Nixonland. Part 9

As Johnson worked on diplomacy, Bill Moyers was on the horn, firming up a closing-weekend tour of compet.i.tive congressional races from one end of the country to the next, in case there was capital to reap from the trip. LBJ would be returning the next day armed with a communique outlining the agreements arrived at in Manila. If he could claim a dramatic breakthrough for peace, he might dash every hope Nixon had of claiming credit for a Republican sweep. Nixon tossed and turned, unable to sleep at the thought. Soon, his aides weren't sleeping either. At 4:29 a.m. Nixon woke them up so they could start game-planning their countermoves.

Thence to Albuquerque, thence to Arkansas, then to Indiana, where Nixon said the same thing he always said in Indiana: "How can you have your mother be from Indiana and not be a fighting Republican?"

He was in Lodi, New Jersey, when Bill Safire, back in Manhattan, learned the Manila Communique had been released. No literary critic ever read text with the attentiveness Safire studied that entente between President Johnson and Prime Minister Ky. Just as Nixon worried, it held out the boilerplate promise that peace might soon be at hand. It also contained a restatement of the "graduated pressure" doctrine under which America was fighting the war: that "as the military and subversive forces of North Vietnam are withdrawn, infiltration ceases, and the level of violence thus subsides," allied forces might be withdrawn-for continued action "must depend for its size and duration on the intensity and duration of the Communist aggression."

This was boilerplate. But as William Safire studied that language, he thought he saw an opening-something to light the fuse: if they fudged the words just right, they could spin this as a mutual mutual withdrawal, a sort of surrender. He started banging out notes, arranging for Len Garment to drive him out to New Jersey, and proposed they release some sort of open letter on the Manila Communique. The Old Man loved the idea of a public statement; it was sure to grab the press. But Nixon knew the flack's art better than Safire did. He told him an "open letter" would be dismissed as gimmicky. This was about looking statesmanlike. He sent Safire back to the drawing board and arranged for them all to get together in two days at 20 Broad Street to go over the draft. In an aboard-plane interview with Tom Wicker, Nixon called for the formation of a war cabinet along the British models of 1917 and 1940, "representatives of both political parties to develop a strategy for victory in Vietnam within the next year" to keep it from becoming a "devastating political issue" in the presidential campaign. The American people would never "tolerate a long, endless war." So without a "light at the end of the tunnel," Republicans would be "grievously tempted" to run on a peace platform, undercutting Johnson's hard-won commitment to Vietnam. withdrawal, a sort of surrender. He started banging out notes, arranging for Len Garment to drive him out to New Jersey, and proposed they release some sort of open letter on the Manila Communique. The Old Man loved the idea of a public statement; it was sure to grab the press. But Nixon knew the flack's art better than Safire did. He told him an "open letter" would be dismissed as gimmicky. This was about looking statesmanlike. He sent Safire back to the drawing board and arranged for them all to get together in two days at 20 Broad Street to go over the draft. In an aboard-plane interview with Tom Wicker, Nixon called for the formation of a war cabinet along the British models of 1917 and 1940, "representatives of both political parties to develop a strategy for victory in Vietnam within the next year" to keep it from becoming a "devastating political issue" in the presidential campaign. The American people would never "tolerate a long, endless war." So without a "light at the end of the tunnel," Republicans would be "grievously tempted" to run on a peace platform, undercutting Johnson's hard-won commitment to Vietnam.

To the president of the United States, these words were truly devious. Nixon was threatening him: make me your foreign-policy partner, or I'll blow the whole Vietnam mess sky-high. That was what Johnson learned when his plane arrived in the United States: that Richard Nixon was claiming a right to act as copresident.

On November 1, Nixon's syndicated column sought to disa.s.sociate him from the backlash once and for all. He wrote that he used to used to think the Republicans would do well in the South this year. Now, however, "my prediction in the South must be revised-downward. The reason is that the Democratic Party-in a desperate throw of the dice-has gambled upon racism, demagoguery, and backlash to win for it what the caliber of its candidates cannot. The gamble will pay off in some backwaters of the South. But the Democratic Party has made a fatal mistake. It has risked the next generation, just to win the next election." think the Republicans would do well in the South this year. Now, however, "my prediction in the South must be revised-downward. The reason is that the Democratic Party-in a desperate throw of the dice-has gambled upon racism, demagoguery, and backlash to win for it what the caliber of its candidates cannot. The gamble will pay off in some backwaters of the South. But the Democratic Party has made a fatal mistake. It has risked the next generation, just to win the next election."

That was brazen. The Republican National Committee had produced a film to be shown the Sunday before the voting called What's Going on Here?, What's Going on Here?, a jagged a.s.semblage of news clips that depicted America under Lyndon Johnson as an orgy of crime, riots, and caskets coming home from Vietnam, interspersed with clips of the president's soaring affirmations of the Great Society. Some Republicans were trying to get it canceled as a tasteless embarra.s.sment. Conservatives were complaining it wasn't hard-hitting enough. a jagged a.s.semblage of news clips that depicted America under Lyndon Johnson as an orgy of crime, riots, and caskets coming home from Vietnam, interspersed with clips of the president's soaring affirmations of the Great Society. Some Republicans were trying to get it canceled as a tasteless embarra.s.sment. Conservatives were complaining it wasn't hard-hitting enough.

On the Thursday morning before the election Pat Buchanan announced the imminent release of a doc.u.ment called "Appraisal of Manila," and the clerks at 20 Broad Street were scurrying madly to get it out by the deadline. In the afternoon, Lyndon Johnson stepped up to the podium in the White House pressroom to announce that his doctor recommended he undergo surgery in fifteen to eighteen days to fix a vocal polyp and to repair a defect at the site of his gallbladder incision from 1965 (the one whose scar a caricaturist imagined looked just like Vietnam). The White House doctor, he further noted, recommended "a reduced schedule of activity in preparation for the operation." He would be leaving the next day for Texas. There would be no final-weekend campaign tour. The stress would be bad for his surgery.

This was the confirmation: the Democrats were utterly without hope on Tuesday. Experienced observers had long ago learned to read the president's entrails like Greek oracles, seeking in his changing medical humors clues to his political fears. Whenever they were harshest, some genuinely debilitating psychosomatic illness always seemed to be popping up. On the eve of his first Senate election, when he won by the stolen votes of a single precinct, it was a kidney stone. There was another kidney stone in 1955, a heart attack later that same year. This time the procedure looked suspiciously elective. "It's not an emergency in any way," military surgeon George G. Burkley told the press after the president withdrew-just some routine maintenance of a protrusion that "has enlarged somewhat in the last three weeks," which "indicates against a weekend trip."

What also indicated against a weekend trip, of course, was the necessity of avoiding presidential a.s.sociation with a bloodbath of a congressional election. He was always coming down with symptoms like these when no choice was a good choice.

Meanwhile, at 20 Broad Street, they struggled to complete their "Appraisal of Manila."

"Do you think it will get any sort of play in the papers?" the Old Man asked the flack.

Not if they didn't finish it in time for the morning papers' deadlines, Safire replied.

At that, Nixon struck an idea: "Do you suppose they would run the text in the New York Times New York Times?"

He referred to the Times Times's practice, as "newspaper of record," of running, in toto, papers of state, crucial public doc.u.ments, and speeches of paramount importance.

"That's what I had been thinking about, too."

Get his "Appraisal" printed there, and it would make Nixon more than some carping has-been political hack. It would make him the president's equal. It would set up a public showdown, in a fight they had jerry-built to win.

Safire got to work. He was acquainted with Harrison Salisbury, the Times Times's great foreign correspondent, now a.s.sistant managing editor. Safire wrote what happened next in his memoirs: "I sold as hard as I ever sold anything in my life." The Times Times had been neglecting Nixon, he flacked (that was absurd). It would be had been neglecting Nixon, he flacked (that was absurd). It would be partisan partisan not to give Nixon the s.p.a.ce (yet more absurd). Safire appealed to Salisbury's news sense (more absurd still: if its importance was its newsworthiness, a front-page article about it would do just as well). not to give Nixon the s.p.a.ce (yet more absurd). Safire appealed to Salisbury's news sense (more absurd still: if its importance was its newsworthiness, a front-page article about it would do just as well).

Finally, Safire pulled out his final argument. He appealed to the halcyon memories they shared of Moscow, in 1959, when Salisbury had been the pool reporter for the Kitchen Debate, and Safire was flacking the American exhibition.

Salisbury reminded Safire that for him to even consider the request the appraisal would have to be submitted before the afternoon deadline. If so, he promised to read and consider it.

A gaggle of reporters gathered in the Nixon, Mudge antechamber awaiting the promised doc.u.ment. Within unfolded a scene out of screwball comedy. Three secretaries typed up separate pages. Safire hurtled from station to station making corrections. Messenger boys hovered, awaiting instructions. Buchanan calmed the a.s.sembled scribes, promising them they'd get their copy in time for deadline. Safire s.n.a.t.c.hed pages out of the secretaries' typewriters as they finished each one. Pages flew. Staplers clomped. clomped. Buchanan dealt forth finished pages, announcing that the appraisal had eight points. Buchanan dealt forth finished pages, announcing that the appraisal had eight points.

There were only seven on the pages. Safire later wondered whether they had numbered it wrong or forgot to put in one of the paragraphs.

The lead article in the November 4 New York Times New York Times began, "Richard Nixon said yesterday that the recent Manila Conference achieved nothing toward achieving peace in Vietnam." It appeared right next to "President Faces Minor Surgery; Calls Off Tour." began, "Richard Nixon said yesterday that the recent Manila Conference achieved nothing toward achieving peace in Vietnam." It appeared right next to "President Faces Minor Surgery; Calls Off Tour."

The jump on Chapter One led to Nixon's entire twenty-five-hundred-word statement. "The effect of this mutual withdrawal would be to leave the fate of South Vietnam to the Viet Cong and the South Vietnamese Army.... Communist victory would most certainly be the result of 'mutual withdrawal.'"

Nixon was now, for the world to see, Lyndon Johnson's equal: the shadow president of the United States, accusing the president of selling out his own policies in Vietnam. It was a lie: the words in quotation marks in Nixon's a.s.sessment, mutual withdrawal, mutual withdrawal, did not appear in the communique. It did not appear in the communique. It wasn't wasn't a call for mutual withdrawal. The language negotiated in Manila in fact specified that America could keep its troops in South Vietnam a call for mutual withdrawal. The language negotiated in Manila in fact specified that America could keep its troops in South Vietnam six months six months after the last enemy troops withdrew. Both Lyndon Johnson and Richard Nixon kept a careful eye on the polls, and they both knew that even where the war was most unpopular, withdrawal was the most poisonous option you could mention. It made America look cowardly. The after the last enemy troops withdrew. Both Lyndon Johnson and Richard Nixon kept a careful eye on the polls, and they both knew that even where the war was most unpopular, withdrawal was the most poisonous option you could mention. It made America look cowardly. The Times Times had sacralized a Nixon con job. The fuse had been lit. And now, the fireworks began. had sacralized a Nixon con job. The fuse had been lit. And now, the fireworks began.

Johnson yowled when he saw the morning's Times: Times: "Don't they know it's all a lot of politics!?" "Don't they know it's all a lot of politics!?"

He was ready to hit back. His His Nixon was still the Nixon of the Last Press Conference: the most vulnerable man in American politics. He Nixon was still the Nixon of the Last Press Conference: the most vulnerable man in American politics. He wanted wanted to run against Nixon-not Romney, not Rockefeller, not Percy. He couldn't lose. Nothing united Democrats like bashing Richard Nixon. So he would build Nixon up. to run against Nixon-not Romney, not Rockefeller, not Percy. He couldn't lose. Nothing united Democrats like bashing Richard Nixon. So he would build Nixon up.

The president, supposedly too sickly to travel, was apparently healthy enough to stride into a 10 a.m. press conference in the East Room to take questions. Someone asked whether the strenuous trip to Asia had contributed to his ill health. The president fidgeted out a lie: "I didn't get weary." Then, the question that gave him the opportunity he was looking for: "Mr. President, in your estimation, will the outcome of the elections have any influence on the Communist willingness, or att.i.tude, toward continuing the war in Vietnam?"

He said he didn't think so, then expanded the scope: "There is no one that I know of that thinks there is going to be any great change in the Senate. Although my delightful friend, Senator Dirksen, optimistic as he is, feels that there may be at least a gain of seventy-five, I notice the chronic campaigners, like Vice President Nixon, have begun to hedge and pull in their horns."

Nudges. Murmurs. In the theater of Washington Kabuki, this was significant: the president had called out Nixon by name.

He returned to the subject while lashing out at a question from Chalmers Johnson of the Post, Post, who had the guts to ask, "Does the cancellation of your big campaign trip mean that you do not intend to do anything to help Democratic candidates before the election, such as one little speech in Texas, or maybe a TV pep talk?" who had the guts to ask, "Does the cancellation of your big campaign trip mean that you do not intend to do anything to help Democratic candidates before the election, such as one little speech in Texas, or maybe a TV pep talk?"

The heavy-lidded presidential eyes fixed intently. "First, we don't have any plans, so when you don't have plans, you don't cancel plans." He snapped, "We get invited to most of the states. In the last six weeks we have been invited to forty-seven.... But we have not accepted those invitations." we don't have any plans, so when you don't have plans, you don't cancel plans." He snapped, "We get invited to most of the states. In the last six weeks we have been invited to forty-seven.... But we have not accepted those invitations."

Then, he weaseled. "We do do contact the people who extend them. We do investigate in some instances going there." contact the people who extend them. We do investigate in some instances going there."

He couldn't hide that Secret Service men had scouted secure routes for at least eleven sites, including a lunchtime parade in Chicago, that 125 rooms were on hold at the Great Northern Hotel in Billings, that bands had been reserved in Portland.

"The people of this country ought to know that all these canceled plans primarily involve the imagination of people who phrase sentences and write columns and have to report what they hope or what they imagine."

He was losing his cool: a Last Press Conference of his own.

He worked over Nixon some more: "It is his problem to find fault with his country and with his government during a period of October every two years.... He never did really recognize and realize what was going on when he had an official position in the government. You remember what President Eisenhower said, that if you would give him a week or so he would figure out what he was doing. Since then he had made a temporary stand in California, and you saw what action the people took out there. Then he crossed the country to New York. Then he went back to San Francisco, hoping that he would be in the wings, available if Goldwater stumbled. But Goldwater didn't stumble. Now he is out talking about a conference that obviously he is not well prepared on or informed about."

What was the conference about? Figuring out a way to declare victory and go home, Johnson implied. That "if the violence would cease from the standpoint of our adversary, the allies would gladly reciprocate by withdrawing their troops, and that they would withdraw them in a period of not to exceed six months.... We think we did that, until some of the politicians got mixed up in it and started trying not to clarify it but to confuse it.... Mr. Nixon doesn't serve his country well by trying to leave that kind of impression," Johnson wound up with particular vitriol, "in the hope that he can pick up a precinct or two, or a ward or two."

No wonder the president was angry. What he was accusing Richard Nixon of, and credibly, was working to make it harder to end the Vietnam War.

But to the untutored public the technicalities were cryptic. The message that was received was of a presidential rant against a political rival. "Says Republican Does Not 'Serve Country Well,'" ran the second line of the New York Times New York Times headline. It made the president look like a McCarthyite, three days before the election. Which was exactly as Richard Nixon intended it: the old jujitsu at work. Johnson saw himself as pouncing on a mistake of Nixon's. That meant the mark had taken the bait. Johnson presumed the media would amplify his ridicule into one more political obituary of Richard Nixon. Instead he found himself cast as Goliath to d.i.c.k Nixon's David. It went back to old Jerry Voorhis, to the "Pink Lady," Helen Gahagan Douglas: let them pounce on your "mistake," then garner pity as you wriggle free by making the enemy look unduly aggressive. Then you inspire a strange sort of protective love among voters whose wounds of resentment grow alongside your performance of being wounded. Your enemies appear to die of their own hand, never of your own. Which makes you stronger. headline. It made the president look like a McCarthyite, three days before the election. Which was exactly as Richard Nixon intended it: the old jujitsu at work. Johnson saw himself as pouncing on a mistake of Nixon's. That meant the mark had taken the bait. Johnson presumed the media would amplify his ridicule into one more political obituary of Richard Nixon. Instead he found himself cast as Goliath to d.i.c.k Nixon's David. It went back to old Jerry Voorhis, to the "Pink Lady," Helen Gahagan Douglas: let them pounce on your "mistake," then garner pity as you wriggle free by making the enemy look unduly aggressive. Then you inspire a strange sort of protective love among voters whose wounds of resentment grow alongside your performance of being wounded. Your enemies appear to die of their own hand, never of your own. Which makes you stronger.

"He hit us! Jesus did he hit us!" Pat Buchanan yelped elatedly at the Old Man as he boarded an old rattletrap propeller plane in New York for a campaign flight to New England. "You'll never believe how he hit us!"

All that needling, all that playing to Johnson's deepest anxieties, had paid off: a providential presidential loss of control, a huge strategic blunder. "The only time to lose your temper in politics is when it is deliberate," Zen master Nixon told a friend in 1953. "The greatest error you can make in politics is to get mad." Jules Witcover wrote that this was, "in the memory of veteran reporters, the most brutal verbal bludgeoning ever administered from the White House by Johnson, or any of the Presidents for that matter, to a leader of the opposition party." That testified to Nixon's mastery, too. Now the pundits were calling him leader of the opposition party. leader of the opposition party. The comeback could not be denied. Everyone was watching him now. He was running against the president. The comeback could not be denied. Everyone was watching him now. He was running against the president.

Nixon wasn't finished yet. Since the tirade included a proper name, the press would be extending him the parliamentary courtesy of the right of response, as Johnson more than anyone else on earth should have known they would. Mike Wallace of CBS secured the use of a Learjet that let him beat Nixon to the airport in Manchester to record his observations as he got off the plane. Nixon piously intoned what a shame it was that Johnson had "broken the bipartisan line on Vietnam policy." He must have been "tired." Of this "shocking display of temper" on matters that must be discussed "like gentlemen," he said, "I regret that the administration chose to reduce this debate to a personal level, and I will not travel that road with them."

Then, speaking at the armory that every presidential candidate tried to book for his concluding rally for New Hampshire's first-in-the-nation primary, Nixon said, "Like every other American I trust that the president's health problems are minor [Like every other American, I do not trust the president], and I regret that he could not exert his energies to the fullest in behalf of his own party in this national campaign." (Maybe it was time for the president to retire?) Down at the LBJ Ranch, press secretary George Christopher said, "I don't think the president showed any temper or personal attack toward Nixon. I think the president is in as good humor as he ever has been in his life. I know for a fact he rather likes Mr. Nixon personally."

That was only stepping in the, er, credibility gap a little deeper.

Nixon said, "Is every public figure who rationally questions the means to achieve goals in Vietnam to become the victim of a presidential attack to silence his dissent? More important than President Johnson or Richard Nixon are the lives of thousands of American men fighting in Vietnam. I believe that the current Johnson policies resign us to a war that could last five years and produce more American casualties than Korea."

Resign! Korea!

Nixon was really on a roll now. He concluded his latest statement by urging the nation to watch him on TV on Sunday, where he would "lay it on the line" and "tell the president and the country what I believe is wrong with the means we are using to achieve our goals in Vietnam."

Both parties had been provided a half hour of TV time on Sunday afternoon on NBC. The RNC had planned to show the scurrilous doc.u.mentary What's Going on Here? What's Going on Here? But that never suited Nixon's purposes at all: publicizing the nationalization of the election around the issue of anti-Negro backlash was the opposite of his master plan. For over a week now his ensigns had been strategizing about how they could get Nixon on TV instead. RNC chair Bliss resisted: he didn't want to give any one 1968 contender a leg up. They even considered one of his patented telephone campaigns to create a "spontaneous," "gra.s.sroots" groundswell. Then came the Johnson blowup-and Nixon prevailed. House Republican Conference chairman Mel Laird announced that the film would be withdrawn out of respect for President Johnson's illness, and that, instead, Nixon would give a speech in the time slot. The Republicans also said they would make copies of But that never suited Nixon's purposes at all: publicizing the nationalization of the election around the issue of anti-Negro backlash was the opposite of his master plan. For over a week now his ensigns had been strategizing about how they could get Nixon on TV instead. RNC chair Bliss resisted: he didn't want to give any one 1968 contender a leg up. They even considered one of his patented telephone campaigns to create a "spontaneous," "gra.s.sroots" groundswell. Then came the Johnson blowup-and Nixon prevailed. House Republican Conference chairman Mel Laird announced that the film would be withdrawn out of respect for President Johnson's illness, and that, instead, Nixon would give a speech in the time slot. The Republicans also said they would make copies of What's Going on Here? What's Going on Here? available to TV stations that wished to available to TV stations that wished to report report on the controversy. Which was all rather brilliant. You have to wonder how much Nixon had to do with that play-a reprise of the famous 1964 "daisy commercial" affair, whose images, so devastating to Goldwater, appeared only once as a commercial, and several more times for free on the evening news. on the controversy. Which was all rather brilliant. You have to wonder how much Nixon had to do with that play-a reprise of the famous 1964 "daisy commercial" affair, whose images, so devastating to Goldwater, appeared only once as a commercial, and several more times for free on the evening news.

Sunday morning, Nixon appeared on ABC's Issues and Answers, Issues and Answers, where he promised, "After this election I am going to take a holiday for at least six months with no political speeches whatsoever." Then came his afternoon speech on NBC, in which he sealed his campaign to control the interpretation of the election Tuesday hence as a referendum on President Johnson's temperament as leader of a nation at war. "I respect you for the great energies you devote to your office, and my respect has not changed because of the personal attack you made on me. You see, I think I can understand," he said, looking into the camera, "how a man can be very, very tired and how his temper can be very short." where he promised, "After this election I am going to take a holiday for at least six months with no political speeches whatsoever." Then came his afternoon speech on NBC, in which he sealed his campaign to control the interpretation of the election Tuesday hence as a referendum on President Johnson's temperament as leader of a nation at war. "I respect you for the great energies you devote to your office, and my respect has not changed because of the personal attack you made on me. You see, I think I can understand," he said, looking into the camera, "how a man can be very, very tired and how his temper can be very short."

Tuesday came the deluge. "In the s.p.a.ce of a single autumn day," announced Newsweek, Newsweek, "the 1,000 day reign of Lyndon I came to an end." Twenty-seven of Johnson's forty-eight Democratic freshmen were swept out-the cla.s.s that had brought America the Voting Rights Act, Medicare, federal aid to education. The Republicans won their first gains in party identification in twenty years. h.e.l.l not being Methodist, Iowa was once again Republican. George Romney was resoundingly reelected, sweeping in a Republican senator, Robert Griffin, and five more Republican congressmen besides. Handicappers had said "Lonesome George"'s only political weakness was his lack of coattails. Not anymore. "the 1,000 day reign of Lyndon I came to an end." Twenty-seven of Johnson's forty-eight Democratic freshmen were swept out-the cla.s.s that had brought America the Voting Rights Act, Medicare, federal aid to education. The Republicans won their first gains in party identification in twenty years. h.e.l.l not being Methodist, Iowa was once again Republican. George Romney was resoundingly reelected, sweeping in a Republican senator, Robert Griffin, and five more Republican congressmen besides. Handicappers had said "Lonesome George"'s only political weakness was his lack of coattails. Not anymore.

Nine of ten new governors were Republican, twelve of thirteen Western state legislatures. Republicans now controlled statehouses representing 293 out of the 535 electoral votes. A breakthrough to make the Kennedys proud took place in Protestant Oklahoma: it elected its first Catholic governor. Only problem was that he was a conservative Republican.

To measure it by party underestimated the carnage for liberalism. By one estimate the power of the conservative coalition in Congress-including both Southern Democrats and Northern Republicans-doubled. Lurleen Wallace won by more than two to one. The Georgia gubernatorial race was so close it was thrown into the state legislature; they chose Lester Maddox. "The plague of Wallace politics did not, thank G.o.d, spread to Florida," the Nation Nation had reported after the Florida Democratic primary. Actually, the plague just waited for the general election, when a handsome young Republican insurance salesman named Claude Kirk won on the slogan "A Man's Home Is His Castle." The liberal who'd knocked off Judge Smith in the primary lost the general election to a conservative Republican. Nelson Rockefeller survived, barely; but for the first time in New York history the upstart Conservative Party polled more votes than the Liberal Party. Nelson's brother Winthrop beat Justice Jim in Arkansas-on a platform of school prayer, opposition to the 1964 Civil Rights Act, and excoriation of HEW education commissioner Harold Howe II. In New York City, civilian police review was crushed by twenty-six points; even Jews, supposedly liberal, opposed it 55 percent to 40. In Colorado an anti-death-penalty initiative went down two to one. had reported after the Florida Democratic primary. Actually, the plague just waited for the general election, when a handsome young Republican insurance salesman named Claude Kirk won on the slogan "A Man's Home Is His Castle." The liberal who'd knocked off Judge Smith in the primary lost the general election to a conservative Republican. Nelson Rockefeller survived, barely; but for the first time in New York history the upstart Conservative Party polled more votes than the Liberal Party. Nelson's brother Winthrop beat Justice Jim in Arkansas-on a platform of school prayer, opposition to the 1964 Civil Rights Act, and excoriation of HEW education commissioner Harold Howe II. In New York City, civilian police review was crushed by twenty-six points; even Jews, supposedly liberal, opposed it 55 percent to 40. In Colorado an anti-death-penalty initiative went down two to one.

The pundits' interpretation was myopic. The antiliberalism was downplayed. They wrote the second chapter of "White Backlash Doesn't Develop." They doted on Tennessee's forty-year-old senator-elect Howard Baker, Everett Dirksen's son-in-law, who had explicitly denounced racial code phrases; and the first Negro senator since Reconstruction, Ma.s.sachusetts Republican Ed Brooke; and George H. W. Bush in Texas, who lost in 1964 running as a Goldwaterite and won in 1966 running as a moderate; and Spiro Agnew, who owed his gubernatorial victory against the racist George Mahoney to the 60 percent of Maryland Negroes who voted for him (the previous Republican got only 6 percent). Republican dove Mark Hatfield won in Oregon. A cartoon in the Washington Star Washington Star enshrined the Establishment's thinking: an elephant leapt from his wheelchair into a creek marked "'68," singing, "Down by the old mainstream!..." Even though Reagan ended the distinguished public career of Pat Brown by almost a million votes, in an election that drew a stunning 79.2 percent of registered voters. enshrined the Establishment's thinking: an elephant leapt from his wheelchair into a creek marked "'68," singing, "Down by the old mainstream!..." Even though Reagan ended the distinguished public career of Pat Brown by almost a million votes, in an election that drew a stunning 79.2 percent of registered voters.

Chuck Percy was the new senator from Illinois, 55.6 percent to 44.3. Percy's celebration at the Sheraton was as jubilant as a party for the father of a murdered daughter could be-marred by violent new realities: he was detoured through the kitchen to his victory address by his full-time FBI guard. He was now, said Stewart Alsop, "a potential candidate for President of the United States." He had proved himself a statesman, Alsop said: he won without exploiting the backlash. "If he had done so, the whole issue of race relations would undoubtedly have been the key issue in the campaign."

But it was the key issue in the campaign. At Percy's victory celebration a well-dressed suburbanite yelled at two reporters blocking his view, dripping with venom, "We elected him after all." A reporter snapped in return, "It was hatred that elected this guy, and don't you ever forget it." Conservatives had erected a giant billboard along Chicago's Eisenhower Expressway in 1964 with Barry Goldwater's slogan: "In Your Heart, You Know He's Right." It became, after that election, "In Time, You Will Know He Was Right." Presently that billboard read, "Now You Know He Was Right." elected him after all." A reporter snapped in return, "It was hatred that elected this guy, and don't you ever forget it." Conservatives had erected a giant billboard along Chicago's Eisenhower Expressway in 1964 with Barry Goldwater's slogan: "In Your Heart, You Know He's Right." It became, after that election, "In Time, You Will Know He Was Right." Presently that billboard read, "Now You Know He Was Right."

Attempts to deny the backlash's influence were systematic. Pundits pointed to the sympathy factor. But if people voted for Percy because he was a grieving father, the ratio of the sympathetic to the callous was suspiciously high in the Bungalow Belt neighborhoods where Martin Luther King had marched. A ward a.n.a.lysis demonstrated that in Chicago neighborhoods threatened by racial turnover, new Percy voters were enough to account for Douglas's 80 percent decline in the city vote since 1960. He had won Cicero that year. This time he didn't even get 25 percent there. Pundits also pointed to people's unwillingness to vote for such an old man. But in the backlash wards the vote for younger Democrats declined almost as significantly. Roman Pucinski was reelected by forty-seven hundred votes where he had won by thirty-one thousand in 1964. "I've been the guy who was claiming there was no backlash," said Pucinski, "but I'm first to admit now I was dead wrong."

As it had been since Tocqueville, it took foreigners to see ourselves. White House aide Ted Van Dyk reported back to Hubert Humphrey on the visit of a group of British parliamentarians: "They believe that backlash was far more important than it might appear to be. In district after district, and city after city, they found an undercurrent of resentment concerning civil order and gains made by the Negro population."

Pat Brown never doubted it. His sh.e.l.l-shocked reaction was "Whether we like it or not, the people want separation of the races." He had a hard time processing it all: "Maybe they feel Lyndon Johnson has given them too much. People can only accept so much and then they regurgitate." Bakersfield punished its Negroes for rioting back in May by pa.s.sing an initiative, by a margin of two to one, refusing federal poverty aid.

The pattern was there for those with eyes to see. The Republican won the governorship in Nebraska; in Omaha, where there had been a race riot, they picked up 62 percent more votes than four years earlier in the blue-collar wards. In Ohio, urban Poles decreased their support for Democrats by 45 percent. Thirty-six House inc.u.mbents with ratings from the AFL-CIO's Committee on Political Education of seventy-five or higher were defeated-especially traumatic since Republicans had filibustered labor's fondest legislative wish: a repeal of the right-to-work provision of the 1947 Taft-Hartley Act. Union members voted for politicians who weakened their unions because the Democrats supported civil rights. Some confused backlashers even voted for Edward Brooke because he had an (R) by his name. Though voters who knew he was black told reporters things like "It's nothing personal, but if he got in, there would be no holding them down; we'd have a Negro president."

The misinterpretation that this was not a backlash election suited Richard Nixon just fine. He had studied the districts that Democrats had picked up in the sweep of 1964 and found them still, essentially, Republican. There were forty-seven of them. And though the districts didn't match up exactly, forty-seven forty-seven was the number of seats the Republicans picked up in 1966, in an election the press now retroactively framed, not as what it actually was, a referendum on the Negro revolution, but as what Nixon said it was: a referendum on Lyndon's Vietnam leadership, with Nixon's vision as the alternative. Warren Weaver of the was the number of seats the Republicans picked up in 1966, in an election the press now retroactively framed, not as what it actually was, a referendum on the Negro revolution, but as what Nixon said it was: a referendum on Lyndon's Vietnam leadership, with Nixon's vision as the alternative. Warren Weaver of the New York Times New York Times obliged the Nixon interpretation by writing the next week that of the sixty-six House candidates Nixon campaigned for, forty-four had won. The victory rate of the 319 Republicans who weren't afforded a Nixon visit was 44.8 percent. RFK's record was only 39 of 76. "President Johnson probably preserved an average above .500 by canceling the coast-to-coast tour that the White House had set up for the weekend before the election." The result: "The political equivalent of the batting championship for the 1966 campaign season went to former Vice President Richard M. Nixon." obliged the Nixon interpretation by writing the next week that of the sixty-six House candidates Nixon campaigned for, forty-four had won. The victory rate of the 319 Republicans who weren't afforded a Nixon visit was 44.8 percent. RFK's record was only 39 of 76. "President Johnson probably preserved an average above .500 by canceling the coast-to-coast tour that the White House had set up for the weekend before the election." The result: "The political equivalent of the batting championship for the 1966 campaign season went to former Vice President Richard M. Nixon."

Better yet, the article added, "national political leaders do not like to waste their time campaigning for heavy favorites; if they did, their average could be much higher."

Nixon had bamboozled the Times. Times. Wasting his time on candidates he thought most likely to win was exactly what he had been doing. Wasting his time on candidates he thought most likely to win was exactly what he had been doing.

And on this first day of the rest of Richard Nixon's life, the reaction was o.r.g.a.s.mic. The Old Man fielded the results at a headquarters at the Drake Hotel in Manhattan. Phone call after phone call: Rocky won, Winthrop won, Spiro won, Romney won, Chuck won, Ed Brooke won. Nixon intoned excitedly after every one, "It's a sweep."

"He's all right, Ron is-it's a sweep in California, too."

"Have you seen those numbers? We're on the move. Have another drink on the house, everyone."

Nixon had a few himself. It was 3 a.m., and he pulled a couple of his confreres who were still around in close: "This is too great a night to go home. Let's go to El Morocco and have some spaghetti." He hailed the cab himself, in the rain. "We won! We won!" he said, slapping his companions' shoulders. "We're going to kill them in '68."

He also slurred a confidence to Leonard Garment: "You'll never make it in politics, Len. You just don't know how to lie."

BOOK II.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

The Bombing.

PRESIDENT J JOHNSON AUTHORIZED NEW AIR STRIKES ON N NORTH V VIETNAM in early December. Reports circulated overseas that targets overlapped civilian neighborhoods. The Pentagon said that was absurd. Then the first accredited American correspondent to visit Hanoi in twelve years, Harrison Salisbury of the in early December. Reports circulated overseas that targets overlapped civilian neighborhoods. The Pentagon said that was absurd. Then the first accredited American correspondent to visit Hanoi in twelve years, Harrison Salisbury of the New York Times, New York Times, wired back his eyewitness accounts. The first ran December 25. Merry Christmas, Mr. President: wired back his eyewitness accounts. The first ran December 25. Merry Christmas, Mr. President: A Visitor to Hanoi Inspects Damage Laid to U.S. Raids.President Johnson's announced policy that American targets in North Vietnam are steel and concrete rather than human lives seems to have little connection with the reality of attacks carried out by U.S. planes.

Salisbury ended up publishing twenty-two pieces on the subject that winter. He reported eighty-nine civilian deaths in one town, forty in a second, twenty-four in a third-and that, in this "brushfire war," more bombs had been dropped on Vietnam since 1966 than the entire tonnage dropped on j.a.pan during World War II. In Nam Dinh, North Vietnam's third-largest city, he wrote of "block after block of utter desolation." He said the targeting of civilians was going on "deliberately."

The Pentagon claimed what civilian casualties there were came from the Communists' deliberate emplacement of surface-to-air missiles in populated areas. Or from the necessity of jettisoning bombs when attacked by MiGs. And that the eighty-nine deaths were evidence of "rather precise" bombing. Spokesman Arthur Sylvester-he called Salisbury's paper the "New Hanoi Times"-said if Salisbury doubted them, he should take a gander at the antiaircraft guns up the main street of Nam Dinh, right by the railroad tracks. Salisbury, who'd been covering bombings since the London Blitz, said he'd already been there and had found only a destroyed textile factory.

Lying about Vietnam: it had become a Washington way of life. When a shipment of American helicopters arrived on an aircraft carrier in the early 1960s, a reporter remarked to an officer, "Look at that aircraft carrier." The officer replied, "I don't see nothing." Air force pilots signed statements that if they were shot down, the government would deny any knowledge of them. With the Gulf of Tonkin incident in August of 1964, Lyndon Johnson took the opportunity to bring American involvement out in the open with a congressional resolution. But that was a lie, too. "Some of our boys are floating around in the water," he told congressmen. He said later, after the deed was accomplished, "h.e.l.l, those dumb, stupid sailors were just shooting at flying fish." After the escalation, General William Westmoreland, the commander of U.S. forces, banned the CIA from pegging the number of enemy fighters at more than 399,000. There actually were over 600,000. That number included guerrillas, and to count them would acknowledge the insurgency had popular support. They lied, as well, to one another. When McNamara came to visit, commanders doctored maps and records to make the enemy look smaller and the ARVN, the South Vietnamese army, look bigger. They even lied to themselves. In 1965, Walter Lippmann, a Vietnam War skeptic, was shocked to discover that Mac Bundy, one of the administration's top foreign policy experts, didn't even seem aware that South Vietnam had no independent reality prior to the Geneva convention.

By 1967, the biggest lie was that we were winning. Flying into Andrews Air Force Base after what was termed a "fact-finding" trip, Defense Secretary McNamara drew one of his consultants into an argument he was having with some of his mates: were things better now in Vietnam than a year previous, worse, or about the same? The consultant, whose name was Daniel Ellsberg, said about the same. McNamara turned to his interlocutors: "That proves what I'm saying! We've put more than a hundred thousand more troops in the country, and there's been no improvement!...That means the situation is really worse. worse."

The plane disgorged its pa.s.sengers, and McNamara briefed waiting reporters: "Gentlemen, I've just come back from Vietnam, and I'm glad to be able to tell you that we're showing great progress in every dimension of our effort."

On January 31, 1967, Secretary of State Dean Rusk, flanked by eight security guards, briefed some one hundred student-government presidents and campus-newspaper editors who had signed a letter questioning the war: football players, fraternity presidents, mainstream kids, stunned into silence by the obvious lies their secretary of state expected them to believe.

A kid from Michigan State: "Mr. Secretary, what happens if we continue the policy you've outlined...this continued gradual escalation until the other side capitulates...up to and including nuclear war, and the other side doesn't capitulate?"

Rusk leaned back, hissed forth a stream of tobacco smoke, and solemnly replied, "Well, somebody's going to get hurt."

Here, before their eyes, was the maniacal air force general Buck Turgid-son from Dr. Strangelove. Dr. Strangelove. The room drew silent, their thoughts as one: The room drew silent, their thoughts as one: My G.o.d, the secretary of state is crazy. My G.o.d, the secretary of state is crazy.

The madness was not hard to spot, if you chose to spot it. The problem was facing the wrath of all those decent Americans who didn't want to face that their government was mad. Bobby Kennedy once made the mistake of candor: he said Prime Minister Ky lacked popular support. Richard Nixon promptly started earning l.u.s.ty cheers with the line that such "highly irresponsible" statements "only weaken the hand of the president."

In a way, the most honest messages about Vietnam available in the mainstream came from the ma.s.sively popular annual NBC broadcasts of Bob Hope's Christmas shows for the troops. Time Time was the place to go each week if you wanted to read about how the American GIs "main concern in off-duty hours is aiding Vietnamese civilians." None of that bulls.h.i.t from Bob; he told winking jokes about prost.i.tutes. To connect with his audience, Hope had to earn their trust. He did it by telling home truths. At Qi Nam, he acknowledged the war's hopelessness with a joke about LBJ's proposed tax hike: "When a Texan says we need money, you know we're really in trouble." To a crowd at Da Nang, fifteen thousand marines bigger than the year before, he acknowledged the conflict's uncontrollable growth: "I probably look like Mickey Rooney from back there!" was the place to go each week if you wanted to read about how the American GIs "main concern in off-duty hours is aiding Vietnamese civilians." None of that bulls.h.i.t from Bob; he told winking jokes about prost.i.tutes. To connect with his audience, Hope had to earn their trust. He did it by telling home truths. At Qi Nam, he acknowledged the war's hopelessness with a joke about LBJ's proposed tax hike: "When a Texan says we need money, you know we're really in trouble." To a crowd at Da Nang, fifteen thousand marines bigger than the year before, he acknowledged the conflict's uncontrollable growth: "I probably look like Mickey Rooney from back there!"

Hope's show was broadcast amid raging debate about Harrison Salisbury's articles. Twelve religious leaders excoriated the president for sanctioning targets "in or near residential sections of Hanoi, even if many civilians die." General Eisenhower responded, "Is there any place in the world where there are not civilians?" Time Time said antiwar activists had hoodwinked Salisbury into the "impression that the U.S. is a big powerful nation viciously bombing a small, defenseless country." said antiwar activists had hoodwinked Salisbury into the "impression that the U.S. is a big powerful nation viciously bombing a small, defenseless country." U.S. News U.S. News called it "a ma.s.sive propaganda campaign over the accidental killing of a few hundred North Vietnamese civilians" by which "the Communists hope to hide a whole decade of deliberate murder of tens of thousands of non-military South Vietnamese." Senator Bourke Hickenlooper of Iowa said it was hardly surprising that Hanoi would "let a called it "a ma.s.sive propaganda campaign over the accidental killing of a few hundred North Vietnamese civilians" by which "the Communists hope to hide a whole decade of deliberate murder of tens of thousands of non-military South Vietnamese." Senator Bourke Hickenlooper of Iowa said it was hardly surprising that Hanoi would "let a New York Times New York Times reporter in but not objective reporters." House Armed Services Committee chairman Mendel Rivers said we should "flatten Hanoi and tell world opinion to go fly a kite." Senator Sam Ervin said, "We ought to bomb the North Vietnamese out of existence." In private briefings with dovish congressmen, President Johnson claimed that for every American dying now, five would die if he stopped the bombing. The Pulitzer jury voted to give Salisbury its garland for international reporting. The full board vetoed their decision: they were publishers, and had to worry about insulting the commander in chief. reporter in but not objective reporters." House Armed Services Committee chairman Mendel Rivers said we should "flatten Hanoi and tell world opinion to go fly a kite." Senator Sam Ervin said, "We ought to bomb the North Vietnamese out of existence." In private briefings with dovish congressmen, President Johnson claimed that for every American dying now, five would die if he stopped the bombing. The Pulitzer jury voted to give Salisbury its garland for international reporting. The full board vetoed their decision: they were publishers, and had to worry about insulting the commander in chief.

For some, Salisbury's reports were occasion for reflecting on how America was drifting dangerously from its founding ideals. For others, the discussion was over whether the first group were Americans at all. By the beginning of 1967, the war in Vietnam had ended America's "consensus" for good.

This winter of LBJ's discontent began the day after the 1966 elections, when he announced he'd propose fewer programs and shrink funding for existing ones. The January issue of the liberal magazine Commentary Commentary published an article called "Death of a Slogan: The Great Society." The State of the Union address was its eulogy. The president quoted Lincoln: "We must ask 'where we are and whither we are tending.'" In Vietnam, "we face more cost, more loss, more agony." He proposed a 6 percent income and corporate tax surcharge because his proposed budget in 1966 had a.s.sumed the war's end by July 1967. Instead, the conservative prediction for FY '67 was that the war would cost $20 billion, twice as much as the year before. published an article called "Death of a Slogan: The Great Society." The State of the Union address was its eulogy. The president quoted Lincoln: "We must ask 'where we are and whither we are tending.'" In Vietnam, "we face more cost, more loss, more agony." He proposed a 6 percent income and corporate tax surcharge because his proposed budget in 1966 had a.s.sumed the war's end by July 1967. Instead, the conservative prediction for FY '67 was that the war would cost $20 billion, twice as much as the year before.

When his closest aide, Bill Moyers, quit to become publisher of Newsday, Newsday, it fueled speculation that Johnson wouldn't be running for reelection. A former a.s.sociate, Bobby Baker, was convicted of a one-man white-collar-crime wave, after invoking LBJ's name four times during the trial. The Beltway gossip was over William Manchester's book on the Kennedy a.s.sa.s.sination, it fueled speculation that Johnson wouldn't be running for reelection. A former a.s.sociate, Bobby Baker, was convicted of a one-man white-collar-crime wave, after invoking LBJ's name four times during the trial. The Beltway gossip was over William Manchester's book on the Kennedy a.s.sa.s.sination, The Death of a President, The Death of a President, which would soon go on sale with a six-hundred-thousand-copy first printing and was already being excerpted in which would soon go on sale with a six-hundred-thousand-copy first printing and was already being excerpted in Look Look magazine. It portrayed LBJ as an embarra.s.sing hayseed, and made the "unconscious argument," Arthur Schlesinger said, that Johnson was responsible for the tragedy by dragging JFK to Texas to settle a political dispute he should have been able to settle himself. The cult of the Kennedys continued to haunt the president. "Until Robert Kennedy has made his presidential bid," pollster Sam Lubell predicted, "Kennedy-Johnson compet.i.tion will operate as a major polarizing force that will affect all politicking and every important piece of legislation that comes up." magazine. It portrayed LBJ as an embarra.s.sing hayseed, and made the "unconscious argument," Arthur Schlesinger said, that Johnson was responsible for the tragedy by dragging JFK to Texas to settle a political dispute he should have been able to settle himself. The cult of the Kennedys continued to haunt the president. "Until Robert Kennedy has made his presidential bid," pollster Sam Lubell predicted, "Kennedy-Johnson compet.i.tion will operate as a major polarizing force that will affect all politicking and every important piece of legislation that comes up."

On January 25, Richard Russell told Johnson the only way he could survive in Georgia, where people thought he was "kind of backing the Stokely Carmichaels and Martin Luther Kings," was to become a conservative. Johnson replied that he got it just as bad from the liberals. On the twenty-seventh, astronauts Gus Grissom, Ed White, and Roger Chaffee roasted to death on the launching pad at Cape Canaveral. Walter Lippmann moved to New York City and was asked by the press if in the dark days of LBJ Washington was no longer a desirable place to live. "I'm not leaving because of Lyndon Johnson," he replied. "We decided on this before Johnson went off the deep end."

Some held out hope for a Vietnam negotiated settlement. From time to time Johnson would halt the bombing as an expression of American "goodwill." But the United States' nonnegotiable condition was keeping the country divided. This made no sense to Hanoi, whose nonnegotiable condition was elections to unite the country, and that negotiating under a rain of bombs, no matter how imperiously "halted," was an insult to their sovereignty. On February 8, Lyndon Johnson appealed directly in a letter to Ho Chi Minh "to seek earnestly the path to peace." Ho's public response was that the way for America to end the war was to remove its 340,000 troops and its fleets of fire-dealing behemoths and "let the Vietnamese people settle themselves their own affairs." Cold War orthodoxy considered this insolence; the carnage continued unabated-in Vietnam and in Lyndon Johnson's soul. "I'll destroy you and every one of your dove friends in six months!" he raged at Senators William Fulbright and Frank Church. He raged, because he was the one being destroyed.

The Republican jockeying began. Richard Nixon, jujitsu-style, jockeyed by not jockeying.

The front-runner, everyone knew, was glamour boy George Romney. The Harris poll reported he had a better chance of winning the White House than any Republican since Dwight D. Eisenhower.

Romney, a Republican who kept on getting elected in a Democratic state (he called America's cult of rugged individualism "nothing but a political banner to cover up greed"), was a media darling. The Mormon bishop with what Jules Witcover joked was a "full head of silvering Presidential hair" made great copy: he didn't work on Sundays. He fasted before big decisions. His granddad had fled with three wives one step ahead of the polygamy laws. A new book of personal reminiscences of JFK had just come out. "The fellow I don't want to run against is Romney," it reported him saying. In May of 1966 Rockefeller took himself out of presidential contention "completely and forever, without reservation," and endorsed a Romney-Javits ticket.

But even then, an Achilles' heel was visible. "It is clear," Scotty Reston columnized in the summer of '66, "that he has not yet had the time to polish up his arguments, particularly about Vietnam."

Hangers-on urged Romney to run in the open to build his national following and prove his grasp of the issues. His statehouse aides cringed: they knew the last thing that would help their boss was to rehea.r.s.e in public. He was too d.a.m.ned forthright, forthright, too too earnest earnest-especially about Vietnam. He grappled with it honestly. Which would make what he said sound absurd, since everyone else was in denial or lying.

Romney announced a small tour of Western states. Nelson Rockefeller financed it with a $300,000 gift. An exploratory campaign office sprang up a few blocks from the state capitol; a reporter noticed a line of books on Vietnam on the unpainted bookshelves. Romney kicked off his six-state tour warning that he wouldn't say anything about Vietnam at all until he had a chance to study the situation more, perhaps after a second visit (his first had been in 1965, on a junket with other governors). But the longer he said nothing, the more the reporters pressured him to say something. something. He was being chased by no less than forty, each vying to see if Romney had what it took to play at this level of the game. In Anchorage, he uttered the apparently inoffensive observation that Republicans had a better chance of taking a fresh look at Vietnam because LBJ was "locked in." In Salt Lake City, he said the problem was LBJ's flip-flopping between escalation and negotiation offers. A salivating scribe pointed out the contradiction: was LBJ "locked in" or a flip-flopper? Romney issued a clarification that clarified nothing. (It was around that time Jack Germond of Gannett coined the joke about the special key he was having installed on his typewriter reading "Romney later clarified.") In Idaho, Romney fended off Vietnam questions for forty minutes. Then he mentioned Johnson's "political expedience...getting his country in trouble at home and abroad, including Vietnam." He had violated his moratorium not to talk about Vietnam, the vultures said, demanding a follow-up: would he give an example of LBJ's expedience? He was being chased by no less than forty, each vying to see if Romney had what it took to play at this level of the game. In Anchorage, he uttered the apparently inoffensive observation that Republicans had a better chance of taking a fresh look at Vietnam because LBJ was "locked in." In Salt Lake City, he said the problem was LBJ's flip-flopping between escalation and negotiation offers. A salivating scribe pointed out the contradiction: was LBJ "locked in" or a flip-flopper? Romney issued a clarification that clarified nothing. (It was around that time Jack Germond of Gannett coined the joke about the special key he was having installed on his typewriter reading "Romney later clarified.") In Idaho, Romney fended off Vietnam questions for forty minutes. Then he mentioned Johnson's "political expedience...getting his country in trouble at home and abroad, including Vietnam." He had violated his moratorium not to talk about Vietnam, the vultures said, demanding a follow-up: would he give an example of LBJ's expedience?

"No, I will not."

"Why not?"