Fall from Grace

By WALTER SHAPIRO

They kissed again, softly at first, then almost violently. He was amazed at the passion in a woman so self-contained, seemingly so remote. Then she broke off and walked quickly to the chair where he had placed her coat. "It is time," she said. "I must go now, quickly . . ."

Although he had seen no one, Connaughton sensed they had been watched entering and leaving his apartment building. He had not seen, in the entryway four doors up the street, the slight man in the dark blue coat and the broad- brimmed hat.

-- The Strategies of Zeus, by Gary Hart, 1987

"If I had intended a relationship with this woman, believe me -- I have written spy novels, I'm not stupid . . . I wouldn't have done it this way."

-- Hart's press conference last Wednesday

The destruction of a public man holds a terrible fascination. One watches transfixed, yet ashamed, as personal dignity gives way to political desperation and hard-won respect is replaced by ribald laughter. It is an ugly spectacle, part Greek tragedy and part game-show television. Character becomes fate as hubris is defined anew. Yet the rituals of humiliation are straight Marshall McLuhan; the medium is the message as the cornered politician endures the prescribed sequence of televised statements, beginning with a tight-lipped acknowledgment of errors in judgment and ending with defiant surrender. So the political process is purified yet again, another heretic is hounded from public life. Some may see a rough frontier justice in the speedy verdict. But others may notice that a less than ennobling odor surrounded the entire affair, and wonder what it is about modern democracy that seems to require living victims.

For Gary Hart, the end came with breathtaking speed. As the week began, he was the overwhelming front runner for the Democratic presidential nomination, a Gulliver surrounded by political Lilliputians. But then came the most harrowing public ordeal ever endured by a modern presidential contender: a media trial that made George Romney's "brainwashing" and Edmund Muskie's public tears seem almost laughable in comparison. Like Hester Prynne, Hart stood in the public dock accused of adultery.

Of course, the initial charges were slightly more fastidious. A stakeout by a team of Miami Herald reporters yielded a front-page story claiming that Hart had spent most of the weekend with a comely blond, a part-time actress named Donna Rice, 29, whose half-clad modeling photos soon graced newsstands across the country. Hart was forced to concede that he had also taken an overnight boat trip from Miami to Bimini with Rice and two other people on a yacht called Monkey Business. But the final blow came when a Washington Post reporter called campaign officials midweek with evidence of a recent liaison between Hart and a Washington woman. The threat of further revelations prompted Hart and his plucky wife Lee to suspend campaigning in New Hampshire and fly to Denver for the ritual hoisting of the white flag.

Yet even in his political death throes, Hart could barely bring himself to let go his grip on the prize that so narrowly eluded him in 1984. Facing a mob of TV cameras last Friday morning, Hart began boldly, "I intended, quite frankly, to come down here this morning and read a short, carefully worded political statement saying that I was withdrawing from the race, and then quietly disappear from the stage. And then, after frankly tossing and turning all night, as I have for the last three or four nights, I woke up at four or five this morning with a start. And I said to myself, 'Hell, no!' "

It was a stunning moment of political drama, emotionally arresting because it seemed so palpably sincere. Hart supporters in the room erupted in wild applause. A nation of TV viewers thought as one: Was it possible that Hart would fight on? Was it possible that this political loner, this mocker of the canons of orthodoxy, would try to ride out the scandal? Was it possible that Hart would offer up his candidacy in the ultimate test of American tolerance and sense of fair play?

The answer was no. Hart had anticipated the confusion before he faced the press, and had instructed Top Aide Bill Shore to tell senior staffers privately that his withdrawal was complete and unequivocal. In his statement, Hart tried to blame the press for destroying the dialogue that he was just beginning to conduct with the voters about his vision of the national interest: "If someone's able to throw up a smoke screen and keep it there long enough, you can't get your message across. You can't raise the money to finance a campaign, there's too much static, and you can't communicate."

The most that the seemingly unrepentant Hart would concede was that "I've made some mistakes . . . maybe big mistakes, but not bad mistakes." Yet the facts, as ambiguous as some of them are, make clear that Hart brought on his own downfall. Ever since he reconciled for the second time with his wife Lee in 1982, Hart has portrayed himself as a dutiful husband whose 28-year marriage was strengthened by the stress of separation. But in his private conduct, Hart challenged the moralistic conventions of political behavior and ultimately paid the price for his apostasy. Until the very end Hart seemed oblivious to the reality that his actions had consequences. He denied there was anything improper about his friendship with Donna Rice, even though it is far from customary for 50-year-old men to spend weekends away from their wives hanging out with comely actresses who have appeared on Miami Vice. Hart jeopardized his reputation for veracity by angrily denying the persistent rumors about his womanizing. On the eve of the cruise to Bimini, Hart even told a New York Times reporter, "If anyone wants to put a tail on me, go ahead. They'd be very bored." The interview appeared on the day the Herald bannered the report from its Washington stakeout.

The seven dizzying days that began with Hart confronting the Miami reporters behind his town house and ended with his Friday surrender produced a + torrent of titillating stories. Rice, who met with reporters in her lawyer's office in Miami, insisted that she and the former Senator were "just pals" and volunteered that she was "more attracted to younger men." Lee Hart, who played the role of long-suffering political wife with delicacy and dignity, tried to defuse the damage by saying about her husband's conduct: "If it doesn't bother me, I don't think it ought to bother anyone else."

When Hart tried to confront the escalating crisis at a Wednesday press conference in New Hampshire, he winced visibly as reporters asked blunt questions about whether he had ever committed adultery. At one point Hart responded, "I don't have to answer that." Afterward, in the car heading toward a political dinner, Hart mused that maybe he should have said, "Adultery is not a crime. It's a sin. And that is between me and Lee, and me and God." Lee Hart added supportively, "That's exactly what I would have said."

The eagerness with which the nation embraced the scandal is simultaneously understandable and troubling. The quest for keyhole glimpses of presidential candidates can be seen as merely the final step in a celebrity process that reduces political discourse to the level of Entertainment Tonight. As the line between movie stars and political figures has become blurred, Americans now demand the same intimate knowledge about their leaders that once was reserved for the romantic entanglements of Clark Gable or Elizabeth Taylor. Rather than wrestling with the complexities of arms control and a troubled economy, the public tends to look for personalities they can trust, whose judgment and integrity make them feel comfortable.

Increasingly, the press has come to take on the role of moral custodian of the political process. "Candidates used to be picked in smoke-filled rooms by their peers, who knew everything about their character," explains Stephen Hess of the Brookings Institution. But this trial by cigar smoke died with the reforms of the 1960s, which exalted presidential primaries at the expense of party leaders. In this void, political reporters, with some justice, may come to see themselves as the voters' last line of defense between canned television images and the White House.

In his powerful and emotional valedictory, Hart charged that the press has taken this warts-and-all mandate too far. "We're all going to have to seriously question the system for selecting our national leaders," he said, reading from notes he had scribbled in the predawn hours. It "reduces the press of this nation to hunters and presidential candidates to being hunted, that has reporters in bushes, false and inaccurate stories printed, photographers peeking in our windows, swarms of helicopters hovering over our roof, and my very strong wife close to tears because she can't even get in her own house at night without being harassed. And then after all that, ponderous pundits wonder in mock seriousness why some of the best people in this country choose not to run for high office."

Hart's bitter indictment was a melange of truths (the press stakeout of the family's Colorado home was indeed intrusive), distortions (the Miami Herald insists none of its reporters in Washington hid in bushes) and self-serving justifications (at least seven Democrats -- including three Senators, a sitting Governor, a former Governor and a respected Congressman -- have not been dissuaded from seeking the presidency). But what Hart failed to address was the degree to which his own conduct and statements undermined public confidence in his truthfulness. A TIME poll conducted the night before Hart's withdrawal found that only 34% of those surveyed tended to believe the former Senator's story, and 47% thought he was "probably lying." By a ratio of roughly 10 to 1, those polled said they would be more troubled by Hart's not telling the truth than by any extramarital sexual relations.

The dramatic skein of events that dethroned the front runner did provide insights into Hart's often elusive character. That intense scrutiny is an ingredient of presidential politics that has often made Hart profoundly uncomfortable. As he conceded ruefully in his statement of withdrawal, "I guess I've become some kind of rare bird, some extraordinary creature that has to be dissected by those who analyze politics to find out what makes him tick." But delving into the character of potential Presidents is not a deviant form of bird watching. The next occupant of the Oval Office could be called upon to make decisions of war or peace, and how anyone might respond to such pressures cannot be divined from TV commercials or position papers.

Gary and Lee Hart first met Donna Rice at a New Year's Day dinner party this year at the Aspen, Colo., vacation home of Don Henley, formerly a lead singer of the Eagles. Rice, who had dated Henley several times, was no stranger to the pampered and permissive world of rock stars and multimillionaires. She once dated Prince Albert of Monaco, and was reportedly a guest of Adnan Khashoggi's daughter on his yacht. Hart's presence at the party was equally in character; since his days as George McGovern's 1972 campaign manager, Hart has displayed a fateful fascination with the glitz and glitter of show business. Some of the early rumors about Hart's extramarital conduct stem from his longtime friendship with Warren Beatty, an actor with no pretense to celibacy. A close friend of Hart's said, long before last week's scandal, "Gary had times when he sort of thought he wanted to be Warren Beatty."

If any friend could be blamed for luring Hart into political trouble, it was Lawyer-Lobbyist William Broadhurst. A close associate of Louisiana's flamboyant bon temps Governor Edwin Edwards, Broadhurst chartered the yacht for the controversial trip to Bimini. He also claims to be responsible for Rice's coming to Washington. Broadhurst says he invited her friend Lynn Armandt (who also sailed to Bimini) to come for an interview for the job of majordomo of his sprawling Capitol Hill town house, and Rice accompanied her. Broadhurst had developed a fun-guy reputation around Capitol Hill for entertaining lavishly. Daryl Owen, a former administrative assistant to Louisiana Senator J. Bennett Johnston, recalls that the town house was a "place where parties were given almost every day or night."

Hart's fast-blooming friendship with Broadhurst was the stuff that every Washington power broker dreams of: a close association with the man who could be the next President. Although Broadhurst had limited political contacts outside Louisiana, he often traveled with Hart on forays through the South. On a Friday night in early March, Hart and Broadhurst were relaxing on a yacht in Miami harbor after a fund-raising dinner. As Rice tells it, she wandered aboard by chance and encountered Hart. She told the former Senator, "You probably don't remember, but I met you at Aspen." Hart admits he asked for Rice's phone number, and the next day, she says, he called to invite her to accompany him and Broadhurst on a daylong boat trip.

Hart's original account of the boat trip was troublesomely vague. In response to questions, Hart claimed that Broadhurst had invited "two or three friends" to join them. Their destination was Bimini, 50 miles from Miami, where Broadhurst's own boat had undergone repairs. Both Hart and Rice insisted the only reason the party stayed overnight in Bimini was that the customs office was closed. But the Miami Herald reported that Monkey Business cleared Bahamian customs on arriving, shortly before dusk. And according to Bahamian authorities, American pleasure boats are not required to clear customs upon departure. The sleeping arrangements on Bimini prompted more questions than a TV quiz show. Both Rice and Hart maintained that they slept on separate boats, and that the two men spent the night on Broadhurst's.

The trip was only mentioned in passing in the initial Miami Herald story. But the image of two married men on an overnight boat trip to Bimini with two attractive young women did as much to damage Hart's credibility as the Herald's original charges. In the weeks after Bimini, both Hart and Rice acknowledge, they talked six or seven times by phone. Hart at first characterized the conversations as "casual, political" and later claimed they were primarily to discuss the bit-part actress's fund-raising efforts in the entertainment industry. The schedule for the Washington weekend was ostensibly for Hart, Broadhurst and the two women to have dinner together on Friday and Saturday nights. Even though Lee Hart was home in Colorado, the exhausted candidate had flown from Iowa to Washington for the weekend. But in making his social plans, Hart never figured on a stakeout by the Miami Herald.

Even now, after the collapse of the Hart campaign, there is still no coherent account of that Washington weekend that is not subject to bitter contradiction. Judging from the stories of Hart, Broadhurst and Rice, there were enough comings and goings from the candidate's Capitol Hill town house to satisfy a French farceur. But the Herald's initial story, rushed into print to make the late Sunday editions, contended that Hart and his date were spied entering the house alone late on Friday night and were not seen again until they emerged through the rear door on Saturday evening. Not until a day later, after the story had roared through the political community, did the Herald reporters concede they had not kept consistent watch on the rear alleyway exit until almost dawn Saturday.

The Hart camp's occasionally inconsistent challenge of the Herald's story begins with the assertion that Rice returned to the candidate's town house for just 15 minutes late Friday night to retrieve an address book. In this version, Rice left through the alley exit to spend the night at Broadhurst's nearby home, where she shared a king-size bed with Armandt. Far more perplexing is Hart's unshakable insistence that the group entered and left through the front door of the town house on two separate occasions on Saturday afternoon. During that period the Herald had as many as four reporters and a photographer watching both exits. Hart and his friends contend that they spent much of Saturday afternoon driving around Alexandria, Va.

In hindsight it is hard to believe that a lustrous political career could hang on such prosaic details. Moreover, the Herald's stakeout would have been infinitely more difficult at a later stage in the campaign, when Hart would have warranted Secret Service protection. In short, for want of a lookout a presidential campaign was lost. It ultimately made little difference that Hart told Herald reporters Saturday night, "I have no personal relationship with the woman you are following."

Could Hart have survived the original story and the almost inevitable discovery of the details of the Bimini trip? Probably not. Hart's cool, cerebral style left him without the reservoir of intense supporters that has allowed other politicians to ride out more serious scandals. His towering strength in the polls was in part a reflection of his high name recognition and the weakness of his opposition. With no sizable assets of his own and still saddled with $1.3 million in debts from his 1984 race, Hart found raising money to be a chore even at the best of times. Moreover, from the beginning, many party leaders were looking for an excuse to block his maverick candidacy. As a key state chairman said late last week, "Hart always struck me as a time bomb. The name change, the age, the stories of womanizing -- who knows what might have been next? Thank God it came to a head now, instead of after he had the nomination."

But Hart had one asset that was never mobilized until it was too late: the spunky loyalty of his wife. Lee Hart was one of the first people the candidate phoned when he learned of the Herald story late Saturday night. Her friend Sally Henkel recalls that Lee's immediate reaction was "concern with the story and the journalistic ethics involved." According to another friend who was with her during the early days of the ordeal, she never expressed any anger or disappointment in her husband. Other visitors to the house on Troublesome Gulch Road expected her to behave like a woman scorned. But she never faltered in her insistence that she believed her husband "because he just can't lie."

The textbook on political-damage control requires the candidate's wife to fly immediately to comfort her beleaguered husband. But for three long days Lee Hart remained silent in the house in Colorado, as campaign officials relayed word that she was suffering from a sinus infection. Political insiders regarded that story with the same skepticism that Kremlinologists apply to news that the Soviet leader has a cold. But in this case the illness was genuine. Not only was the candidate's wife unable to fly, but her left eye was badly swollen. The eye was so inflamed that at one point she joked that she dare not appear in public in support of her husband because "then they'll say he was a wife beater as well." When Lee Hart finally arrived in New Hampshire Wednesday afternoon, her husband took ten minutes off to go to her hotel room. His first words to her: "Hi, babe." At dinner that night, campaign officials discussed buying 30 minutes of TV time to get Hart's story across to the voters. But all such plans died with the news of the Washington Post's potential bombshell. Hart conceded the inevitable when he told Bill Shore early Thursday morning, "Let's go home." On the charter flight back to Denver, Hart sat by himself and read the Tolstoy novel Resurrection. Perhaps the intense spiritual faith of Tolstoy's later years provided comfort. Perhaps Hart wanted to remind himself that he still had a life outside politics. But there would be no resurrections for Hart's political career, at least not in 1988. Hart was a candidate who dared to be different, who demanded that the political world accept him on his own terms or not at all. And in the end he found himself alone.

With reporting by Robert Ajemian/Boston and Dan Goodgame and Alessandra Stanley/Denver, with other bureaus