Can Rahm Change his Spots?

FeaturedCan Rahm Change his Spots?

In early January 1992 I scheduled the execution of a man on death row. 

I was the scheduler for Bill Clinton’s presidential primary campaign. As the governor of Arkansas, Clinton was required by law to be in the state whenever an execution occurred. There was a man whose case had run its course and he had to be put to death in the month of January, smack in the middle of the most feverish campaigning before the first Primary in New Hampshire. In creating a schedule of events, consultant-driven campaigns are guided by red-hot polling data. A candidate’s time is in flux except for fundraising events which cannot be changed or postponed. 

When I got the call from the governor’s office about the execution, my body shivered to the bone. I barely made the bathroom to expel a volcanic rise in my belly. Shaking it off, I grabbed Clinton’s calendar and headed to the fundraiser’s office.

“Rahm,” I said, “Get off the phone. This is important.”

“What the fuck is wrong?” Rahm flew out of his chair.

“I have to schedule a day for Clinton to be in Arkansas for an execution,” I said, “help me nail down the details of  your upcoming fundraisers.”

 

“That’s great!” Rahm said, “polling shows the public favors capital punishment.”

Bill Clinton called from New Hampshire. He explained the case of Ricky Ray Rector, that he had wrestled with this man’s story for years. He heard my tears, was sorry I had been put in this position. But it was the law and we had to proceed. 

Clinton deplaned in Arkansas on January 14, 1992. Ricky Ray Rector was executed. Clinton departed an hour later to resume campaigning.

In early March, campaign bigwig James Carville directed me to schedule Clinton at the Stone Mountain Correctional Institution in Georgia, a boot camp for young male prisoners. He reasoned that a photo of Clinton strolling with Black inmates and Southern White male politicians would appeal to the state’s Reagan Democrats a.k.a White voters to cinch a win in the Super Tuesday Primary. 

I sent a team to Atlanta. The lead member of the advance group phoned: “Regan, the Ku Klux Klan hold an annual cross-burning at Stone Mountain. Are you sure you want Clinton to come here?” 

“No. But Carville says the bold move will shift the polls.” I answered, “and Rahm wants Clinton to look like the law-and-order candidate.”

Bill Clinton won Georgia. The front page Stone Mountain photo did its job, but not without a price. The national press excoriated Clinton for racial insensitivity. Democratic candidate Jerry Brown (former governor of California) was quoted,  “Clinton and the other politicians looked like colonial masters trying to tell white voters ‘Don’t worry, we’ll keep them in their place.’ Carville apologized for not taking my team’s concerns seriously.

Rahm Emmanuel worked as policy meister in the Clinton Administration, Chief of Staff for Obama, Congressman and Chicago mayor, as he continually reminds us in his unapologetic pre-announcement hurl toward the 2028 presidential campaign.

Jeremiah 13:23: Can an Ethiopian change his skin or a leopard its spots? Neither can you do good who are accustomed to doing evil.

Blest Be The Ties That Bind

I haven’t seen Rick Ridder in years but loved reading his 2016 book, Looking for Votes in All the Wrong Places. I bought it to add to his sales numbers, support him in my own 81JbkJ1jA8Lsmall way. We both survived the 1980s Gary Hart presidential campaigns. So when it comes to making room on the shelves for other sympathy books, the ties that bind keep Rick’s book in place.

My built-in bookshelf clings to the entire southern wall of my small living-dining room. It’s stuffed. Books, old Vanity Fairs, photos, souvenirs, dog sculptures, used conference binders, scrabble, dominoes, a small portable heater and my writing notebooks all collide on the faded white sagging shelves. 

When the time comes to rack the newer books, stockpiled on all the flat surfaces in my living space, I painstakingly pull the old prisoners from their slots on the shelves. They sit on the floor for hours, days, weeks, awaiting sentencing. I stare at the titles. Agonize over their fate. I wish then, more than at any other time in the hours before twilight, for a piece of someone to discuss the disposition of the hoard and share in my decision-making.

“What about this one? Remember this? Dimitir by William Peter Blatty. Mark suggested it when I told him Blatty named the girl in The Exorcist after me. Did I read it? Should I save it?” 

“Oh, then there’s: Age Doesn’t Matter Unless You’re a Cheese. Jeanette gave me that when I turned 70. Maybe there’s something in it I can use for my writing.”

“Oh yeah. Listen to this. Ram Dass: ‘I used to have a sign over my computer that read OLD DOGS CAN LEARN NEW TRICKS, but lately I ask myself how many more new tricks I want to learn—isn’t it better to be outdated.’”

“Outdated! Is that how I should think of these old darlings?”

Oh, I tried long ago to get help with this salvage operation. It broke down, however, when I plunged into the stories behind my keepsake books. No matter how good a friend I netted, my stories bored in the telling and the telling and the telling. I sit alone now on a stool wheeling around the wreckage from title to title. 

“These? Oh no, must save Ian Rankin, my favorite mystery author. Oh, c’mon, Regan. It’s not as if they’re going in the garbage. Put them on the bookshelves in the laundry room. Someone’s bound to enjoy them before they get carted off to the used book sale at the Newberry Library.”

“Ok, these can go—two books by David Ellis. Oh, well, maybe. He’s the lawyer-turned-mystery-writer who prosecuted Rod Blagojevich. A good lawyer. And a good writer.”

“Richard North Patterson’s, Exile, needs to go. It’s old and smells. Musty. But I’m so grateful that it helped me understand the Israel-Palestine mess. Maybe I’ll read it again.”

Loneliness has its price. Out of this last 24-book pile-up, only one goes to the graveyard: The Complete Book of Food Counts.