Game Change_ Obama And The Clintons, McCain And Palin, And The Race Of A Lifetime Part 3

In Chicago, Jarrett threw Obama a book party at the home of her parents. It was pouring rain, and despite a tent in the backyard and umbrella-toting underlings, many of the attendees got soaked, their shoes ruined by the mud. Jarrett introduced Obama and spoke about Audacity's Audacity's final chapter, in which he wrote about the stress that the demands of his career put on his marriage, the disruptions to his family life. As Jarrett went on, talking about the sacrifices his wife and girls were making, she saw that Obama was crying-to the point where he couldn't manage to speak when it came his turn. Mich.e.l.le walked over, put her arm around him, and began to cry as well. final chapter, in which he wrote about the stress that the demands of his career put on his marriage, the disruptions to his family life. As Jarrett went on, talking about the sacrifices his wife and girls were making, she saw that Obama was crying-to the point where he couldn't manage to speak when it came his turn. Mich.e.l.le walked over, put her arm around him, and began to cry as well.

Even Obama's closest friends had never seen him choke up in public before. He's not emoting about the past He's not emoting about the past, Jarrett thought. He's emoting about the future. About the fact that the sacrifices he's imposed on his family are only just beginning. He's emoting about the future. About the fact that the sacrifices he's imposed on his family are only just beginning.

On October 22, Obama returned to Tim Russert's set for another appearance on Meet the Press. Meet the Press. The day before, he'd ridden down from Philadelphia in a limousine with Axelrod and Gibbs. Axelrod warned Obama that Russert would surely revisit his unequivocal reaffirmation from earlier that year that he would "absolutely" not be on the national ticket in 2008. It took no great genius to see the question coming: Obama's face was on the cover of that week's The day before, he'd ridden down from Philadelphia in a limousine with Axelrod and Gibbs. Axelrod warned Obama that Russert would surely revisit his unequivocal reaffirmation from earlier that year that he would "absolutely" not be on the national ticket in 2008. It took no great genius to see the question coming: Obama's face was on the cover of that week's Time Time, beside a headline that read "Why Barack Obama Could Be the Next President." Axelrod, impersonating Russert, intoned, "And so, Senator, here's the tape. Is that still your position?"

Here was the question that had tied Hillary Clinton in knots in 2003, that twelve years earlier had caused her husband to stage a contrived tour around Arkansas to solicit a release from his pledge not to run for president. But Obama hardly gave the conundrum a moment's thought. He couldn't see any point in s.h.i.+lly-shallying over what was patently true. "I'm gonna tell him no," he said to Axelrod and Gibbs. "I think it's best to say I'm reconsidering."

A few minutes later, Obama was on the phone with Mich.e.l.le. Following previous orders, Gibbs whispered urgently, "Tell her about tomorrow!" But Obama already had. Mich.e.l.le wasn't pleased with what her husband planned to say-she had serious doubts about the notion of a presidential bid-but she was under no illusions about what was going on inside her husband's head.

Obama's new answer on Meet the Press Meet the Press-Russert: "It's fair to say you're thinking about running?" Obama: "It's fair, yes"-set off a firestorm in the press, all right. A firestorm of febrile excitement over the possibility that he was running, and of a.n.a.lysis about what it might mean and how it might play out. Few in the media seemed to notice or care that Obama had broken his pledge, preferring instead to praise his candor.

With Obama now leaving the door ajar (even if only "a bit," as he said on the air), an even greater frisson suffused his homestretch campaigning in the two weeks before the midterms. He was often doing four events a day, hopscotching from state to state to raise last-minute cash for inc.u.mbents and challengers alike. The punis.h.i.+ng schedule made Obama grouchy. "Why the f.u.c.k am I going to Indiana?" he squawked to Hopefund's political director, Alyssa Mastromonaco.

"There are three candidates, and they're running out of money. If we can go and raise $200,000 at this fund-raiser, we'll keep them on the air through Election Day," she retorted.

"Really?" Obama asked skeptically, but then agreed to go. (All three candidates won.) On the Sunday before the midterms, Obama attended church in Tennessee with Democratic congressman Harold Ford, Jr., the African American Senate candidate there, whose campaign had been rocked by a negative TV ad that fanned fears of miscegenation, a reminder to Obama that race was still a combustible electoral factor. He did stops in Illinois, Ohio, and Iowa-where Hildebrand could be found handing out hundreds of unauthorized "Obama for President" b.u.t.tons that he'd had made up-and traveled to St. Louis to campaign for Claire McCaskill.

At that last stop, thousands of people lined up for hours outside the World's Fair Pavilion to hear Obama speak. Among those onstage was former Missouri senator Tom Eagleton, who had briefly been George McGovern's running mate in 1972 and was among the party's most beloved figures. Dressed in yellow pants and a green crew-neck sweater, Eagleton was nearly eighty years old and in poor health; this would be his last major public appearance before his death.

But Eagleton desperately wanted a gander at Obama. When the event was over, he approached McCaskill and marveled, "I haven't seen people want to touch someone that way since Bobby Kennedy."

ON NOVEMBER 8, the day after the Democrats routed the congressional GOP, retaking control of Congress and repudiating George W. Bush, Obama drove to the brick building in the River North neighborhood of Chicago that housed the offices of Axelrod's consulting firm. He was there to have a private lunch with Bill Daley. Daley was the seventh and youngest child of the storied Chicago mayor Richard J. Daley; his brother, Richie, currently occupied City Hall. A banker now, Bill Daley had served as the secretary of commerce in Bill Clinton's second term. Daley knew the Clintons well-how ruthless they were, how crazy their world was, and how vulnerable Hillary might be to the right kind of nomination challenge.

All of which was why Obama was meeting Daley that day. The midterms were past, it was time to get serious about "the options," and Obama wasn't wasting a moment. "Yeah, you gotta run," Daley told him right off the bat. "Why not? What have you got to lose? Can you win? I think you can. You know, who knows? You don't know, but why wouldn't you? What's the negative here? What are you gonna wait for?"

Obama brought up the issue of money: Could he raise enough to be compet.i.tive? "I don't think money's your problem," Daley said. Judging by his performance the past two years, Obama was a money magnet, and one who might be able to change the game by tapping into small donors to an unprecedented degree. Daley, in fact, suggested that Obama could afford not to rush into the race. Maybe he should take a little more time, prepare himself better for what a challenge to Hillary would entail.

"You don't understand," Daley said. "Running around doing fundraisers for other people is not running for president. These people, the Clintons, for thirty-five years, this is what they do. You've done this now for a couple of years. This is their life. This is, like, 24/7 for them. Hillary knows where she's going for lunch next March, okay? It's a very different thing here." What Daley was thinking was, Be ready, because the s.h.i.+t's gonna come at you big-time. Be ready, because the s.h.i.+t's gonna come at you big-time.

Daley was struck by how much consideration Obama already seemed to have devoted to his hypothetical candidacy. To the suggestion that he hang back, Obama responded that he didn't have the luxury of time; if he dawdled, Hillary would lock up too many big donors and key operatives. Obama was clear about something else, which also struck Daley-for its chutzpah.

"If I can win Iowa," Obama said, "I can put this thing away."

Yet for all his bravado, Obama was still ambivalent about getting into the race, for reasons personal and political. The personal ambivalence was complex and nebulous, but could be resolved down the road. The political ambivalence was more pressing and revolved around one question: Could he and his advisers chart a plausible pathway to victory?

The cartographic endeavor began in earnest a few hours after his lunch with Bill Daley ended. The setting was the same: the fourth-floor conference room in Axlerod's office. On the table were cookies, bottled water, and soda. Around it were the members of Obama's personal and professional brain trust: Mich.e.l.le, Jarrett, and his close friend, Marty Nesbitt; Axelrod, Gibbs, Rouse, Mastromonaco, Hildebrand, and Axelrod's business partner, David Plouffe. Over the next few hours, Obama received from the group what amounted to a crash course: Presidential Politics 101-the logistics, the mechanics, the calendar, how the whole thing worked. His knowledge about the topic was limited (alarmingly so, thought some at the table), his initial questions rudimentary. How much of his time would be required? How often would he be on the road? Mich.e.l.le asked if he could come home every weekend-or at least every Sunday-to be with his family.

"Yes, he can have Sundays off," Hildebrand blurted out.

Bulls.h.i.+t, thought Mastromonaco. Crazy Crazy, thought Gibbs. Almost to a person, the Obama brain trust was determined that their boss understand how hard running for the White House would be, that none of the bitter realities of the process be sugarcoated. Axelrod and Rouse had long wondered if Obama had the requisite inferno raging in his belly. They wanted him to enter the race eyes wide open, both for his own sake and so there would be no recriminations later.

Hildebrand didn't care one whit about raising Obama's consciousness. He wanted him, needed him, to run. He was so enamored of Obama that he was willing to say just about anything to get him in, no matter how nonsensical. Sundays off? Sure! We'll do things differently, we'll use the Web, we'll make it work, he a.s.sured Obama.

No, we won't, Plouffe cut in. And no, you can't come home on Sundays.

Rail-thin, pretense-free, incapable of artifice, Plouffe had run winning campaigns at the senatorial, congressional, and gubernatorial levels, as well as worked on two prior presidentials. He knew the score. You have two choices, he told Obama. You can stay in the Senate, enjoy your weekends at home, take regular vacations, and have a lovely time with your family. Or you can run for president, have your whole life poked at and pried into, almost never see your family, travel incessantly, bang your tin cup for donations like some street-corner beggar, lead a lonely, miserable life.

That's your choice, Plouffe explained. There's no middle ground, no short cuts-especially when you're running against Hillary Clinton.

The estimability of the putative Clinton endeavor hovered over the discussion, weighing on Obama. But the people around the table were no rookies at this game; if you had to start from scratch, they were among the best in the business to start there with. Their att.i.tude toward the Clinton machine was clinical and uncowed. The machine was real, but it could be broken down into two const.i.tuent parts: personnel and money. Axelrod a.s.sured Obama that there were plenty of top-flight players in the party who wouldn't be working for Hillary, especially in the four states that would kick off the nomination contest: Iowa, New Hamps.h.i.+re, Nevada, and South Carolina.

Iowa loomed large in Axelrod's mind. Twenty years earlier, when he worked for Paul Simon's underdog campaign, the Illinois senator lost the caucuses to another candidate from a neighboring state, Missouri congressman d.i.c.k Gephardt, by just one percentage point. The lesson for Axelrod was that proximity mattered; that having Chicago as his home base would allow Obama to penetrate Iowa more readily and thoroughly than his would-be rivals, including Clinton. Focusing on Iowa and the other early contests also addressed the second of Hillary's advantages. Though she would likely raise a ton of dough, n.o.body doubted that Obama could come up with enough to match her in the first four, modest-sized, states.

Obama himself had been fixated on Iowa since the steak fry. He had a good feeling about the place, but that wasn't enough. If the Hawkeye State was going to be so crucial to his chances, he wanted details. Much of November would be spent gathering them, with Hildebrand quietly dispatched to Iowa to do reconnaissance.

One night later that month, Hildebrand's phone rang in Sioux Falls, waking him from a sound sleep. Obama was on the line. For the next forty-five minutes he quizzed Hildebrand about every conceivable Iowa-related topic: how he would fare against Edwards in rural counties; the impact of media coverage spilling over from Illinois into the Iowa communities along the Mississippi River; which local officials they could expect to bring on board as endorsers. Hildebrand told him that he, Mich.e.l.le, and the girls would all have to spend a lot of time in Iowa-and also that the catalyst for winning there would be bringing new voters into the process. If we run a traditional campaign, Hildebrand said, we're doomed.

Axelrod had a complementary view, which he laid out for Obama. In every election, Axelrod argued, the inc.u.mbent defines the race, even if he isn't on the ballot. Which meant 2008 was going to be defined by Bush. And given the enmity that the president had inspired in the Democratic Party, Axelrod went on, the overwhelmingly liberal primary and caucus electorate would be hungry for a candidate representing the sharpest possible departure from 43: one who promised to be a unifier and not a polarizer; someone nondogmatic and uncontaminated by the special-interest cesspool that Was.h.i.+ngton had become; and, critically, someone seen as a staunch and principled opponent of the war raging in Iraq. Now, who had a better chance of being that someone-Hillary or Barack? The question answered itself.

Axelrod's contention was bolstered by a conversation that Obama had with Rahm Emanuel. Emanuel, an Illinois congressman and another of Axelrod's clients, was one of the shrewdest and most aggressive pols of his generation. He was also a veteran of the Clinton White House, intimately aware of how the former First Couple operated. They're gonna do what they gotta do to win-and this is not patty-cake, Emanuel told Obama. But could they be had? They could be had. There's a soft underbelly with them.

The contours of Hillary's vulnerabilities were revealed in detail by polling and focus group testing in Iowa that the Obama brain trust secretly commissioned a few weeks later, near the end of 2006. Though the polling put Obama in third place behind Edwards and Clinton, he was within striking distance of both. Not bad, considering that Edwards had been practically living in Iowa for two years already and that Clinton was . . . well, Clinton.

More striking were the focus groups, which were conducted in Des Moines and Cedar Rapids. Almost uniformly, the people in the groups reacted favorably to Obama-to his 2002 speech opposing the war, his rhetoric of change and unity, his freshness and sense of promise. Rarely did they express grave misgivings about his race or his exotic background. The more they knew about his biography and bearing, the more they liked him. In one of the sessions, after watching a video clip of Obama, a white woman said, "There's something about that guy; that's the guy I want. I can't even put it into words."

Observing from behind a two-way mirror, Axelrod was floored. "We can't forget that woman," he said to his colleagues. "We have something special here. I feel like I've been handed a porcelain baby"-something very, very precious, but very fragile.

The results of the focus groups were equally encouraging when it came to Clinton. She was well known, well liked, and well respected, but inspired nagging doubts. She registered with partic.i.p.ants as status quo, as the past and not the future; she stirred up memories of the partisan bickering of the nineties, the Clinton-Gingrich contretemps, Monica, and impeachment. Her standing among women was much stronger than it was among men, but there was no sweeping feminist imperative to support her. "I do want a woman to be president of the United States," one female voter said, "but not this one."

BY THE END OF November 2006, Obama could see a route to beating Clinton. Not an easy highway to navigate, by any means, but at least one clearly marked and mapped. And he could also see that the biggest roadblock ahead of him was another woman entirely.

From the get-go, Mich.e.l.le Obama had made it plain that she didn't want Barack to run for president. She was wary beyond words, for a long time refusing to discuss the concept, even with her closest friends. The citation of spousal hesitation is, of course, a timeworn trope in American presidential politics. Every male candidate loftily affirms that he couldn't possibly go ahead without his wife's full support, but as a matter of course, Y-chromosome ambition trumps X-chromosome reluctance. Really, it's no contest.

But with Barack and Mich.e.l.le, it was. Obama adored his wife, genuinely believed she was his better half, that he'd be lost without her. He didn't even bother to pretend that he enjoyed anyone else's company remotely as much as he relished being with her and their daughters. As the midterms approached, he told his advisers more than once, I'm not doing this if Mich.e.l.le's not comfortable, and she's certainly not there yet.

She had always been a gut-level skeptic about the gaga-ness around her husband. In the wake of the drooling adulation poured on him after his convention speech, she suspected that he would be treated like "the flavor of the month," a pa.s.sing fancy soon discarded by a fickle political culture. As she watched people fawning over him at his swearing-in to the Senate, she said dryly to a reporter, "Maybe one day he'll do something to merit all this attention."

She had no doubt that day would come. Her confidence in Barack was profound and unshakable. But in the meantime, she was perfectly miserable with him being in the Senate. The Robinson family had been close-knit: a homemaker mother, a munic.i.p.al-employee father, and a basketball-star brother who ate dinner every night together with her in a one-bedroom brick bungalow on the South Side of Chicago. They were immersed in one another's daily lives, the highs and lows, the successes and traumas of childhood and adolescence. She wanted that badly for her daughters, too, and she wasn't getting it. She hadn't signed up for a commuter marriage. She was laboring to make it work, but when she was being honest, she admitted that she hated it; she was lonely too much of the time. There had been strains in their marriage back in 2000, when Barack had run unsuccessfully for Congress. Now she was being asked to talk about his running for president-and it felt like the rug was about to be pulled out from under her even more violently than it had been already.

One night midway through 2006, over a four-hour dinner with Jarrett, Mich.e.l.le let her frustrations pour out. "This is hard," she said. "Really hard." Jarrett decided not to even mention the presidential chatter. Mich.e.l.le was in a bad place emotionally. No point in making it worse.

But following the midterms, Mich.e.l.le had no choice but to grapple with the subject. After that first November meeting in Axelrod's office, the Obamas, Jarrett, and Marty Nesbitt went for dinner at Coco Pazzo, an Italian joint they loved. Mich.e.l.le was going on and on about her issues. She had a lot of questions-and also a lot of fears. She'd been worried about Barack's safety since he entered the Senate. Now he would be an even bigger target, and so would she and the girls. Could the campaign keep their family safe?

The atmosphere was tense. Finally, Jarrett interrupted and said, "Let's try this from a different perspective. Mich.e.l.le, let's say Barack answers all your questions to your full satisfaction and he's got an answer for every one of them. Are you in?"

"I'm in a hundred and ten percent," Mich.e.l.le said. But she wasn't going to let her husband get away with the "We'll figure it out" bl.u.s.ter that he was p.r.o.ne to employ over contentious matters. Turning to Barack, she said, "You're going to be really specific with me. You're going to tell me exactly how we're going to work it out."

All the stress seemed to drain right out of Obama's posture. His shoulders slackened, his face softened. It was the first time he'd ever heard Mich.e.l.le say that she could get behind his running. Her list, he knew, would be long and involved, but it would be finite-a mountain that he could scale.

Most of the questions on Mich.e.l.le's list involved their daughters. How are you going to continue being a father to them? How many days will you be home? How are you going to communicate with the girls when you're away? How often are you going to talk to them? Are you going to come to parent-teacher conferences? What about recitals? But other questions were directed elsewhere. How are you going to take care of your health? Are you going to quit smoking? (That was a deal-breaker, she claimed.) And then there was this: How are we, as a family, going to withstand the personal attacks that will certainly be coming?

Barack knew Mich.e.l.le was right to be worried about the hammer that would fall on both of them if he ran. But he believed it was possible to rise above the distortions and j'accuses j'accuses that had turned politics into the sort of unedifying blood sport from which so many Americans recoiled. Obama was also resolute about not attempting to turn the onslaught against his opponents. Oh, he'd throw punches when it was necessary-he would never shy away from a vigorous fight. But if he had to become just another hack, gouging out eyes and wallowing in the mud to do this thing, then it wasn't worth doing. If he got in, he told Mich.e.l.le and his brain trust, he would be in with both feet, for sure. "But I'm also going to emerge intact," he said. "I'm going to be Barack Obama and not some parody." that had turned politics into the sort of unedifying blood sport from which so many Americans recoiled. Obama was also resolute about not attempting to turn the onslaught against his opponents. Oh, he'd throw punches when it was necessary-he would never shy away from a vigorous fight. But if he had to become just another hack, gouging out eyes and wallowing in the mud to do this thing, then it wasn't worth doing. If he got in, he told Mich.e.l.le and his brain trust, he would be in with both feet, for sure. "But I'm also going to emerge intact," he said. "I'm going to be Barack Obama and not some parody."

It was an extraordinary statement, the kind that few standard-issue pols would think to make when planning a long-shot adventure with their advisers. What gave him such an a.s.sured posture was his experience of the past two years-an experience that was without precedent in modern American politics. In his brief time on the national scene, Obama had compiled a staggering succession of big-stage triumphs that took the breath away. The convention speech. The Africa trip. The book tour. Appearances on Oprah Oprah and on the covers of and on the covers of Time Time and and Newsweek. Newsweek. The reception he'd received from the media had been uniformly glowing, and that fed Obama's sense that he could somehow transcend the horror show. Maybe that was insanely naive. Maybe it was incandescently mature. But at that moment, he had no reason to believe that it was anything but perfectly sound. The reception he'd received from the media had been uniformly glowing, and that fed Obama's sense that he could somehow transcend the horror show. Maybe that was insanely naive. Maybe it was incandescently mature. But at that moment, he had no reason to believe that it was anything but perfectly sound.

OBAMA FLEW TO ORANGE COUNTY, California, on December 1 to take part in an event at the Saddleback megachurch run by Rick Warren, the bestselling author of The Purpose Driven Life. The Purpose Driven Life. It was World AIDS Day, and Warren had invited Obama to appear alongside Republican senator Sam Brownback of Kansas. Brownback, speaking first, remarked to Obama, "Welcome to my house," prompting peals from the crowd. When Obama's turn came, he remarked, "There is one thing I've gotta say, Sam, though: This is my house, too. This is G.o.d's house." He quoted Corinthians and advocated the use of condoms to prevent the spread of HIV. At the end, the huge crowd of conservative Evangelicals awarded him a standing ovation. It was World AIDS Day, and Warren had invited Obama to appear alongside Republican senator Sam Brownback of Kansas. Brownback, speaking first, remarked to Obama, "Welcome to my house," prompting peals from the crowd. When Obama's turn came, he remarked, "There is one thing I've gotta say, Sam, though: This is my house, too. This is G.o.d's house." He quoted Corinthians and advocated the use of condoms to prevent the spread of HIV. At the end, the huge crowd of conservative Evangelicals awarded him a standing ovation.

Saddleback was the start of a feverish two-week sprint before Obama would fly off on his family's annual holiday in Hawaii, where he planned to make his final decision about running. On December 4, he traveled to New York for a meeting in the offices of billionaire financier George Soros with a dozen of New York's heaviest Democratic fund-raisers. From there he proceeded to Was.h.i.+ngton and sought the counsel of a pair of the capital's proverbial wise men, one a Republican and one a Democrat, one a stranger and one a friend.

The Republican was General Colin Powell, who met with Obama at his office in Alexandria, Virginia. Obama wanted to know about Powell's flirtation with running for the presidency in 1995. Why had he decided against it?

"It was pretty easy," Powell said. "I'm not a politician."

For the next hour, Obama quizzed Powell about foreign policy-and also about race. Did the general think the country was ready for an African American president? I think it might have been ready when I was thinking about running, Powell told Obama. It's definitely more ready now.

Powell had his own set of questions for Obama, but the main one was: Why now? You don't have much of an experience base, Powell pointed out. You're new to the Senate, you have an interesting but limited resume from before that. So, again, why now?

I think I might have what the country needs today, not four or eight years down the line, Obama responded. I think it might be my time.

The second wise man was Daschle. Like Bill Daley, Daschle knew the Clintons well and wasn't afraid of them. Didn't much like them, either. He considered Hillary an icy prima donna; her husband (who after exiting the White House often called Daschle, imploring him for help in burnis.h.i.+ng his legacy), a narcissist on an epic scale; the dynamic between the couple, bizarre; their treatment of their friends, unforgivably manipulative and disloyal. For Daschle, Clinton fatigue wasn't simply a political a.n.a.lysis. It was personal. He was bone-weary of the duo and thought that Obama could and should take them on.

Daschle met Obama at one of his favorite restaurants, an Italian place downtown near his Was.h.i.+ngton office. The owner set up a table for them in the kitchen so their privacy would be preserved. For three hours they sat drinking red wine and talking, Obama asking question after question: about money, about the microscope he'd be under if he ran, about how great a liability his threadbare CV might be. Daschle reflected on his own contemplation of a White House bid in 2004; he'd decided against it, certain he'd have another chance to run; but now, having lost his Senate seat, that option seemed foreclosed.

Don't a.s.sume that you'll get a second window, Daschle told Obama. And don't minimize the salience of being "un-Was.h.i.+ngton"-or ignore the fact that if you wait, the next time around you won't be un-Was.h.i.+ngton anymore.

At the end of the meal, the two men embraced, and then Daschle headed home. His wife, Linda, asked if Tom was planning to endorse Obama if he ran. Daschle said, "What the h.e.l.l-yeah, I am."

That weekend, Obama went on to New Hamps.h.i.+re, his feet making contact with Granite State soil for the first time in his life-an incredible fact for a man on the verge of entering a presidential race. The crowds that met him in Portsmouth and Manchester were, as usual, large and loud and l.u.s.ty, listening eagerly as he invoked Martin Luther King, Jr., and his longtime pastor in Chicago, the Reverend Jeremiah Wright. But more remarkable was the 150-strong flock of reporters, including many national big feet and thumb-suckers, credentialed for the festivities.

Obama returned to Chicago from New Hamps.h.i.+re, but he wasn't quite finished with his hyperdrive round of buzz-building. He'd begun his sprint at Saddleback with an act of outreach to one religious const.i.tuency and now he ended with a play for another: the nation's pro-football fanatics, who were greeted with the sight of Obama at the start of the December 11 ABC broadcast of Monday Night Football. Monday Night Football. Besuited, looking solemn, seated behind a desk, an American flag to his left, Obama began, "Good evening. I'm Senator Barack Obama. I'm here tonight to answer some questions about a very important contest that's been weighing on the minds of the American people. This is a contest about the future. A contest between two very different philosophies. A contest that will ultimately be decided in America's heartland . . . Tonight, I'd like to put all the doubts to rest. I'd like to announce to my hometown of Chicago and all of America that I am ready." With that, Obama placed a Chicago Bears hat on his head and continued, "For the Bears to go all the way, baby!" Then, with a mile-wide grin across his face punctuating a performance of unchecked charisma, he chanted the descending opening bars-"Dah, dah, dah, DAH!"-of the Besuited, looking solemn, seated behind a desk, an American flag to his left, Obama began, "Good evening. I'm Senator Barack Obama. I'm here tonight to answer some questions about a very important contest that's been weighing on the minds of the American people. This is a contest about the future. A contest between two very different philosophies. A contest that will ultimately be decided in America's heartland . . . Tonight, I'd like to put all the doubts to rest. I'd like to announce to my hometown of Chicago and all of America that I am ready." With that, Obama placed a Chicago Bears hat on his head and continued, "For the Bears to go all the way, baby!" Then, with a mile-wide grin across his face punctuating a performance of unchecked charisma, he chanted the descending opening bars-"Dah, dah, dah, DAH!"-of the Monday Night Football Monday Night Football theme. theme.

TO MANY, ESPECIALLY THOSE in the Clinton camp, Obama's early-December itinerary was proof positive that he was running. But for all the outward signs to the contrary, Obama was still undecided. In Was.h.i.+ngton, he'd met with a group of his old friends from Harvard. They chewed over the prospect for a while, weighing the various points and possibilities. Eventually, someone observed, We've been in this room for two hours talking about why you should run, and no one has mentioned that you're black.

While it was true that Obama had rarely considered, or let himself consider, his skin pigmentation as a possible impediment to his running (or winning), race was never really absent from his thinking. Now, spontaneously, and quite unexpectedly, he found himself speaking pa.s.sionately about what it would mean to women in black churches who had worked so long and so hard to see their kids grow up safe and have big dreams in inner-city communities.

He returned to that motif on December 13, when he and his advisers gathered again in Axelrod's conference room for a final meeting before the Obamas took off for Hawaii. "What exactly do you think you can accomplish by getting the presidency?" Mich.e.l.le asked him pointedly.

"Well," Obama said, "there are a lot of things I think I can accomplish, but two things I know. The first is, when I raise my hand and take that oath of office, there are millions of kids around this country who don't believe that it would ever be possible for them to be president of the United States. And for them, the world would change on that day. And the second thing is, I think the world would look at us differently the day I got elected, because it would be a reaffirmation of what America is, about the constant perfecting of who we are. I think I can help repair the damage that's been done."

Like Obama, his nascent campaign brain trust rarely brought up the subject of race during the deliberations over whether he should run. In part, that was because of a combination of discomfort, confidence, and hope: discomfort in that almost all of them were white and felt presumptuous addressing the issue; confidence in Axelrod, who had a well-earned reputation for steering black candidates across the country to victory with significant white support; and hope that the post-racial appeal that Obama already exhibited would prove to be durable, even transcendent.

Yet the near-silence on the topic also owed something to Obama's combination of optimism and fatalism about it: either the country was ready now for an African American president, he said, or it wouldn't be in his lifetime.

Obama's advisers had entered the room still dubious that he would run. But now it was clear that the probabilities had s.h.i.+fted. For one thing, Mich.e.l.le's opposition had eased; that much was obvious. At one point, when Barack went outside to have a smoke, someone brought up again the issue of his personal safety. "Well, I've already gone out and increased our life insurance on him," Mich.e.l.le said drolly, with a sly smile. "You just can't be too careful!"

In Hawaii, Barack and Mich.e.l.le took long walks on Waikiki Beach, hammering out the final items on her questionnaire. (He gave in on everything.) One night close to New Year's Eve, he called Jarrett and told her that his decision, in effect, was made. "This is pretty much done," he said.

But it wasn't. On January 2, just back from Hawaii, Obama showed up unannounced in Axelrod's office, wearing blue jeans and a White Sox cap, having come right from the gym-and expressing renewed ambivalence about undertaking the race. "Being Barack Obama isn't a bad gig," Obama said. I don't need this to validate myself; I get plenty of validation as it is; and I can do some great things from where I am. I like being with my friends, I like being able to watch a ball game, and you guys have made it very clear what the cost of this is going to be.

"I know there are a lot of people who want you to do this," Axelrod replied, "but you don't have to do this." Having been acquainted with his share of presidential candidates, Axelrod knew that the ones who fared well were those who were psychically compelled to be president immediately.

"I think you have ambition, but not that kind of pathological drive," Axelrod went on. "I've worked with Hillary; I know she'll drive herself as hard as is physically possible, because she has to be president, she wants to be, she needs it. I don't sense that in you."

Obama didn't really sense it, either. But he rejected the notion that running for president was a task suited only to the borderline mentally ill. What he knew about himself was that, at his core, he was compet.i.tive enough to find the requisite motivation. He trusted the logic that had led him to this point, his perception of where the country was and the work that needed doing. He had come too far to turn back now. The talk with Axelrod const.i.tuted his final gut check. And although his insides remained queasy, his head was free of doubt-and in the Obama interior chain of command, the head always outranked the gut.

Obama had one other thing to check. A few days later, he and Mich.e.l.le secretly flew down to Nashville to have lunch with Al and Tipper Gore. Obama admired Gore immensely. He hoped that down the line he could secure the former vice president's endors.e.m.e.nt. But he also knew that the one thing that could kill his candidacy in the crib was an unexpected entry into the race by Gore-which more than a few Democratic insiders in January 2007 still considered a live possibility.

So while the two couples engaged in a general discussion about how to s.h.i.+eld a candidate's children from the sharp glare of a presidential race, Obama asked Gore a more pointed question: Is there any chance you'll run?

Not a chance, Gore made clear. And Tipper was equally emphatic: her family, and her husband, would not be making this race.

Obama and Mich.e.l.le finished up their lunch and flew back to Chicago. The next Monday, Obama said to his team, "All right. Let's do it. What's next?"

HE FORMALLY LAUNCHED HIS campaign six weeks later, on February 10, 2007, on the steps of the Old State Capitol in Springfield, Illinois. Seventeen thousand people packed into the town square on one of those Midwestern winter days so frigid-the high was seven degrees-that every color seems brighter and the horizon line so sharp it could cut gla.s.s. Mich.e.l.le suggested moving the event indoors so that families wouldn't risk frostbite for their kids. But the alternative venue, the Prairie Capital Convention Center, was a sterile, hulking vault, and Axelrod was intent on creating a magical moment and capturing the pretty pictures for use in future ads. Twenty thousand hand warmers were secured and a heater installed in the lectern to keep Obama toasty enough to function.

The speech he delivered laid out all of the themes that would carry him through 2007 and beyond. "I recognize there is a certain presumptuousness in this, a certain audacity to this announcement," Obama proclaimed. "I know that I haven't spent a lot of time learning the ways of Was.h.i.+ngton. But I've been there long enough to know that the ways of Was.h.i.+ngton must change." And: "There are those who don't believe in talking about hope: they say, well, we want specifics, we want details, we want white papers, we want plans. We've had a lot of plans, Democrats. What we've had is a shortage of hope." And: "That is why this campaign can't only be about me. It must be about us. It must be about what we can do together." And: "It's time to turn the page."

Obama's performance was nearly flawless, but the launch didn't go quite as planned. Obama's minister, Reverend Wright, had been scheduled to deliver an invocation at the announcement. But the day before, Obama's team got hold of a story that had just been published in Rolling Stone Rolling Stone, which included a wildly inflammatory pa.s.sage concerning the reverend's oratorical style and substance.

"Wright takes the pulpit here one Sunday and solemnly, sonorously declares that he will recite ten essential facts about the United States," the Rolling Stone Rolling Stone piece said." 'Fact number one: We've got more black men in prison than there are in college,' he intones. 'Fact number two: Racism is how this country was founded and how this country is still run!' There is thumping applause; Wright has a cadence and power that make Obama sound like John Kerry. Now the reverend begins to preach. 'We are deeply involved in the importing of drugs, the exporting of guns and the training of professional KILLERS . . . We believe in white supremacy and black inferiority and believe it more than we believe in G.o.d . . . We conducted radiation experiments on our own people . . . We care nothing about human life if the ends justify the means!' The crowd whoops and amens as Wright builds to his climax: 'And. And. And! GAWD! Has GOT! To be SICK! OF THIS s.h.i.+T!'" piece said." 'Fact number one: We've got more black men in prison than there are in college,' he intones. 'Fact number two: Racism is how this country was founded and how this country is still run!' There is thumping applause; Wright has a cadence and power that make Obama sound like John Kerry. Now the reverend begins to preach. 'We are deeply involved in the importing of drugs, the exporting of guns and the training of professional KILLERS . . . We believe in white supremacy and black inferiority and believe it more than we believe in G.o.d . . . We conducted radiation experiments on our own people . . . We care nothing about human life if the ends justify the means!' The crowd whoops and amens as Wright builds to his climax: 'And. And. And! GAWD! Has GOT! To be SICK! OF THIS s.h.i.+T!'"

Axelrod and Gibbs realized immediately that they had a problem on their hands-though its severity wouldn't be apparent for some time. Obama saw the problem, too. He called his pastor and informed him that his role at the announcement was being downgraded: Wright would now lead a private prayer for Obama and his close friends before the event, away from the stage, away from the cameras.

The phone call was painful for Obama. He and Mich.e.l.le had been married by Wright. Wright had baptized their children. But as soon as Obama read the Rolling Stone Rolling Stone story, he knew the decision was unavoidable. Staring at Wright's incendiary words on the page, Obama thought, story, he knew the decision was unavoidable. Staring at Wright's incendiary words on the page, Obama thought, This doesn't sound real good. This doesn't sound real good.

Chapter Five.

The Inevitables.

THE DECEMBER DINNER WAS supposed to be at Whitehaven, in the dining room with the intense blue walls, where she'd hosted so many fund-raisers over the past six years. But the press got word of the plan; the house had been staked out-a camera crew was right outside-so the supper was moved a few blocks away, to the home of a friend. Clinton would do that sometimes if she wanted to keep a meeting super-secret. Borrow Evelyn Lieberman's place in Cleveland Park or the residence of some other trusty pal. On this particular Sunday night in 2006, the stakeout might have seemed odd, since her guests weren't exactly boldface names: Terry Shumaker, Alice Chamberlin, and Ricia McMahon. But because they were players in New Hamps.h.i.+re Democratic politics, the fact that they had flown down to Was.h.i.+ngton for a meal with Hillary qualified as news.

She was happy to see the New Hamps.h.i.+rites, all of whom she'd known for years. She had especially warm feelings for Shumaker, who had helped Bill pull off his second-place finish in the Granite State in 1992-the showing that allowed him to dub himself "The Comeback Kid." The group arrived bearing Christmas gifts, and also an eight-page memo by Shumaker on how Hillary should go about setting herself up to win the New Hamps.h.i.+re primary. If she were running, that is.

That was how she kept talking about it throughout the four-hour dinner-"If I run." It seemed strange to Shumaker, who a.s.sumed, like everyone, that Clinton was certainly running but just staying publicly mum for strategic purposes. Shumaker's memo was a detailed plan for her New Hamps.h.i.+re rollout in the early months of 2007: the first trip, the small events, the local media plan. "What we are hearing is mainly two things about a possible Clinton candidacy," the memo said. "Either she is 'too polarizing' or 'she can't win.'" But those perceptions could be eradicated by the right kind of campaign. "The challenge," wrote Shumaker, "will be to figure out: How does a 'rock star' do retail?"

Clinton wanted to know about all of it. She was in Hillary the a.n.a.lyzer mode. But she also kept asking questions about Obama. That very night, he was up in Manchester wowing the party faithful at a sold-out dinner, basking in the spotlight, ginning up the activists who would be crucial to winning the first primary on the nomination calendar. And here was Hillary, huddled quietly in a safe house, speaking of her candidacy in the conditional tense, wanting to know what her potential rival was up to, how he was faring in New Hamps.h.i.+re. We don't know We don't know, Shumaker thought. We're here, not there. We're here, not there.

It was, in a way, the perfect metaphor for 2006: Obama out there, always moving, showing leg, gathering momentum-and Clinton hunkered down. She and her team had decided she needed to focus on her Senate race. Her reelection was considered secure, but Hillaryland wanted to win big, to run up the score, and especially to do well outside New York City, to demonstrate her appeal in more conservative suburban and rural precincts. And all of that she had done convincingly, hauling in 67 percent of the vote, carrying fifty-eight of the state's sixty-two counties. The landslide turned out to be costly, though, with her campaign blowing through tens of millions of dollars against nominal opposition. Penn defended the spending by saying that much of it had gone to test-drive sophisticated vote-targeting technologies. But Hillary wasn't sure it was worth it, and her husband was even more doubtful. "Spend forty-five million on a Senate race?" Bill Clinton said, shaking his head. "Whew."

All year long, Hillary hadn't uttered a public word regarding a presidential bid. She wasn't against talking about it, but her advisers insisted she not. They called it the third rail of the reelect-if she touched it, the tabloids would go crazy, New York voters would be turned off, her margin of victory would be impaired. But when it came to preparing for the presidential, the effect was deleterious: 2006 had been a wasted year for her, especially compared with how Obama had spent it.

Now that Election Day was in the rearview mirror, the time had come to gear up for 2008. Since the summer, her high command had been holding meetings-some at Whitehaven, others in Chappaqua, in the converted barn beside the house-to discuss her prospective campaign. Hillary had been nearly as closed-mouthed about the presidential with her advisers as she was in public. Most of them, like Shumaker, simply presumed she was going to run. But the small clutch of Hillarylanders in whom she actually confided were a good deal less certain: Solis Doyle and Williams detected an ambivalence in her that was deep and genuine.

Unlike Obama, Hillary had no political misgivings about running. She was sure she could raise the requisite money, and that was no small thing. She was confident she could put together a crack team-a dream team, in fact. She was certain she could win and that she had something important to offer the country. Bush and his cohorts had driven the nation into a ditch, she thought. She was angry about it, fervently inveighing against this or that Bush policy or executive order, how awful it all was, how much damage that man had caused.

No, Hillary's ambivalence was all personal. Whereas Obama hesitated in the face of the unknown, it was the known that gave Hillary pause. She understood too well what a h.e.l.lish slog running for president would be. She would be like red meat for the right, and the press would be equally vicious. The Times Times front-pager about her marriage was a preview of how unpleasant it would get-and not only for her, but for Chelsea too, she feared. Just as Obama fretted over how the campaign would affect his girls, Hillary agonized over her daughter. With a job she liked and a steady boyfriend, Chelsea finally had a life that was stable, almost normal, and Hillary wanted to do nothing to disrupt it. She reflected on how smooth the reelection campaign had been, how comfortable and rewarding she found the Senate, how she was on track for a bright future there. (People kept talking about her as a possible majority leader.) Did she really want to plunge back into an old life that was so much more chaotic and traumatic than her new one? front-pager about her marriage was a preview of how unpleasant it would get-and not only for her, but for Chelsea too, she feared. Just as Obama fretted over how the campaign would affect his girls, Hillary agonized over her daughter. With a job she liked and a steady boyfriend, Chelsea finally had a life that was stable, almost normal, and Hillary wanted to do nothing to disrupt it. She reflected on how smooth the reelection campaign had been, how comfortable and rewarding she found the Senate, how she was on track for a bright future there. (People kept talking about her as a possible majority leader.) Did she really want to plunge back into an old life that was so much more chaotic and traumatic than her new one?

All through November and into December, Clinton kept stalling about getting going, talking about how ridiculous it was that she had to decide so early, constantly citing the fact that her husband hadn't announced until October 1991. At one meeting with her team in the barn in Chappaqua, she asked over and over about how long she could wait to get in. "I don't see why I should have to before late spring," she said.

Hillaryland felt as if it were frozen in place and falling behind. Her people used the specter of Obama as leverage to try to compel her to action. The longer she waited, they warned her, the greater the risk that he would scoop up donors and talented staffers that should have been hers. The practical arguments weighed on Hillary, but she remained unwilling to pull the trigger. As the Clintons took off for the holidays on a trip to Anguilla, Solis Doyle and Williams were convinced there was a decent chance that she would decide against making a run.

On New Year's Day, Hillary and Bill were out on a boat, bobbing along on the blue-green sea, and decided to take a swim. They leapt into the water, swam up to the beach, and then Hillary posed the question directly to the person who knew her best-and who understood as well as anyone alive what running for president entailed.