What It Takes (123 page)

When he stepped up to the podium for a speech to four thousand noisy muldoons of the Philadelphia Democratic City Committee, he got that crowd quiet in a hurry: “I’ve been in thirty-two states, and you’re the worst damn audience anywhere,” Biden said. He started to laugh. “I hope you can get out the vote like you talk, because you sure talk like hell ... you’re all a bunch of bums.”

What he liked was the car phone on the long drive: Wilmington to Washington, and back, two hours, each way, every day. He’d call the boys three times each way. “Beau-y, what’re you doin’ now? ...”

What he liked, was ... well, there wasn’t much.

I
T WAS BETTER AFTER
the press conference—not that Joe knocked it out of the park, but he had his say. He was, by turns, humbly apologetic, then defiant. It reflected pretty well where he stood.

He’d meant to be penitent. He had to bow to the press ... which he did in his opening statement:

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve been
dumb
. I did something very stupid, twenty-three years ago ...”

But then he asked for questions. And as much as he tried ... as much as he knew, in his head ... well, he couldn’t stop that hot juice rising in his craw. They wanted him to say he was a
cheat
?

Fuck
them
.

What did they know about him? ... Or care?

Someone had the gall to ask how he could represent himself as the leader of the baby-boom generation, when he hadn’t even, you know ...
marched against the war
?

Where the hell did they get off, questioning
his life
? He answered for fifteen minutes straight, almost without a breath, with his voice rising, his chin jutting out in sudden jerks, like his collar was tight.

“... And look, I was twenty-nine when I ran for the Senate, folks. Other people were marching, carrying banners. ... I am not culturally one of those guys who likes to—I don’t fit very well, with—I’m not a joiner. I was, I was out of synch with—by the time the war movement was at its peak, when I was at Syracuse—I was married. I was in law school. I wore sport coats. I was not part of that. I’m serious! What you all don’t seem to understand is—some of you, I think you understand, and I don’t think ... well, I won’t characterize it—but, you know, there was a four-year period, folks, there’s uh, uhh ... light-years back, when I was on a college campus—those of you who go back with me, 1961–65—Vietnam was like Nicaragua is now. We all said, ‘That’s kind of stupid, but it’s gonna end.’ Well, you don’t see many people marching on campuses. Go up to my son’s campus in Philadelphia, or go down south, or go out west, it’s nothing like the antiwar movement. That’s about where Vietnam was in 1963, ’64, and ’65. So, I find, you all know better than: ‘Well, where were YOU, Senator Biden, at the time?’ You know, I think it’s bizarre. I think it’s
bizarre
! And THEN ... when the movement
did
catch up, I was a twenty-three-year-old guy, married. And look: you’re looking at a middle-class guy. I am who I am. I’m not big on flak jackets and tie-dye shirts, and, you know, that’s not me. I’m serious! But that’s the period. But I want to get this straight, man. Because I keep gettin’ asked this all the time, and I’m not gonna get this many of you in a room again until I’m inaugurated, so ...”

(At that point his staff burst into applause. But Joe wasn’t done.)

“... The second thing is,
when I got finished
... when I got finished—law school—I came back, I ... the most important thing to me, in my life, is my family. And I got back, and I was gonna have a baby. Flat out. That’s what was important to ME. And I was gonna take the bar exam—which was a bear—you know. I mean, I hated law school. I really did. But by the way, go out and ask
anybody
in Delaware whether you think I was not a
good lawyer
, and ask
any client
I represented whether they think they didn’t get their
money’s worth
. And ask anybody in Delaware that ever watched me
try a case
, and tell me that I wasn’t a good trial lawyer. Go find anybody! I was a good lawyer. I am a good lawyer. And if you want to find out more about
that
, come down at ten o’clock, down at the hearing. So, you know, folks, I don’t understand this. Now, how many other people twenty-nine years old
did
something about the war? I’m the guy who asked the Foreign Relations Committee—when Gerald Ford said he had a plan to end it—I remember, and some of you will remember, I looked at, at, uhm, Senator
Case
... so I asked: ‘Why don’t we ask to go see the President, and ask him what the plan IS?’ ... And they said, ‘Well, no one ever does that.’ And I said, ‘Well why not?’ And I remember, Jack Javits standing there, and saying, ‘Well, it’s not a bad idea. Let me call Henry.’ And they called Henry Kissinger, and we all went down and, I think, if not the first time, but one of the few times in history that the entire Foreign Relations Committee went down and sat with the President and with the Secretary of State, and everybody played
pattycake
. Everybody went down and said, ‘Yes, Mr. President.’ ‘No, Mr. President.’ They were very polite. And I was young. I was thirty, I guess, then. And I’ll never forget ... you ask some of my colleagues, who were there. I said—and I remember being scared to death, saying it—I said: ‘Begging the President’s pardon, Mr. President. But if the President were the Senator from Delaware, I expect the President would expect me to ask the President this question ...’ I was
a, fool.
I mean, I was so nervous, asking the question. But I said: ‘Mr. President ... WHAT is the PLAN? ... With all due respect, I’ve heard this all my career. ...
What
... is the
plan
? I did more in that meeting than a lot of people did that marched. So I don’t take a backseat to the notion that, somehow, I did not go on the line. Other people marched. I ran for office. Got elected to the United States Senate at twenty-nine, and came down here and was one of those votes that helped stop the war. And I’m proud of it.”

Well, damn right, he felt better!

Still, all the Friday headlines said:

BIDEN ADMITS PLAGIARISM

They didn’t have room to deal with his life.

That’s what Jill kept trying to tell him ... he called her from Washington, night before the press conference, and she said, it wasn’t about his life. It was politics. Life was something else.

Joe couldn’t separate the two. But it did him good to hear it. She asked him, was there anything he wanted her to do?

“Just call me at five to nine. I just want to hear your voice, last thing before I go in there.”

Now, when it was over, he only wanted to be home. What did these Washington bastards know about home?

Friday afternoon. Judge Bork was still the witness. Everybody wanted to wrap this thing up ... but Biden wanted one more colloquy, and Thurmond wanted time, and Specter, DeConcini, Humphrey, Simpson ... there was no way out—they’d have to come back Saturday.

Biden, Thurmond, with the staff and Bork’s handlers, worked out the schedule: ten-thirty Saturday morning ... then they’d finish, for sure. But ten minutes later, Biden interrupted to ask Judge Bork: “Would you mind if we started at twelve? That make a difference to you? ...”

See, Joe had promised his son Hunter: Saturday morning—the
Archmere
game.

The royalty of Archmere doesn’t sit in the grandstand at the fifty-yard line. Royals stand on the grassy rise that overlooks the field, as Father Diny used to do when he’d show up to halt practice. Justin Diny, retired headmaster, was there for the Christiana game, standing ramrod straight in a ratty civilian jacket and dark corduroy cap. The cold made the veins show through the skin over Diny’s strong nose and brow.

It was a mortification to Joe that Father Diny had got involved in this mess. When
The Philadelphia Inquirer
meant to prove that Joe hadn’t
really
been the graduation speaker, it was Diny who raked up his yearbooks, his memory. No, Diny had to say, Joey Biden was not the graduation speaker, but as president of the senior class (Father Diny had not let Biden run for student council president—too many demerits—Joe was crushed), Biden did welcome his classmates and their parents. Surely, that could count as a speech.

On the grass, above the field, three generations of Bidens clumped together in the chill. Mom-Mom was in front, with Jill next to her. Ashley played nearby. Brother Frankie was up in the spotters’ booth, playing at assistant coach. Janine, his wife, was with the other Bidens, watching to see if Hunter, number 27, halfback/cornerback, would get into the game.

Joe was standing in a stiff little raincoat, talking to Father Diny. Joe started to tell about the letter he’d written the day before to the people at Archmere. He wanted them to know he hadn’t forgotten all they’d taught him, the sense of honor, responsibility.

Father Diny interrupted to tell Joe a story about the World War II pilot with this slogan on his plane:
Non illegitimi carborundum
.

Biden looked at him quizzically ... he didn’t remember much Latin.

“Loosely translated,” Father Diny continued, “it means: Don’t let the bastards get you down.”

Archmere was up by a couple of touchdowns at the half, a shutout, and the crowd was in a good mood as the band marched onto the field. Hunt still hadn’t played, but he probably would if the score held. Joe moved through the crowd on the grassy rise.

“Hey, Joe!”

“You’ll get ’em, Joe. Hang in there!”

His gait grew easier as he saw they didn’t believe the stuff, as they told him, one after another, “This’ll blow over ... a couple of weeks, you’ll laugh about it.”

Joe said: “You’re nice to say so ... thanks ... I hope so.” But to the teachers, he meant to say more.

“No, listen,” he told Coach Philibin. “You know, I wrote you a letter, a long one, to everybody here. Because I want you to know I didn’t cheat ... I mean, I didn’t forget what you taught me ...”

Vince Philibin was shaking his head—he didn’t need to hear it. But Joe wouldn’t stop: “No, you taught me a lot, the honor ... I just want you to know ...”

Joe moved on to his football coach, then his history teacher: “You did really teach me. Shoulda learned more, but really, you did. ... Amazing, really, you know, the day after the bomb drops, I’m sitting there composing ... I mean, what I wanted to do was let the people at Archmere know I didn’t, uh, I wasn’t like that ...”

Tommy Lewis showed up in the second half. The plane was waiting, the Bork hearings were waiting. But Tommy knew enough not to push.

Hunt got into the game in the fourth quarter, at 24-0. Playing halfback, he got the ball on a sweep. Joe cut off talking in mid-sentence, jumped forward, his coat billowing behind him.

“Turn it up. Turn it! All RIGHHT!”

Hunt got eight yards. But Archmere had to kick. Later, at cornerback, Hunt was burned, and the Christiana receiver took it down near the goal line. “BIDEN. DIG IN, BIDEN!” Joey screamed as the boys bulked up in a goal-line defense. Christiana ran at the line and got nothing. They ran to Hunt’s side and the linebackers knocked it down for a loss. They burrowed off tackle and got the spot at the one. Fourth down, fourth quarter, shutout at stake. Christiana snapped the ball, surged forward. Hunt piled into the line. Short! They came up short! Archmere took over on downs at the one!

“Good game,” Joe said, as he caught up to Tommy at the car. “Hunt did okay. One good run. Finally got some playing time ...” They were heading out the gates to Manor Road. Joe looked for the gash he made in the concrete pillar with the bumper of his new red Chevy roadster, twenty-seven years before.

“See?” he said. “Still there.”

On the hill heading toward the highway, he said: “I used to live over there. When I first came back to town ... beautiful place.”

“And then, just a few blocks over that way,” Tommy said.

“God, that was a great place.”

They’d been driving these streets for almost thirty years. Back and forth to this same little airport for fifteen years, as a Senator. Ted Kaufman was waiting at the plane, like always. ... Joe was almost jovial as he strapped himself into the four-seater.

“See,” Joe said, as the engines started. “This is home ... my staff just can’t understand that. This is home. Whether I get to be President or not. Or after I’m President, I’ve got to live here. This is my place ...”

Ted was nodding. He lived in Wilmington, too. He’d been with Biden fifteen years. Those two didn’t really talk—it was more like Ted just helped out with Joe’s monologue.

“You know ...” This was Joe. “It wasn’t easy coming back here, after all this. I mean, it was a lot harder than doing the hearings. The hearings were Washington. It was almost easy. I mean, everybody in Washington is so, uh, jaded already. They don’t really ...”

Ted said: “I think they almost liked you better for it ...”

Joe said: “Yeah, I know ... this all started in the first term. When I was always going home, instead of ... you know. That’s when people started saying that Biden ...”

“I mean, here’s this guy who goes home every night ...
to his family
...” Ted’s voice became a prissy whine. “Goody-two-shoes. Doesn’t drink ...”

“Yeah, that’s what this Jeffrey Birnbaum from
The Wall Street Journal
can’t believe. He’s making an absolute inquisition now, about whether I ever took a drink. Ever. ... I did once. My college roommate’s wedding ...” Joey trailed off and looked out the window at the land below.

“Now, is that going to be some big ... I sound like I’m complaining ... that’s the thing. You can’t sound like you’re complaining, or you’re being defensive. That’s the thing, at the press conference, I wanted to tell them ...”

And Joe was back into it. He ducked for his briefcase and pulled out the law school file once again. “Look, here’s the footnote—see it? ... See what I mean? It wasn’t cheating.” He was searching the eyes of his own friends to make sure they believed.

“But, you know, I deserve it. This is what I get for being lazy, for not doing my work till the last day, knowing I could get by ...”