And the Good News Is... Page 10
I handled some of the major cases at the time, including the government’s suits against major U.S. businesses, coal-fired power plants, cities out of compliance with the Clean Water Act, and companies that were accused of violating the Endangered Species Act. My favorite case was a Russian immigrant who got busted by an undercover Fish and Wildlife Service agent trying to pass off the roe of endangered Mississippi Mud Fish as Black Sea caviar. That crook did some time, and I worked on a story that landed on the front page of The New York Times’s Dining Out section. That’s PR gold.
Working on environmental issues is how I came to know Jim Connaugton, the appointee running the White House Council on Environmental Quality (CEQ), an office of the White House that was set up by President Nixon to coordinate environmental, energy, and conservation policies across all of the federal agencies. Trust me—in times of terror threat and war, the last place a Republican staffer wants to work is on the environmental issues. It wasn’t the main attraction, but I learned early on to take the jobs that no one else wants, in a place where you can shine. If you take the toughest and least glamorous assignments and don’t totally screw them up, you’re going to stand out as competent and reliable.
That’s how I ended up going from the Justice Department to the White House. Moving over to be the director of communications for the CEQ was a step up for me and it linked me even closer to the White House press office. CEQ had offices across from the White House on Jackson Place, a row of old town homes that line Lafayette Square. I felt energized—I had a lot to learn and a lot more responsibility.
I hooked up with the White House communications team right away and was invited to the morning meeting where the agenda for the day was set and any questions were put forth to the group and its head, Dan Bartlett. I tried to be helpful but didn’t seek the limelight. I knew that the environment division needed to be managed and that the best way for me to help was to take those press calls off their plates and to alert them when I thought a media ambush was coming their way. I had known Ari Fleischer, the press secretary, from our days on the Hill (though he doesn’t remember ever knowing me then!), and I got to know Scott McClellan, his deputy assigned to energy issues and who later became the White House press secretary when Ari left the role. I became a go-to person for Scott, because I was ready and able to handle all of the press calls about the environment—and believe me, there were plenty of them. The Bush White House was constantly under attack by environmentalists determined to extract blood from the administration, and they ignored many of the good policies he advanced on wildlife, wetlands, air pollution, and oceans.
I learned early on that working in the White House can cause severe head swelling and that the only cure is a dose of humility. My mom gave me that after my first week at CEQ when she called on Friday night and asked how I was doing. In one breath I told her all about what I had been assigned, how I saw President Bush get off Marine One on the South Lawn, and the call I got from Karl Rove about a Presidential statement I was drafting. I told her how Karl was so nice and approachable and how he really improved my document and on and on. When I finally stopped talking, my mom asked, “Who the hell is Karl Rove?” (Eventually, I became Karl’s spokesperson, and he loves that story, too.)
I was at CEQ for over two years, including during the 2004 election. My mom worried about what would happen if President Bush lost to Senator John Kerry. I told her that we’d all have to find new jobs. She called back a few days later, now more worried about my employment future.
“Maybe John Kerry would want to keep you?” she asked, hoping I’d put her mind at ease.
I laughed. “No, Mom, it doesn’t work that way,” I said.
I wasn’t worried about finding a new job if it came to that. I’d gained so much experience working at the White House level, and Peter and I were really happy in D.C. By that point, I had enough money saved to get by for a few months if it took that long to find a job. The only thing I worried about was the election, and there wasn’t much I could do about that. Thankfully, the President won and we looked forward to a second term. I just had that itch again—I’d outgrown the job at CEQ.
It turned out I didn’t have to wait too long for a new opportunity. I didn’t want to stay at CEQ for another four years, so I interviewed for a new role at the Treasury Department for the upcoming Social Security reform effort. But on the day I was going to accept that job, I got an offer that changed my plans.
The White House press secretary, Scott McClellan, asked me to stay in his office after the morning meeting. I immediately thought I might be in trouble. I didn’t expect him to ask if I would be interested in the deputy press secretary job. Um, yes please! The deputy press secretary position was my dream job—it meant getting to contribute in a more meaningful way, taking on much more responsibility and additional issues, and being able to help across the policy front, not just on the environment. I would be working with the national press corps and supporting the press secretary so that he would have all he needed to be successful at the briefings. I’d get to know the President more as one of two deputies who alternated working holidays and weekends (this is worth it—I always recommend that young people take the deputy job—no matter what industry or organization. Being the second in command is where you learn how to be the leader, and it’s when you establish a good relationship with the boss).
I was so excited for that opportunity. I thought it was the only job I’d ever really want. Scott called Treasury and told them about my change of plans. Two weeks later, on Inauguration Day of the President’s second term, I started work in the White House press office. I would be there until the President’s last day, but I’d have a different role by then.
CHAPTER 3
Stepping Up to the Podium
Scratch That
The day I learned about becoming the next White House press secretary was the day I planned to resign from the White House.
It was the summer of 2007; I had been the deputy press secretary for two-and-a-half years and with the Bush Administration since right after 9/11. I’d gotten up every weekday just after 4 a.m. and worked until I passed out around 10 p.m. On weekends I went to bed earlier than most children. Often I’d wake up in the middle of the night and could not fall back asleep.
I was consumed by work, but not unhappily so. I knew the hours, pace, and pressure were taking a toll on my well-being and my marriage, yet I thought I could handle them. My husband was tired, too, though he rarely complained—it’s just one of those things that a wife can sense. To avoid disgruntled looks and arguments from Peter, I started making excuses to run upstairs so I could check my e-mails in secret. I was the fastest BlackBerry typist in the Western World, especially when I was hiding.
Around that time, the White House chief of staff, Josh Bolten, suggested that if any of us felt that we couldn’t make it to the end of the administration, then we should think about moving on because the President intended to “sprint to the finish” and he needed a strong and energized team around him. By leaving early, the White House could replace us with people fresh off the bench.
I was very torn. My loyalty and dedication to the President and the country grew daily, no matter how battered we got in the press. The more hits he took, the more strongly I felt about being there to defend him and his decisions. Professionally, I was still enjoying the job and felt challenged (that’s an understatement). I was learning more with every news cycle, and I never felt like I knew enough. I used to volunteer to be the press office representative at all of the policy meetings, no matter how obscure, so that I could listen and learn.
On the occasional slow news day, I’d invite one of the policy managers to lunch to pick their brain. Once in a while I asked career civil servants to come over to the White House and give me a more in-depth look at a major geopolitical hotspot. When the State Department’s expert on Pakistan walked me through a brief history of the country and the various challenges we faced there, I summed up w
hat I’d heard, “So we’re totally screwed?” She agreed with my assessment.
Another reason I was reluctant to leave my White House job was the bond with my team. After all of the time we spent together, we could read each other’s minds and finish each other’s jokes. I knew that kind of teamwork was a once-in-a-lifetime experience (and it took many of us a long time to realize it could never be replicated).
Out of pride, I didn’t want to admit that I was tired, that I might not physically be able to make it. And I couldn’t imagine how I’d say good-bye to the President.
I talked to Peter about it a lot. I stayed up at night fantasizing about my choices. Being able to browse at Target became more attractive as the e-mails from reporters came in asking about everything under the sun.
I asked Peter to walk me through our financial situation, and he said we could make it just fine for a few months with me not working. There was a little financial pressure, but nothing we couldn’t manage by tightening our belts.
Then in August 2007, with all of this on my mind, we took a short vacation to Oregon. Peter was in an overnight relay race through the mountains—Hood to Coast. I joined up with Susan Whitson, a former colleague at the Justice Department and the White House, while Peter and Susan’s husband, Keir, ran the race. We spent some girl time together, even going for manicures and pedicures.
Susan had recently left the White House, where she had been Mrs. Bush’s press secretary. She got married during the administration and then wanted to start a family. When she announced her resignation from the East Wing, the press asked her why she was leaving and she said, “BlackBerrys don’t make babies.” Not long after that, she and Keir moved full-time to Washington, Virginia, near the Shenandoah Valley, and now they have two children.
Over that long weekend in the Northwest, I envied Susan’s serenity and her easy laugh. I noticed she didn’t have the permanent scowl that marred the space between my eyebrows. I went over the pros and cons of staying at the White House, and she listened but didn’t have an answer—she knew it was a tough decision both personally and career-wise.
That night I decided to try a trick that had worked for me when I couldn’t make up my mind about moving to Washington originally—slipping my indecision into the gap between wakefulness and sleep to help settle on a solution. The next morning, after the runners crossed the finish line and were playing touch football on the beach after the race, I looked at Peter and said, “It’s time.” I told him I’d decided to leave the White House. He asked me if I was sure, looking at me sideways as if he didn’t quite believe me. I said I was. His fist pumped the air and he yelled, “Yes!” Hugging me close, Peter made an announcement, “Hey, everyone, I’m going to get my wife back!” They cheered and slapped him on the back. (As some of these onlookers were strangers, I’m not sure what they thought he meant.)
We flew back to Washington on Labor Day. We held hands on the flight and talked about all the things we wanted to do when I wasn’t working all the time. I decided I’d sleep until 6 a.m. (instead of 4:15 a.m.) and make breakfast twice a week. We’d walk Henry together in the mornings and read the entire paper—even the Style section. We’d visit his family in the U.K. and then take a road trip to the ranch in Wyoming. We had big plans to do small things.
With every mile closer to D.C., I became more comfortable with my decision and was gathering my courage to break the news. My stomach fluttered when I thought about telling my press office team about the news. I felt that in a way I was letting them down, but I knew they’d understand. I set aside all thoughts about telling the President. I figured the best approach was to rip off the Band-Aid; it would only hurt for a second.
The next morning started as any other—a senior staff meeting at 7:30 a.m. in the Roosevelt Room across from the Oval Office followed by the communications meeting in Ed Gillespie’s office upstairs in the West Wing. I pulled Ed aside before senior staff and asked if I could see him after his meeting. He said yes because he needed to talk to me, too, but I didn’t know what it was about. I’d made the first step toward telling them I was resigning. There was no going back. Or so I thought.
At the communications meeting, staff filed out and Ed said, “Dana, can you stay for a minute?” signaling to others we needed to be left alone. Ed’s a happy Irish-American guy, and even the way he says his name on his voicemail message cracks me up. But he didn’t look like he was in a joking mood.
I stayed seated in the chair across from his desk. As the door shut behind the last person to leave the room, I took a deep breath and started to speak when he stopped me and said, “Mind if I go first?”
“Sure,” I said and sat back in my seat, afraid I’d chicken out.
“We would like to name you as the press secretary by next week,” Ed said.
“You what?” I was stunned. The blood drained out of my body and a mix of dread and delight ran from my heart to my toes. I thought of Peter’s joy on the Oregon beach—he wasn’t going to believe this. Our plans just went poof. I’d mentally checked out and in my head was already making breakfast and taking the dog out. In an instant I had to summon back all of my work energy.
Ed had knocked me on my heels and I stammered in a rare moment of speechlessness. It was an overwhelming honor, and I realized the significance of crossing the threshold from deputy to press secretary (I’d been a bridesmaid for so long). I believed that after all of those years I was finally up to the task. I’d have an even bigger role in influencing White House communications, and I had ideas on how to improve some practices in the briefing room. Plus, I’d be only the second woman to serve as the press secretary (and the first Republican woman). Immediately, I knew that by accepting the opportunity, my future career prospects would change dramatically.
The moment was bittersweet, however. As Ed explained, Tony Snow was going to be leaving the White House to focus on his health and take care of his family. Tony had been a trouper at the briefings during his colon cancer treatment, which had started in 2005, a year before he came to the White House. He was diligent about following doctor’s orders, and from where I sat watching him every day, I thought he was doing well enough in 2007 that he was going to stay as the press secretary until the end of the administration. But to keep healthy, Tony needed to reduce the pace and pressure of his job and he wanted to spend more time with his wife, Jill, and their three kids. And who could blame him?
Tony Snow
It’s time I told you about Tony Snow. So many people remember him fondly, and for good reason. Tony was one of a kind, a man of great character and wit. He might have had the smallest ego of anyone in Washington. Whereas most people in D.C. decorated their office with photographs of themselves with “Very Important People,” Tony had three 8-by-10 photographs of his kids in frames on his desk, which left little room for paperwork. He kept a messy desk, but it was part of his charm.
When Jill turned fifty, he wanted to give her fifty presents to open. The press office pitched in to get the gifts—her favorite candy, tickets to a play, a new CD. He threw a party for her at their home and they pushed the furniture against the walls and “danced like teenagers until three in the morning.”
Tony never missed his kids’ events at school, and he didn’t apologize for it. He trusted me to run the press office while he was away, and he didn’t worry if he missed a meeting. In the afternoons, we’d book him on lots of talk radio and cable news programs and he sparred with the hosts and represented the President’s position beautifully. While he sounded great, he had a terrible tie collection, which he kept on the back of his door. On several occasions I made him change before going in front of the cameras.
At home, Jill and Tony shared their love for each other with several rescue animals, including a dog that once decided to chew through his White House–issued BlackBerry. Tony could seem scatterbrained, including once losing another government smartphone, which turned up a month later in his winter boots—even though it was July.
Because of his chemotherapy treatment, Tony needed to keep his weight up, so he ordered a lot of food from the White House Mess. His favorite breakfast was three pancakes with sausages stuffed in the middle with maple syrup smothered over the top and dripping on his desk. He drank three large vanilla lattes a day. At lunch he’d eat whatever the special was—in particular he liked Tuesday’s pecan-crusted chicken salad. Despite all of those calories, he didn’t gain weight.
Tony studied philosophy and math in college, not journalism. His passion for debating served him well in his jobs before he was the White House press secretary—daily editorial writer, Presidential speechwriter for George H. W. Bush, talk radio host, and Sunday show anchor. He worked at Fox News for years and remains a legend. And you know who liked Tony the most? The crew guys and gals—and that’s how you really know that he was as good a person as everyone thought.
On his last day at the White House we took a press office group picture, and looking back, I’m shocked to see how thin he’d become. His hair had been salt-and-pepper when he started, but just a little over a year later it was starkly white. He was affectionate and emotional saying good-bye to us. Everyone at the White House lined up outside to cheer him on and wish him well as he drove away, and he cried openly. As did many of us.
Less than a year later, Tony collapsed while traveling to a speaking event in Spokane, Washington. He spent the next several weeks in the hospital. Jill told me that he’d watch the press briefings from his bed and get so frustrated with the reporters’ questions that he’d throw his plastic cup on the floor and raise his fists at them in solidarity with me. He could always spot media bias when it cropped up, but it didn’t make him bitter, and I tried to adopt his attitude. It was the best way to approach the job and to keep from getting depressed or mean.