Death of American Virtue - Ken Gormley [419]
The White House team compared notes and concluded that the ordinarily reasonable Hyde had somehow gone over to the dark side. Said one White House observer, “It was almost like someone had stolen Henry Hyde’s body or his brain.”
On December 30, Chairman Hyde sent a blistering letter to his good friend Senator Lott, chastising him for betraying his House colleagues by telling reporters that there was no need for live witnesses at the trial. Lott immediately phoned Hyde and defended himself—he had served in the House for sixteen years; he was “one of them.” Moreover, as a God-fearing Christian, Lott made clear that he was “just absolutely horrified that the president had fallen into this in the Oval Office.” Yet he told Hyde bluntly, “I just did not want the United States Senate to become the scene of a loaded sex trial.”
Hyde implored the conservative Senate leader to be flexible. If he and his fellow managers were permitted to put on their full complement of evidence, Hyde said, he believed the odds were high that “we would convict [Clinton].” Even if his team of managers fell short, “Boy, I thought we’d come close.”
ON January 7, 1999, at 10:00 A.M., Chairman Hyde led his twelve House managers from the south wing of the Capitol to the north, moving through the marble halls with brisk footsteps. One reporter noted: “The walk looked like a funeral procession: everyone glum, walking slowly. The House members were all in dark suits. Even their aides were in dark clothes.” As cameras flashed and video cameras recorded the historic scene, Chairman Hyde arrived in the well of the Senate and stated solemnly: “With the permission of the Senate, I will now read the articles of impeachment.” Web sites streamed live video of the proceedings, the first time any such historic congressional event had been broadcast live on the Internet.
Two hours later, Chief Justice William H. Rehnquist exited a black limousine at a secure entrance on the Senate side of the Capitol. Escorted by three Democratic and three Republican senators, the chief made his way down the center aisle of the chamber. Majority Leader Lott would forever remember being struck by “the seriousness of it, the historical nature of it, the constitutional aspects of [this moment].” Minority Leader Daschle would recall being jolted by the realization that for better or worse, they were “about to embark on one of the most momentous occasions in Senate history.”
Ninety-six-year-old Senator Strom Thurmond of South Carolina, wearing a red paisley tie to match his slicked-back orangish hair, stooped over to read the oath to Chief Justice Rehnquist. The tall, bald-headed chief wore a distinctive black robe bearing four gold braid stripes across each sleeve. He nodded his head impassively. Even as Rehnquist was sworn in, media commentators were engaging in wild speculation that the previously unseen gold stripes on the chief’s robe might amount to some secret message, in code, concerning his true feelings about President Clinton’s impeachment. Justice Sandra Day O’Connor, a former law school classmate of Rehnquist’s and his closest friend on the Court, “had a big laugh” over this chatter as she watched the televised proceedings in her chambers. She knew the truth: The chief had seen the Gilbert and Sullivan operetta Iolanthe, in which the lord chancellor, who wore a robe with glittering gold stripes, was granted magical powers to settle a dispute among a colony of fairies