinced that rank-and-file Clinton voters would be with Obama in November as long as the campaign handled Hillary with due respect.

On June 27, the public process of rapprochement began when Obama and Clinton traveled together on a joint campaign trip to the aptly named town of Unity, New Hamps.h.i.+re, where each of them had received 107 votes in the state's primary.

The plane ride up from Was.h.i.+ngton was awkward, the press scrutinizing their every gesture as they sat next to each other in seats 2A and 2B. But the two-hour bus ride from Manchester was worse. Obama had a compartment to himself up front, Clinton one to herself in back, with a middle section in between. For most of the ride, they stood in their respective doorways batting pieces of idle chitchat (about learning to sleep on planes, using BlackBerrys, eating strange food in strange lands) back and forth like a pair of nervous tennis players.

Axelrod approached Clinton and asked to have a word. They retreated to the rear cabin and huddled. Obama's strategist wanted to make sure there were no hard feelings between them. Afterward, Axelrod was elated with how the talk had gone. It was a really good conversation, he said. But Hillary had a slightly different view.

It was like a root ca.n.a.l, she told her friends. I wanted to throw up.

The event itself was a relief. Obama and Clinton, their outfits coordinated so that his tie matched her blue pantsuit, fell over themselves praising each other, as if the past eighteen months had never happened. "For anyone who voted for me and is now considering not voting, or voting for Senator McCain, I strongly urge you to reconsider," Clinton said. When the crowd squealed for Hillary, Obama concurred, "She rocks, she rocks."

Three days later, from the road in Missouri, Obama called Bill Clinton. They spoke for twenty minutes and agreed to get together in the future, maybe over a dinner in New York, and for a public event, as early as July. Obama knew Bill was still upset about having been cast as a race-baiter in the campaign, and that what he wanted was a get-out-of-jail-free card from Obama. Obama didn't think Clinton was a racist, but he had no intention of exonerating him. Let him get over it and then we'll see Let him get over it and then we'll see, Obama thought.

A few weeks later, Mich.e.l.le called Hillary to break the ice with her after a trip to Florida, where some of Clinton's supporters had held a fund-raiser for Barack. I feel bad because I hadn't called you, Mich.e.l.le said. I was waiting for the right moment.

They talked about Hillary's experience raising a young daughter in the White House, about how Mich.e.l.le should avoid getting caught up in the campaign attacks that were now coming her way. Don't let that get to you, Hillary advised. That's what they're going to do. It's the Republican playbook. Expect it.

THE BRAVE FACE SHE put on for Mich.e.l.le notwithstanding, Hillary was not a happy woman in the summer of 2008. The past haunted her, the future daunted her, and the present was full of burdens. Still coping with her loss and what it meant, she kept casting her mind back, trying to grasp what had gone wrong with her campaign, inviting members of her former high command to her Senate office to conduct extensive examinations of their failure.

One day in July, Penn arrived at the Russell Building for his discussion with Clinton. For more than an hour, Clinton held forth, while Penn mostly listened.

"Well, I thank you for everything you did for me," Clinton began. "I'm sorry you took so much incoming fire. It kind of goes with the territory. I don't know what else to say."

"Yeah, well," Penn replied with a shrug.

Clinton then launched into a lengthy overview of the problems that beset her. "It was just dysfunctional, and I take responsibility for that," she said of her campaign. "I mean it just didn't work.

"Having said that, it would have been a very hard campaign to run against Obama," she went on. "We had the entire press corps against us, which usually Bill and I could care less, but this was above and beyond anything that had ever happened. I mean, it was just a relentless, total hit job, day in and day out. I don't mind that, because people seem to do hit jobs on me, but with a total free ride for [Obama]. It wasn't even a one-to-ten parity, in terms of anything that we thought would be put out there that might get traction. And you know, it was really hard to run against an African American when the entire Democratic Establishment was scared to death. They could not deal with it."

Clinton then raised the subject of her campaign's original sin: Iowa.

"If we had gone after Obama on the paid media, I just am not sure," she said. "If we could have avoided Iowa, which I think would have been very difficult-I was the front-runner, blah blah blah, I had to prove my bona fides. I don't see how we could have, frankly. But I never felt good about Iowa, ever ever felt good about it." felt good about it."

Clinton shook her head in wonder at the Obama phenomenon in the cornfields. "You know, the Oprah thing," she said. "There was such a sort of a cultlike, peer group pressure. . . . They had drunk the Kool-Aid. And I am convinced they also imported people into those caucuses, which we will never prove."

Clinton attributed her campaign's poor performance in Iowa in part to its inside-the-Beltway myopia. "I would never, ever run a campaign in Was.h.i.+ngton again," she said. "Ever, ever, ever. It's poison, it's toxic."

"I couldn't agree with you more," Penn said. "I'm told in Chicago he had a group of Obama partisans that, when they were losing, and they were almost out, they were willing to do whatever . . ."

"Whatever it takes," Clinton said, finis.h.i.+ng Penn's thought. "And I would love to get all their internal doc.u.ments about playing the race card, because I know it was their strategy."

If there was one Hillarylander whom Clinton blamed above all for the miscues, it was Solis Doyle. "I think she was a disaster, Mark, and I am so disappointed," Hillary said. "She turned out not to be able to manage. . . . She just was incapable. I put her in a position; she was unable to do it."

"I thought the deal was that she was going to make the trains run on time," Penn said.

"She didn't even know which trains she was supposed to schedule," Clinton said sarcastically. "And I feel terrible, because it wasn't a campaign worthy of me."

But Clinton had harsh words for Penn, too. "Whenever there was a problem, people begged me to fire you. That was the answer to everything: 'Fire Mark,'" she said. "Now why is that? Because you rub people the wrong way."

After telling Penn that she was "personally fond" of him, she said he was dismissive, insulting, irritating, and alienating to his colleagues. (At one point, she suggested he consider therapy.) "The Colombia thing, that really was beyond the pale," she went on. "I felt f.u.c.ked. I mean I gotta tell you. I felt like we were on the upswing, and I just felt f.u.c.ked."