His was a uniquely American story-born and raised on a farm miles and miles from his closest neighbor, schooled at home, college educated later in life, entirely self-made in both the worlds of commerce and government.
His entrance to politics was unconventional, to say the least. A few months before the Iowa governor's race six years ago, a group of business leaders and citizen activists, dissatisfied with the lackluster candidates for the two major parties, got together and launched a massive draft-Hutchins movement for a third-party write-in campaign. Hutchins reluctantly accepted. Standing onstage with his two opponents at a series of debates, he had them so outwitted and outsmarted that the race seemed almost unfair. He won with 45 percent of the vote, fifteen points ahead of his closest competitor.
Hutchins came in with a refreshing ability to speak the truth and the simple promise that he would run the government like a business and demand nothing but the best service at the lowest cost possible. He balanced the state's budget. He fired a string of high-level managers who had long been suspected of corruption. He spoke his mind, spoke it often, and spoke it well. Even 60 Minutes, the bane of politicians countrywide, aired a glowing profile of Hutchins, calling him 'one of the last great moderate politicians in America.'
Two years later, the Republican front-runner for the presidency, Senator Wordsworth Cole, for reasons he didn't understand, found himself suddenly getting battered in Iowa public opinion polls about a week before the caucus. Experts said it was bad organization and a stale message. Most Iowans were more pointed in their beliefs. They just seemed to think he was out of touch. So Hutchins unleashed the full glory of his power to help Cole win, and win he did, by a huge margin-a victory that analysts described as the watershed event in the campaign. From there, with momentum, he steamrolled into New Hampshire, and then across the country and all the way to the Republican nomination. Privately, at the August Republican Convention in Miami, he promised to give Hutchins any cabinet post he desired as a reward for his crucial work.
Flash ahead to three weeks before the November election. The New York Times published a report that Cole's vice presidential running mate, Senator Steven Sugara of Wyoming, had been addicted to the prescription drug Prozac two years earlier, but had never disclosed the fact to Cole or, for that matter, to Wyoming voters. In a neck-and-neck race, the Cole campaign immediately went into a tailspin. But Hutchins met up with Cole on the campaign trail, counseled him that voters cast ballots for president, not vice president, and told him to publicly stand behind his nominee. He did, and staggered to a slim victory, but a victory nonetheless. They don't partially furnish the Oval Office or limit your miles on Air Force One because you only won by 2 percent. A week later, Sugara resigned. Hutchins was picked as vice president, and he continued like that for three and a half years.
He was a good understudy, a major fund-raising asset, a loyal and confidential adviser. At first, my brethren in the news media thought his personality might not fit the required role. Hutchins harked from the no-bullshit world of high-technology business, a place where risk led to the ultimate rewards and prudence was the hallmark of those left behind. He was offensive in almost every possible way, but not in the worst sense of the word. He was blunt. His voice was hard, as if it had been pounded by rocks. He was built like a fireplug, at five feet, ten inches, I'd guess, with a barrel chest and broad shoulders. His face was rough, his hair thinning, and he was anything but handsome, yet when he met with contributors or businessmen or even aides, he spawned many imitators, those who wanted to be like him, to dress like him, to talk as he did in words and tone. He was someone who seemed never to expect anything other than wild success, but when he achieved it, he gave the impression it would never change him.
As vice president, he was strong, but he knew his place. That meant he was fully aware he had not been elected. He knew his role was virtually meaningless compared to the president's. He accorded the president the same kind of reverent respect he expected from those under him when he worked in business. He understood that his most important function at its most fundamental level was simply to be there, to be ready, if the president should die. And that had happened this past August, one week before the Republican Convention.
President Cole dropped dead of a massive heart attack on the private tennis court tucked into the bushes on the South Lawn of the White House. It was a stunningly beautiful summer day. He had just put the finishing touches to his acceptance speech and was planning to take a week off with his family at their getaway house on Sea Island, Georgia.
He stole out back for a tune-up game with a mid-level aide. Witnesses said he had just broken service and was poised to win the first set when he crumpled to the ground. By the time the Secret Service agents got to him, which was in seconds, he was already dead. By nightfall, Clayton Hutchins had taken the oath of office on the porch of the vice president's mansion on the grounds of the Naval Observatory. Like Jerry Ford, he became president without ever winning a single vote on a national ticket.
At a time of almost indescribable distress within the Republican Party and sorrow across the entire nation, Hutchins again proved to be a reassuring force. He accepted the nomination of his party by acclamation at a subdued convention in Chicago. He vowed to continue on the path blazed by Cole, a man he said he loved. He nominated Theodore Rockingham, a grandfatherly, even statesmanlike veteran of past Republican administrations, as his vice president. Throughout the autumn campaign, he remained silent as his Democratic opponent, the respected senator from Colorado, Stanny Nichols, got pelted by accusations over some decade-old income tax issues back home. It was still a tight race, but Hutchins was watching his poll numbers climb in the wake of the attempt on his life. As I sat in the Oval Office on this day, two months into Hutchins's presidency, victory in the election had become more realistic than at any other point in the campaign-realistic enough that Hutchins had just started thinking what he might do once he achieved it.
Back in August, one of the first things he did after taking the oath was place a call to Powers's sprawling cattle ranch, to plead with the elegant Texan to return to the White House for one last tour of duty on behalf of party and country. Powers was perhaps the most experienced, most respected political adviser in America, a confidant to Republican presidents for three decades, a former secretary of state who had blazed around the world on missions of war and peace. He knew Washington and he knew power, and he knew how to handle the latter within the curious circus of the former, and for that, I suspect, he had been an invaluable part of Hutchins's smooth transition. They were an odd pair, these two, a consummate government outsider and the ultimate creature of the capital, a virgin and a pimp, if you will.
'Sorry to cut in on you here,' Powers said to me, as the president pulled a thick Waterman writing instrument off a side table and penned a note in the margin of the memorandum. As Powers took the papers back and walked from the room, a telephone console tucked on a shelf beneath the side table gave a soft, melodic ring. I looked down in surprise, having not seen anything there, and wondering who it is that calls the president. I answered my own question, watching a red light blink along a column that had various agencies listed: CIA, State, Chief of Staff, Treasury. The light illuminated beside the FBI.
'Yes,' Hutchins said, sounding annoyed as he answered the phone. There was a pause as he listened, then he seemed to cut the caller off, saying, 'Look, I appreciate this, but I've got several things going on right now, like a presidential campaign. I will call you later when I have time for a full briefing.' He hung up without saying goodbye, then turned to me. 'I get a little flesh wound in the shoulder, and everyone acts like I have to drop everything in the name of a national catastrophe. Life goes on, except, I guess, for that poor bastard who took the poke at me.'
That would have been as good a time as any to cut in with a nicely placed segue, something original like 'Speaking of the poor bastard.
Any idea who the hell he is?' But I didn't feel comfortable enough yet, not with the president, and especially not here in the Oval Office, which was about as intimidating a place as I'd ever been in. I wondered if the word fuck had ever been uttered within these pristine confines, then remembered Nixon and assumed it had.
'So, where are you in terms of our discussion Thursday?' Hutchins asked, cutting hard to the point.
My eyes drifted around the room for a minute. All this time to come up with a pat answer, and I didn't actually have one. I looked out the French doors, into the Rose Garden, where the last of the season's hardiest flowers fluttered in the autumn breeze. I looked down to the circular drive, then beyond to the South Lawn, and imagined being here early on a Thursday evening, stepping onto the patio and walking across the grass to Marine One, giving a quick wave goodbye to the gathered staff, and lifting off for Camp David for a weekend of blissful seclusion, maybe a few holes of golf. Finally I looked at Hutchins, and from my sense of it, not a moment too soon, because he seemed to be getting aggravated with me. Searching for an answer, I punted. I decided to offer the truth.
