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  NOVEMBER 8, 1988

  · 1988 Voting age population: 182,778,000

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  · 1988 Registration to vote: 126,379,628

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  · 1988 Turnout to vote: 91,594,693

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  · Percentage of voting age who voted: 50.11 (64-year low)

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  · Popular vote for George Bush: 48,881,011 (426 electoral votes)

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  · Popular vote for Michael Dukakis: 41,828,350 (111 electoral votes)

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  Source: Federal Election Commission

  CHAPTER TWO

  The TV Thing

  January 1992. When John F. Kennedy debated Richard Nixon for the presidency of the United States in 1960, I listened to the exchange on radio. I was driving from Tampa to Miami where I had just landed a job as a talk show host on WIOD Radio so I had listened to the entire exchange by the time I arrived at the station. Walking into the studio I mentioned to the newsman who had spent his night getting local reaction to who won that it was clear Nixon had just cleaned Kennedy’s clock.

  “What debate did you watch?” he asked me.

  “The thing tonight with Kennedy and Nixon. Kennedy lost. I listened to this station,” I said. Newsmen always want to hear that you listen to them, which, in this case, I actually had done.

  “Kennedy won,” he told me. “He looked better, he was energetic in his gestures, and I don’t see how Nixon outdid him anywhere.” Then he leaned in toward me and pointed to a television set with rabbit ears sitting on the floor in a corner of the newsroom. “This is where I took my notes on the debate. You shoulda seen it.” He turned and walked into the booth for a newscast. In the days that followed I did watch portions of the debate on television and in kinescopes of what I had just heard on the radio. That was when it became clear that what one sees is sometimes different from what one hears. Kennedy did seem more energetic. Nixon did need a shave. Kennedy looked good in a dark suit against a gray background, while Nixon’s gray suit blended into the background. I stood there for a moment, looked back at the gray screen in the wooden box and nodded. Radio has always been a theater of the mind but television was a theater, period. You came into the room, sat down and watched. In theory, the picture tells you what to see. No, I didn’t think of all this as I stood in the Miami studio that evening. It took a while, like until now. But to show how we’ve progressed, today we watch the same show and then argue about what we’ve seen. I guess just because the picture tells you what to see doesn’t mean that’s what you, or anyone else, will see.

  Three years later all of America was watching the television set. And John F. Kennedy was once again the reason but, this time, it was because he had been assassinated. I still see those days as black-and-white. It’s because that’s how we saw it on television. This was the beginning of television being a center around which we gathered to learn and to mourn and to be afraid and to be reassured. My set stayed on for all of those four days. A lot of televisions did.

  Kennedy’s son, John Jr., told me he had no recollection at all of the funeral (he was three at the time). In fact, he knew his father only through television. And thirty-plus years later we again gathered; this time on a July Saturday morning to learn John Jr. was missing. Across the country, indeed across the world, people reflected on their visions of the president’s son. Most of those images came from television and now, in this tragedy of an airplane crash off Martha’s Vineyard in which John, his wife, Carolyn, and her sister, Lauren, died, television replayed John Jr.’s salute, the scene under his father’s desk in the Oval Office, and the launching of his magazine, George. For most of us, that’s how we knew him. I was fortunate that our paths had crossed a number of times; the last being when he had appeared as a guest on Larry King Live. After the interview he and his wife decided they would go back to New York rather than stay in Washington for the night. CNN was two blocks away from Union Station and I remember John strapping a backpack over his suit, taking his wife’s hand, and saying they’d walk to the train. No car, no escort, no entourage. He shook my hand saying, “Thank you, Mr. King.” He always called me Mr. King.

  I had told him about the first time I met his father. It was 1958 and I was driving one Sunday morning with three other guys from a Miami radio station where we all worked. We were cruising along and looking at mansions when out of nowhere—BAM! I hit a car in front of me. I get out and the driver of the car I hit gets out and we look at the minimal, thank God, damage. I offer to give my name and driver’s license number and all that and the guy holds up his hand and says, “Forget it.” He looks at the dented rear bumper on his car and then looks at me.

  “How can you do this?” he begins. “How can you hit me when it’s a Sunday morning and we’re the only cars on the road and, more than that, we’re going in the same direction? How is that possible?”

  I had no answer and that’s what I told him. Then he reaches out to shake my hand as well as the hands of everyone in my car who, by that time, were also standing on the street surveying the damage. “I’m John Kennedy,” he says, “and in two years I’m going to run for president and all I ask is that you guys vote for me.” John Jr. laughed at the story and said he had heard similar tales about his father’s long-standing political ambition. We both agreed it reminded us of a fellow from Arkansas.

  We gathered all that July weekend and for part of the following week as divers searched for the wreckage. During that time we debated whether John Jr. should have been flying, whether the Navy should be involved in the search operations, and if there was a Kennedy curse, and the conspirators had a chance to offer their idea that the plane was taken down as part of Castro’s revenge against his father’s attempts to knock him off. We gather whenever a news story breaks and this is the reason we provide seemingly nonstop coverage. Every time I give a speech, the same question is asked: Why do you guys have to overdo everything? My answer is a simple one: Just tell me how much is enough. Tell me when that point occurs. The response is “I don’t know,” which is, I guess, the right answer. That’s where we are. The difference between the days of Walter Cronkite and the three network channels and today is that we have five hundred different places to get our information and, should we choose, five hundred different places not to get information. That’s progress. I think.

  Gathering has changed. George Bush’s press secretary, Marlin Fitzwater, told me there were many times the president would watch Saddam Hussein on television during the war with Iraq. And Bush knew Saddam did the same when he was talking to reporters in the White House Briefing Room. Today, gathering has expanded to include not just constituents, but opponents as well.

  ———

  On January 26, 1992, Americans once again were gathered for what has become an annual event. CBS had the Super Bowl, which featured the Washington Redskins and the Buffalo Bills. I had been invited to accompany the owner of the Redskins, Jack Kent Cooke (who always got the table I used at Duke Zeibert’s when he was in town), and, of course, Duke (who always gave the table to Cooke if he was in town). The Skins won 37–24, holding the Bills’ running back Thurman Thomas to only thirteen yards. I came away from that game with two thoughts: Cooke’s table had just become Cooke’s Table and even if he was on business in Romania, it would be left empty because he owned it. The other idea I had was that Redskins quarterback Mark Rypien would make a great interview for the show the next night when I was back in Washington, since he had just been named Most Valuable Player.

  I had been to the celebration party with Duke and Jack Kent Cooke and, as a result, wasn’t one of the millions who gathered that Sunday to watch 60 Minutes, which came on right after the Super Bowl. I knew Bill Clinton was going to answer questions about a woman and I knew it was coming at a strategic moment in his campaign to be president. That was it. When I got back to my hotel that evening, I followed what has become a routine whenever walking into a room: turn on the lights and pick up the clicker and turn
on the TV (I’m able to do this in any city and with any television: Sony, Philips, Magnavox, Panasonic—doesn’t matter). I caught the late news and, of course, the lead story was the Redskins win. And then we came to the second story: There was Bill Clinton and Hillary Clinton and Steve Kroft and any thought of my interviewing Rypien went out the door. I knew right away this was going to be the story for a while. I knew something else: This was the end of Bill Clinton.

  Less than twenty-four hours later I was in the Washington studio. And the country, once again, gathered to learn. The focus of the show wasn’t just that Clinton might have had an affair, but the way we learned about it: The Star, a tabloid, had first carried the story about Gennifer Flowers and her alleged twelve-year affair with Clinton. And they paid her for it. Then, for those who declared they never read a tabloid, the legitimate press such as 60 Minutes and Nightline used it. So we were talking about how trash knows no boundaries and about why everyone was now up and running with a tabloid story. The panel included David Osborne, who had advised the Clinton campaign on domestic issues. He was furious at the events of the past day:

  This is a new low for American journalism. We have a story in the tabloids and the rules of journalistic ethics are when an unreliable publication prints something you don’t repeat it, you don’t mention it, until you’ve independently verified that. The New York Post immediately violated it.

  The frenzy was back. The story had sex, power, and the possible destruction of a promising future. And we had what seemed to be an attempt to say it wasn’t so. When the hour was over the arguments kept going among the guests. This had been one of those shows that just took off with a life of its own. That’s what happens in a frenzy. There were a lot of shows like this in 1992. And 1994. And certainly 1998.

  ———

  Two weeks later, on the night of the New Hampshire primary, George Bush won with 53 percent of the vote. The story, however, was Pat Buchanan coming in second with 37 percent. Just a year earlier, Bush had high approval ratings for Desert Storm even though Saddam Hussein still had a job and an army. On the other side of the aisle, Paul Tsongas beat Bill Clinton 33 percent to 25 percent. That night, Clinton addressed his supporters saying “I want you to know in we are going to win a great victory against Pat Buchanan.” One thing you could say about the Arkansas governor: He wasn’t giving up. Buchanan had momentum. And the following night, we talked about where it could take him.

  KING: You know, Ross Perot is our guest tomorrow night. Would he be someone you’d consider for vice president?

  BUCHANAN: I’ll tell you, someone sent a speech by Ross Perot and it was pure dynamite. Let me tell you, one of my themes is it’s not simply the Democrats anymore. It’s not simply the Republicans. There’s a one-party government here in Washington and I think the establishment of both parties needs to be shaken up, turned over, and you need some fresh new people.

  My first impression was “yeah, right, Pat.” But then, it seemed he might be on to something. Maybe we needed someone who would turn the entire election process on its side or at least let us get under the hood to take a look at why it isn’t running very well? “Going under the hood” wasn’t a phrase I had ever used to describe political reform. That soon changed.

  The next morning my phone rang and I remember hearing the Nashville accent before understanding any of the words that were going to follow. The voice belonged to a guy I had heard about but never before met: Thomas J. Hooker. He had run for governor of Tennessee and lost. He had run for senator from Tennessee and lost. He was as successful as a businessman as he was unsuccessful as a politician. And he told me to ask Ross Perot about running for president.

  “Ross is on to talk about the economy,” I told him.

  “Ask him. I think he’ll do it,” Hooker pleaded. I knew Perot had been thinking about it. Earlier, he told a Tennessee radio station it was a possibility. And my producer, Tammy Haddad, had been encouraging him to appear. More than a year earlier, Perot had been on to argue against military action in Kuwait. It was clear he connected with viewers; not just with his straight talk but also in his approach that people deserve better than what they’ve got. So, twelve hours after my phone call with Hooker, that’s how I opened the show:

  KING: Are you going to run?

  PEROT: No.

  KING: Flat “no”?

  PEROT: But we’ve got an hour to talk about the real problems that face this nation and you, in effect, have sort of an electronic town hall, so I think we can serve the country by really getting down in the trenches, talking about what we have to do and then doing it.

  Okay, I thought to myself, Hooker is unsuccessful in the prediction business too. I pressed some more but the same question was getting the same answer.

  Perot told me he was a fixer. He said the people own the country and the only way to assess blame was to look in the mirror. He began his arguments with the popular “Now here’s the thing, Larry$#8230;” and “Step one$#8230;” And he took us under the hood to say that while the candidates agree we need some “jump-starting,” what the country really needs is a fundamental fix. He wanted an electronic town hall and said Larry King Live was pretty close to the way one would operate. It was ringing through the air. I could feel it. And during a quiet moment in a commercial break, I thought back twenty-four hours and the words Pat Buchanan used about needing new ideas and “fresh new people.” The floor director counted me out of the break and as he did it, I thought to myself, “We’re almost out of time. What the hell. Try again.” So before we went on the air, I leaned over and said, “Ross, I’m gonna ask one more time. This is it. Otherwise, what are you doing here?” We came out of the break and I looked him in the eye. It was the best question I ever asked, even though it took fifty minutes to get an answer:

  KING: By the way, is there any scenario in which you’d run for president? Can you give me a scenario in which you say, “Okay, I’m in”?

  PEROT: Number one: I don’t want to.

  KING: I know, but is there a scenario—

  PEROT: Number two, you know nobody’s been luckier than I have. And number three, I’ve got all these everyday folks that make the world go round writing me in longhand—

  KING: Is there a scenario?

  PEROT: Now that touches me. But I don’t want to fail them. That would be the only thing that would interest me and so I would simply say to them and all these folks who are constantly calling and writing, if you feel so strongly about this, number one—

  I thought to myself, “Stop with the numbers already and say it.” Ross was looking directly at the camera now. We had less than three minutes remaining.

  PEROT: —I will not run as a Democrat or a Republican because I will not sell out to anybody but the American people—and I will sell out to them.

  KING: So you’d run as an independent?

  PEROT: Number two, if you’re that serious, you the people are that serious, you register me in fifty states and if you are not willing to organize and do the—

  KING: Wait a minute! Are you saying— Wait a minute!

  He was in. But Ross kept adding conditions and I wondered if this is what he’s like when negotiating a deal: You spend eight weeks getting to yes and by the time you arrive you are glad but even gladder that it’s over. As soon as the show ended, we shook hands and he leaned toward me. “You don’t think anything is going to happen, do you?” he asked.

  “Ross,” I said, “you just never know.”

  At that moment, a bellman at the hotel where Ross was staying had just finished watching the interview. He went to Perot’s room and slipped an envelope with $5 in it under the door. Ross Perot had just received his first campaign contribution. Maybe Pat Buchanan’s words about the need to shake up the process with a new face and ideas had finally landed. The face, however, was different than anyone, including Pat, expected.

  In fact, it took a while for me to understand what had happened in that hour. Weeks later in airports complete str
angers would come up to me and ask, “Hey Larry, can you tell Ross I’m gonna vote for the first time in eight years?” And I remember going to George Will’s annual party, which always occurs just before opening day of the baseball season. The Ross story had been out there for more than a month by that time and both Will and Sam Donaldson teased me that afternoon. “You brought him in,” they said, and I remember throwing it back at them with a simple defense: All I did was ask him questions. If he was viable, then he did that without me.

  ———

  The man I predicted was politically dead in January proceeded to win key Super Tuesday victories in Florida, Louisiana, Mississippi, Tennessee, and Texas. I still hadn’t gotten a chance to interview Bill Clinton despite daily conversations my staff was having with his campaign (as well as that of George Bush). The White House line was it isn’t “presidential” for Bush to take phone calls. I wasn’t buying this at all. The same reasoning came from the White House in requests for the president to appear on my radio show. It was frustrating because I could see the lack of logic. Years later, I talked off the air to Bush’s press secretary, Marlin Fitzwater, about it: