Death of American Virtue - Ken Gormley [84]
Years later, having relocated his law office to an apartment building on a side street in Little Rock, Traylor expressed everlasting sorrow that the Jones case had not been nipped in the bud before it wreaked havoc. Seated at his oak desk with big band music playing in the background and a breeze blowing in from a propped-open door, he said, “Once this genie got out of the bottle, there was no putting it back in.”
Traylor knew that the case was a “tough” one to win, especially because it would be difficult to prove damages. At the same time, he could see danger lights blinking for the White House. “I wish that I had been more forceful in trying to describe to that camp up there that this is a bad business, bad juju on this one,” Traylor said, his voice tight from too many cups of coffee. “That this is a case, number one. And, number two, it needs to settle. But in the end, it turned into a billion-dollar industry, with lawyers and talk shows.”
Traylor rocked back in his chair, coffee mug in hand, reflecting on his own role in the events that followed: “I’m sorry that he [Clinton] was apparently distracted by all of this mess. And that he incurred these huge legal fees and damaged his family life, and put the country through all of this. It’s bad, bad business.”
With a sigh of resignation he concluded: “I didn’t do it. But I probably ought to share some responsibility for it, I guess.”
THE immediate consequence of the White House’s refusal to do business with Danny Traylor was that Paula and Steve Jones got even more ticked off. They were bumping up against a three-year statute of limitations for filing a lawsuit. To further complicate matters, it became evident that Steve Jones loathed Bill Clinton for a hundred reasons, some rational, some not, making Traylor’s job even more difficult.
Paula Jones kept calling her lawyer from California and complaining, “We have done what you suggested, Traylor, which is to try to evoke an apology from these people that had done me dirty. Now what are we going to do?” Like any good lawyer, Traylor finally responded, “Let’s try something else.”
What Traylor did was to call Cliff Jackson, the aforementioned archenemy of Bill Clinton’s. Traylor had read in the papers that Jackson was representing the troopers who had blown the whistle on Clinton’s alleged marital infidelities, so he figured it was worth a shot.
Years later, having settled into a rustic law office alongside a lake in Hot Springs, a collection of Cato Indian arrowheads (once belonging to his father) adorning the wall, Clifford Jackson expressed no regret about having waded into the Clinton fray. The gangling lawyer, whose smile unveiled an unusually large set of teeth, had come to believe it was his destiny. Draping a long arm across the couch, Jackson reflected on his unusual relationship with Bill Clinton, starting with the days they had played basketball together while at Oxford. “He and I are diametrically opposite personality types,” Jackson said. “I say what I mean. I mean what I say. Bill Clinton never says what he means. He never means what he says. Or alternatively, he may mean what he says at the moment, but he won’t mean it tomorrow, or the next moment. It is hard to trust people who are like that.”
So fierce was Jackson’s dislike for his former friend Bill Clinton that he and Sheffield Nelson had formed the Alliance for Re-Birth of the Independent America (ARIA) to warn the entire nation about Clinton. This group had gone to work the day Clinton announced his candidacy for presidency, running a full-page ad in the Arkansas Democrat and then taking its message to a national audience, using the catchy phrase “Please Governor Clinton, don’t do to America what you’ve done [to] Arkansas.”
After the Clintons moved into the White House, Jackson had written several vitriolic letters to both Bill and Hillary. In one, he implored the president to change his