Thanks, Obama Page 13

  When the surprise guest was revealed to be Clint Eastwood, the worried knots in our stomachs untangled into confusion. Allotted five minutes of stage time, the actor-director rambled for twelve. Even stranger, he spent the majority of his time pretending a nearby chair was the president of the United States. GOP convention-goers thoroughly enjoyed the performance. But outside the hall, thirty million Americans had tuned in hoping to see a potential president, and were forced to watch an octogenarian insult furniture instead.

  In our hotel lobby, we exchanged joyous, disbelieving looks. Thanks to a poorly timed, profoundly odd spectacle, Romney’s moment in the spotlight had been completely undercut. That gave us an opportunity. It also gave us a mission. Make sure no one goes Eastwood in Charlotte.

  ON MONDAY, JUST HOURS BEFORE OUR CONVENTION BEGAN, I received a surprise assignment. It came from Erik Smith, the longtime Democratic operative in charge of the program.

  “Big news,” he said. “Natalie Portman, Scarlett Johansson, and Kerry Washington are speaking on Thursday. Want to write the script?” His offer came with implied wink and nudge, as if he were appointing me bikini inspector.

  “Sure,” I said. But I didn’t think much about it. I simply added the actresses to the long list of speakers I’d been assigned. Most were no strangers to the soapbox. Former Virginia governor Tim Kaine. Education Secretary Arne Duncan. Democratic Party chair Debbie Wasserman Schultz. A Miami talk-show host named Cristina Saralegui. For them, appearing in public was routine.

  For a few others, however, speaking at a convention was as far from normal as you could get. These men and women were not politicians. They were students and parents and factory workers who had been helped by the president’s policies. They led lives viewers at home could relate to. Now they were being asked to share their stories, in front of twenty thousand people, in two minutes or less. It was one of these stories that occupied the bulk of my focus as our convention began.

  I first learned about Zoe Lihn from a short film produced by the campaign. The video began with a two-year-old girl giving an eager kiss to a purple stuffed sheep. Then her mother faced the camera. “My name is Stacey Lihn, I’m from Phoenix, Arizona, and the Affordable Care Act is saving my daughter’s life.”

  As the video continued, Stacey explained that Zoe was born with a congenital heart defect. At just fifteen hours old, she endured her first open-heart surgery. A second surgery followed four months later. Here, Zoe interrupted the video to proudly offer her dad a piece of fruit.

  “Apple!”

  “That’s an orange.”

  “Oh.”

  It was adorable. It was also heartbreaking. When Zoe was born, insurance companies were allowed to place limits on the total amount of coverage one person could receive. At just six months old, Zoe was halfway to her lifetime cap.

  Then came the Affordable Care Act. Thanks to Obamacare, lifetime limits on coverage were prohibited. Stacey and her husband, Caleb, could once again afford their daughter’s care. But Zoe needed at least one more surgery to repair her heart, and it was scheduled for 2013. If the law were repealed and the lifetime caps reinstated, the Lihns would be helpless. For Zoe, the 2012 election could mean life or death.

  After three years as a speechwriter, I had grown slightly numb to gut-wrenching stories, the same way medical students grow accustomed to the sight of blood. But the Lihns were different. Stacey’s authenticity was almost impossible to find in Washington. Her talent for connecting the personal and political was almost impossible to find anywhere else. I was determined not to let her down.

  In an ideal world, Stacey and I would have met in person on multiple occasions, over a period of weeks, to carefully prepare her remarks. In the real world, we had twenty minutes on the phone. With so little time, “speechwriting” was not much more than glorified transcription. I wrote down everything Stacey said. I cut all but the 260 most memorable words. Then e-mailed them to her so she could rehearse.

  By the time I finally met Stacey face-to-face, she was just hours from taking the stage. From the campaign video, I knew she wasn’t tall or broad shouldered. But when I saw her sitting outside one of the prep rooms, I was struck by just how tiny she was. Our speech coach, a woman who dressed like a high school principal and specialized in fine-tuning delivery, was not exactly a giantess herself. Yet she towered over Stacey as they shook hands. Then Stacey walked to the practice podium.

  “Governor Romney says that people like me were most excited about President Obama the day we voted for him. But that’s not true. Not even close.”

  At times, her voice quavered. Her eyes filled with tears as she struggled to keep emotions in check. But behind her fear and frustration I could see unshakable courage, the Pomeranian that thinks it’s a pit bull.

  When Stacey reached the end of her remarks, the speech coach administered instructions. Pause here. Breathe there. Don’t be afraid to speak over audience clapping; the sound of applause fades faster on TV. Stacey did one more run-through and then prepared to leave the room. But the speech coach wouldn’t let her. I figured she was about to suggest another word to emphasize, or offer a tip on modulating one’s voice.

  “I wanted to let you know something,” the coach said. “My daughter has a congenital heart defect, too.” Suddenly, we weren’t operatives anymore. Everyone was crying.

  On the convention’s first evening, Michelle Obama gave one of the best addresses I had ever heard. San Antonio mayor Julian Castro delivered an impressive keynote. In the referees’ locker room, we breathed easier—our first day in Charlotte was Eastwood free.

  But for me, one highlight stood above the rest. At 8:42 P.M., Stacey Lihn took the stage in a purple dress, with just the tiniest bit of terror in her eyes. Caleb followed, holding Zoe in his right arm while Zoe’s big sister, Emmy, trailed behind. Voice trembling at first, but growing stronger with each sentence, Stacey spoke about the relief the Affordable Care Act had brought her family. She spoke about the possibility that Zoe might need a heart transplant.

  “When you have a sick child, it’s always in the back of your mind, and sometimes in the front of your mind. On top of that, to worry that people let an insurance company take away her health care, just because of politics?”

  In the three years and eight months since Barack Obama had taken office, important laws had gone unpassed. The Tea Party reanimated America’s darkest instincts. The new House majority made partisanship a way of life. No wonder that, to most Americans, politics had become a dirty word.

  But here was this mighty speck of a woman. She hadn’t sought the spotlight. With so many challenges facing her family, no one would have blamed her for leaving the big picture to someone else. Yet she saw a connection between the man who held the nation’s highest office and a two-year-old girl who held a stuffed purple sheep. She was willing to open her heart to twenty thousand strangers in Charlotte because she knew her fight was not hers alone. That was politics, too.

  IN WASHINGTON, THE WAY YOU REFER TO IMPORTANT PEOPLE IS governed by a web of unwritten rules. If you and a VIP have no real relationship, you do not fake it. Instead, you use their last name and title, even when talking with friends.

  “Governor Kaine sent some edits.”

  “I just had speech prep with Secretary Duncan. He was really down to earth!”

  If you’re familiar with the boss, shorthand becomes acceptable. But for those outside the inner circle—a staff assistant, for example—first names remain taboo. Initials are preferred. “CVH” for Congressman Chris Van Hollen. “DWS” for Debbie Wasserman Schultz. Even senior advisors shy away from first names. They signal familiarity by naming the office instead.

  “Heads up, the governor has a few edits.”

  “You’ll like the secretary. He’s really down to earth.”

  You are free to use the first name of a powerful person only when the following two conditions are met. One, you must have a genuine working relationship. Two, the VIP in question must sti
ll, on some level, be staff. I could write Valerie in e-mails. Back when I was avoiding S sounds in his speeches, I could refer to the chief of staff as Bill. But in the White House, you never heard the words Barack or Joe under any circumstances, not even from people who considered them close friends.

  When it comes to talking about famous people, Hollywood is D.C.’s mirror image. I learned this when I was told that Scarlett and Kerry were still on board, but that Natalie had dropped out. Erik Smith, the strategist who assigned me to the actresses, was the one to deliver the news. He also told me the whole thing had been Harvey’s idea.

  I didn’t need to ask who “Harvey” was. Harvey Weinstein, the legendary producer behind everything from Pulp Fiction to Spy Kids 3, was a major Democratic donor. A week earlier, he had decided Clint Eastwood’s ramble deserved a response from Hollywood. Phone calls were made. Favors were called in. In no time, three actresses had been tapped to fly to Charlotte and address important issues head-on.

  The campaign staff was more than happy to have well-known stars on the program. When it came to the speech itself, however, they devised a bait and switch. Rather than have them speak about issues, we would team them up to promote online watch parties for President Obama’s closing-night address. My first draft of a script, which I’d sent over on Tuesday, was designed to do exactly that.

  But now Natalie was out. This meant we’d have to tinker with the dialogue, and on Wednesday morning I joined a conference call with Kerry to regroup. I recognized her voice immediately from Scandal. But there was another voice as well, with a nasal gruffness that suggested its owner had begun chewing a steak in 1997 and was not yet through with the gristle. Harvey was on the line.

  And he was pissed. After reading my draft about watch parties, Harvey had concluded that I was trying to manipulate him. This simply wasn’t true. I was trying to help other people manipulate him. But I suspected the distinction might not make much difference. Each time Kerry offered a thought, the producer leapt in.

  “Don’t let him do this to you, Kerry! Don’t let them push you around!”

  My day did not improve from there. Returning to the locker room, I learned that Scarlett, too, had spoken with Harvey. Rather than work with me, she would now write her draft herself. I couldn’t help but wonder what sorts of things were being said about me.

  Then, just a few hours later, I found out. I was in a coffee shop, stress-eating a salted caramel brownie and downing a double espresso, when my phone began to vibrate. It was a 917 number I hadn’t seen before.

  “Harvey Weinstein wants to speak with you,” said an assistant.

  “Really? Are you sure?”

  But there was no escaping it. There was a brief silence, and then the assistant’s cheerful singsong was replaced by a now-familiar bark. “David Litt?”

  Harvey began our conversation by informing me, in no uncertain terms, that I was an idiot who ruined everything. I was used to the Obamaworld style of criticism (not mad, just disappointed), and Harvey’s high-volume fury rattled me. What if he was right?

  But then Harvey told me I was in way over my head, and suddenly my spirits lifted. This second explanation made way more sense. There was no good reason for our conversation to be taking place. I was powerless to either help or undermine. All I could do—all I had to do—was suffer verbal abuse. Seen in that light, being hectored by Harvey Weinstein was like getting punched in the face by Muhammad Ali. At one point, with impressively dramatic flair, he asked whether I thought he might know a thing or two about storytelling.

  “Of course,” I said, hoping flattery might work. “I’m a big fan of your movies.”

  “Oh yeah? Do you know how many times I’ve been nominated for an Oscar? Three hundred and four! More than any studio.”

  Harvey continued in this vein for several minutes. Then he came to an abrupt halt, like a pair of windup toy dentures at the end of their run. “So,” he said calmly, “let’s give them all the time they need, and forget about these watch parties. Okay?”

  My year in government had not made me any better at replying to powerful people. I tended to stammer, unsure how confident to sound. But to my surprise, Harvey’s anger had been liberating.

  “I think you’re looking for someone who can actually make a decision,” I said. “Why don’t I find an important person and have them call you?”

  I made good on my promise, and eventually it was agreed that all talk of house parties would be scrapped. The two actresses would still be limited to seven minutes, but they would now be free to give separate speeches, each in a three-and-a-half-minute block. For the first time all day, I relaxed. It seemed the worst was over.

  It was not. It turned out I hadn’t been the only one to receive a call from Harvey Weinstein. He had spoken one-on-one with Kerry, too. Like Scarlett, she was now spooked, unsure whether to trust me with her draft. Then, just a few hours later, Jeff got a Harvey call of his own. Before my boss could start speaking, the windup dentures were unleashed.

  “You like speeches? Good, because you’re about to hear one!”

  You had to give Harvey credit for his opening lines. And for message discipline: among other things, he asked Jeff how many times he’d been nominated for an Oscar.

  As the Wednesday-night program started, I still had a half dozen speeches on my plate. Secretary Duncan. Cristina Saralegui. DWS. But the Harvey/Scarlett/Kerry drama had completely sapped my energy. These seven minutes of remarks were occupying nearly 100 percent of my time. There was a brief respite around 10 P.M., when our team squeezed onto the floor to see Bill Clinton. But even this didn’t last. Only minutes after I returned to the referees’ locker room, Scarlett’s draft landed in my inbox. It was heartfelt and well written. Unfortunately, it was also long—over one thousand words when it was supposed to be under five hundred.

  In any other setting, no one would be annoyed to get four extra minutes of Scarlett Johansson’s time. But her speech was the same night as the president’s. We simply could not allow speakers to go long. While the rest of our team left the arena, desperate to catch some sleep, I stayed behind to trim the draft. By 2 A.M., I had a version I thought would make everybody happy. I sent it to Scarlett, left the arena, and had just reached the hotel lobby when I felt an unmistakable, sickening buzz. I checked my phone.

  Edits!

  vibrate

  Sorry, no internet!

  vibrate

  Throughout the history of this great country we have fought & stru

  vibrate

  ggled

  It was Kerry, stranded somewhere without e-mail, sending me her draft in a series of texts. I waited for the deluge to finish—forty-five messages in all. Then, too tired to ask how badly she had exceeded the word limit, I plunged into a far from restful sleep.

  TO MY SURPRISE, THE CONVENTION’S FINAL MORNING BEGAN WITH relief: Kerry’s draft was on message! It was also approximately the appropriate length. But the good news ended there. When I e-mailed Scarlett to ask if she had received my revisions, I didn’t hear back. I tried again after an hour. Same result. The actresses took off from Los Angeles. They landed in Charlotte. They were on the way to the arena. Still, no word. It was only a few minutes before speech prep that I finally got an e-mail, and even this wasn’t from Scarlett herself. It was from a publicist.

  Scarlett has decided to use her version.

  Harvey says it will be fine.

  I had no idea how to handle the situation. Luckily, Erik Smith did. He decided we would play good cop, bad cop. He also decided I would be the bad cop.

  There was only one minor hiccup: he neglected to share either of these details with me. The moment both Scarlett and Kerry were in the room, Erik became a fountain of obsequious charm. We were so happy to have them. They were so important to the campaign. Then he turned to me.

  “This is David. He’ll talk with you about time.”

  Before Scarlett and Kerry could argue, and before I could protest, Erik ushered the th
ree of us into a tiny cubicle down the hall. Giant bold lettering identified the office as belonging to our campaign manager:

  * * *

  JIM MESSINA

  * * *

  But this was entirely for show. Half the size of my DNC workspace in Washington, the cubicle was practically unused. The only things in the room, apart from two stunning celebrities and a twenty-five-year-old sweating through his dress shirt, were a printer and computer on a desk. I sat on one side. Scarlett and Kerry took the other. I knew I had only a moment to earn their trust.

  “Let’s start by printing out your drafts,” I said. I sounded firm, yet pleasant. So far, so good.

  Then I hit control-P, and my reassuring smile flattened. Hardware is not my strong suit. I am the kind of person who readily concedes that the Amish have a point. And now the screen was displaying a printer error, a porridge of letters and numbers I had never seen before. Summoning tech support was out of the question. I didn’t know their number, and even if I did know it, I couldn’t afford to lose the appearance of control. Instead, I made firm eye contact with the star of ABC’s new hit drama and the woman Vulture.com named “The Smart Sex Symbol” of 2012.

  “So,” I said, “do either of you know how to fix the printer?”

  I could tell immediately that we were no longer on a first-name basis. Scarlett Johansson and Kerry Washington looked at me like I had just asked them to brush my teeth.

  I tried my best to recover, suggesting that perhaps printing out drafts wasn’t necessary after all. But it was too late. While the actresses reluctantly joined me at the computer, any semblance of authority had vanished. After fifteen fruitless minutes, Erik poked his head in. He seemed pleasantly surprised to find me alive, but disappointed to find me unproductive. A minute after that, Jeff appeared, took Scarlett Johansson to a different office, and left me and Kerry Washington alone to figure out her remarks.

  At first I wondered if this, too, was part of Harvey’s strategy. Strangle him with an extension cord, Kerry! It’ll look like a printer accident! But for some reason, one-on-one, everything snapped into place. Kerry’s remarks didn’t actually need much polish. In the patriotic atmosphere of the convention hall, it was far easier to explain how seriously we took limits on time. Just twenty minutes later, Kerry and I exited the cubicle with a draft. Just ten minutes after that, Jeff and Scarlett wrapped up her draft, too.