In 1993 I was introduced to President Bill Clinton. I was told he needed my assistance on a matter of national security. What could he need from a Democratic operative such as myself? With Democrats in control of the White House and Congress, our mission was accomplished, right?
Visiting Clinton in the Oval Office was like meeting Scarface. A huge mound of cocaine was poured out on his desk. He did a few lines off an “assistant’s” (hooker’s) breasts, then offered me some (coke, not hooker breasts). I politely refused.
After the usual niceties, Clinton told me his friend, “Vance Fender,” had become “a liability” for him, and he wanted me to “remove the problem.” He had heard I was good at that sort of thing.
Clinton went on to explain that he wanted me to make Fender’s demise appear like a suicide. I was stunned; I was being asked to kill a fellow Democrat.
In the years since Emily I had on occasion had to terminate, with extreme prejudice, a subject. But the target was always a Republicant.
I refused the job.
Clinton was polite at first, but his demeanor changed with frightening velocity. One minute he was all smiles, the next he pulled a .44 from his desk drawer and pressed it to my temple. He insisted I take the job, and added that I would be well compensated for my efforts.
What choice did I have? I accepted. At least what they say is true – it gets easier after the first kill.
Clinton’s demeanor changed quickly again. He withdrew the “Hillanator,” as he called his .44, and put it away.
“I knew you’d see it my way,” he said without irony, then he bit his bottom lip and shook his closed fist at me, thumb knuckle facing upward. It was not a hostile gesture, but his way of saying, “Attaboy.”On my way out the door Clinton told me that if things came off the way they were supposed to, this could be my last mission as a Democratic operative. After more than a dozen years, I would be out for good. But with the ’94 turnover of Congress, I got dragged right back in.