Death of American Virtue - Ken Gormley [425]
Dove fully understood the nature of the commotion. Most in the room assumed that during these unnatural impeachment proceedings, members of the Senate “are not supposed to speak. They’re supposed to be sitting there absolutely quietly.” Now, the fact that a senator was daring to open his mouth—a Democrat, no less—created an “audible buzz” in the chamber. Some Republicans whispered, “Senator Harkin is getting around the rules that require senators to be silent!” If Harkin was going to talk, there were plenty of others who had something to say—a hundred senators were penned up like animals; soon they would all begin to stand up and pose objections, launching into speeches, and this trial “was going to spin out of control.”
Republican Senator Judd Gregg of New Hampshire raised a parliamentary point of order: Was it appropriate for any member of the Senate to speak during the impeachment trial? Even under the guise of a motion? The chief justice peered downward, through his large aviator glasses.
Harkin repeated his original objection even more loudly, as if to rub the Republicans’ noses in it. Chief Justice Rehnquist squared his shoulders. This was his first test. He now issued his ruling: “The Chair is of the view that the objection of the Senator from Iowa is well taken, that the Senate is not simply a jury; it is a court in this case. Therefore, counsel should refrain from referring to the Senators as jurors.”
The Republicans were stunned. It was a resounding victory for the Democrats, even though it was only a tiny procedural point. It made clear that they would not be stifled or bullied by the House managers. More significantly, it underscored that the chief was not going to throw the ballgame for the home team, even though he was a philosophical soulmate of the conservative Republicans.
“There were questions, initially, whether Rehnquist would be fair in presiding over this trial,” acknowledged the chief’s administrative assistant, Jim Duff. “I think this made absolutely clear he would be [neutral].” For Duff, this came as no surprise. Politicians tended to see every issue in terms of whether it favored the “D’s” or “R’s.” A disciplined jurist like Rehnquist saw only a legal question on which he had to rule fairly. Said Duff, “I’m certain it didn’t enter his mind whether [Harkin] was a Democrat or a Republican.”
William Hubbs Rehnquist, seated in his presiding chair, hardly looked like an American hero. With his nearly bald pate, his penchant for brusquely interrupting lawyers who appeared in his courtroom, the bland Milwaukee accent, and his oversized plastic-rimmed glasses, Rehnquist looked more like a grumpy Midwesterner. The son of a paper salesman from Wisconsin, he had established a reputation as a smart but ultraconservative government lawyer when President Nixon appointed him to the Court in 1971. Nixon had admonished the new associate justice: “Just be as mean and rough as they said you were.” Indeed, Rehnquist was known as “the Lone Ranger” on the Court, for his willingness to take tough conservative positions even when he was the lone dissenter.
Yet as chief, Rehnquist had steadily turned himself into a consensus builder. Among his colleagues, he was respected as an able administrator. Among his clerks, the chief was admired as a good boss with a dry wit. Rehnquist was known to sit in his office with his feet on his desk, working tirelessly and sneaking an occasional snack of Oreo cookies and milk—one of his weaknesses in life. He also disappeared once or twice a day (especially after a good cheeseburger lunch) to catch a cigarette, a minor vice that he kept hidden from public view, but that kept him marching forward.
President Bill Clinton, from the moment Rehnquist took his seat in the Senate to preside over his impeachment trial,