Death of American Virtue - Ken Gormley [422]
Lott was facing enormous problems on the Republican side. He and other senior members were being buffeted by “cross-currents” driven by a recent sea change in Senate membership. There existed one of the highest percentages ever of former House members in the upper chamber. Lott was now confronted with a potential rebellion by twenty-two conservative senators led by Nickles and Santorum, who believed that Lott was selling their party downriver and being too “accommodationist.” The “House-ification” of the Senate by many senators philosophically aligned with the thirteen House managers, White House advisers observed, was making it difficult for Senate leadership to implement the Gramm-Kennedy plan, even if they knew what it was.
On the Democratic side, too, many senators were still “keeping their own counsel,” worried whether they could afford to stand by this seriously damaged commander in chief once the trial moved forward.
AT noon on Thursday, January 14, a clutch of spectators huddled together at the east entrance of the Capitol, moving forward under dark umbrellas, hoping to catch a glimpse of the second presidential impeachment trial in American history. A chilly drizzle fell over the public line; a thin fog hung over the Capitol’s dome, resembling the backdrop of a state funeral procession.
In the Senate gallery, busts of the first twenty vice presidents, each of whom had once presided over this body, seemed to keep watch over the solemn chamber. An ancient marble clock ticked off each minute. The thirteen House managers, led by Chairman Henry Hyde, crammed together at a long table, facing each other, the victims of lack of space. White House lawyers entered from the opposite side of the well. They were led by Chuck Ruff, who deftly maneuvered in his wheelchair, and presidential lawyer David Kendall.
Just minutes before the trial was scheduled to begin, Chief Justice William H. Rehnquist had summoned the White House lawyers and the House managers to the President’s Room, an ornately decorated nook off the Senate chamber. Here, the ghosts of presidents Abraham Lincoln, Woodrow Wilson, and other chief executives glided across the floor, marking the spot where these historic figures had once appeared to sign bills on the last day of Congress’s sessions. Rehnquist stood tall in his judicial robe, as the opposing forces milled around him with apprehension. Finally, the chief cleared his throat and stated: “I can’t assign you your seats because that is done by precedent.” This was a joke: The White House lawyers had ended up on the Republican side of the aisle, while the House managers were on the hostile Democratic side. Rehnquist made a few more faint attempts at humor, then concluded his brief speech by admonishing, “Well, fight fair!” With that, the chief turned around, buttoned up his robe, and walked toward the door. Kendall whispered to Rehnquist’s administrative assistant, “Is that it?” The chief’s assistant replied, “Apparently.”
Seated in the gallery, members of Congress and special guests clutched their yellow tickets, which had been printed according to the parliamentarian’s “Procedures and Guidelines” that spelled out the protocol based upon President Johnson’s impeachment trial in 1868. Capitol guards scoured the crowd for spectators who might be attempting to use a pen (writing instruments were strictly prohibited) or trying to sneak a mint (food was banned). In the press gallery, journalists hung over the marble railing, absorbing the historic scene with a mixed sense of awe and agnosticism.
As the chief justice entered from a side door, at precisely 1:05 P.M., senators scurried to their seats. The hall was packed. The Senate