The Democrats Reaching Common Ground

By Jacob V. Lamar

It was, in a curious way, more like a cathartic lovers' spat than a critical negotiation between two political heavyweights. Platform planks, staff integration and legislative positions were among the issues on the table. But emotional matters were at the heart of the three-hour meeting that Michael Dukakis had with Jesse Jackson in Atlanta on Monday just before the 40th Democratic National Convention was gaveled into session. The talk was mainly of hurt feelings and misunderstood gestures, sensitivity and communication. In the jargon of modern romance, Dukakis and Jackson were trying to make their relationship work.

In the end, the summit with Jackson, like everything else during the convention, clicked perfectly for Dukakis. Afterward, he and Jackson posed with the designated vice-presidential nominee, Lloyd Bentsen of Texas. The Three Amigos wore happy smiles that belied the quirky nature of the tableau they presented; somehow the nominating convention was giving birth to a trio of party leaders rather than the usual ticket of two. For the moment, Jackson stood ready to submerge his agenda for that of the party. But the three's-a-crowd awkwardness revealed fissures along racial and ideological lines that could someday threaten the foundations of the Democratic Party.

For all its strained quality, the joint appearance kicked off the convention with a welcome display of solidarity and a concrete example of Dukakis' managerial ability. More than anything he has said during the 64 weeks since he announced his candidacy, the skill that Dukakis showed in healing the rift with Jackson indicated what type of President he might be: tough yet pragmatic, cool yet involved, a negotiator more than a crusader. Without making any painful concessions, Dukakis had won his rival's support. Jackson, meanwhile, finally got from Dukakis and the rest of the Democratic leadership what he had struggled all his political life to earn: respect.

Invoking "unity" like a mantra, the Democrats rallied around their standardbearer. Dukakis and his team managed to keep the party's myriad special-interest groups content, yet not too well fed. As a media spectacle, the convention's only failing was so unusual for Democrats that they reveled in it: the floor show was rather dull and undramatic. The high points were the rousing speeches: Keynoter Ann Richards of Texas ridiculing George Bush for going after a "job he can't get appointed to"; Ted Kennedy cataloging the sins of the Reagan years; Jackson's resounding evocation of the personal and historical rationale for his quest. On a closing night that was supposed to be anticlimactic, the nominee delivered the speech of his career. With his artful orchestration of people and events, Dukakis emerged looking like the sort of nominee the Democrats haven't seen in a long time: a strong leader.

While Dukakis has proved he can balance state budgets and create efficient government programs, his ability to handle people has always been questionable. So the stakes in solving the Jackson problem were high. If Dukakis failed to make peace, he risked losing many of the nearly 7 million votes Jackson won in the primaries. But if he appeared to pander, he might alienate the conservative Democrats who abandoned the party to vote for Ronald Reagan. From the outset of his campaign, Dukakis has wanted desperately to bring those defectors, primarily blue-collar white males, back into the Democratic fold.

"He won't talk to me," Jackson complained to an associate after trying to set up a meeting with Dukakis before the convention. "He just won't talk to me alone." In the weeks after the New York primary winnowed the Democratic field to two competitors, Dukakis and Jackson held less than half a dozen cordial but perfunctory conferences, most with staff members present. "What does this say about the man?" Jackson asked. Those close to Dukakis knew the answer. The Governor feared that after a one-on-one meeting, Jackson would distort his words. Thus he had decided to deal with his rival almost exclusively through intermediaries.

Dukakis' first attempt at friendliness toward Jackson was a debacle. Jackson and his wife were invited to a Fourth of July dinner at the Dukakis home. After some innocuous dinner-table chitchat, Michael and Kitty and Jesse and Jacqueline retired to a separate room for what Jackson hoped would be a more substantive conversation. Fifteen minutes later, the Dukakis daughters returned to suggest dessert. Then the two couples were off to see fireworks. Once the show was over, Dukakis said he was sleepy and asked Jackson to call him the next morning. Jackson left Boston furious. "He felt he had been treated like a nigger," said a close friend.

Jackson's bitterness became public after the Dukakis camp botched notifying him of the selection of Bentsen more than two weeks ago. Conjuring images of life on a plantation, Jackson complained that he was being exploited as a "vote picker," expected to deliver his share of the electorate to the "big house." But Jackson was careful to leaven his anger with calls for a summit meeting to patch things up. Dukakis continued to resist a one-on-one. "Every team has to have a quarterback," said the Governor. "You can't have two."

On the Friday night before the convention began, a dozen of Jackson's top advisers gathered for a strategy session. One aide suggested that Jackson hold off dealing with Dukakis until after Atlanta. He argued that Dukakis would be much more agreeable to Jackson's demands as Election Day drew closer, particularly if the race were tight. Rejecting that counsel, Jackson chose to negotiate immediately, for the sake of party unity. But as one aide noted, "With Jesse, it's never 'either-or,' it's always 'and.' "

In Atlanta on Saturday, Jackson's convention manager Ron Brown contacted Dukakis' campaign chairman Paul Brountas. Over the next 24 hours, the two men, joined by Dukakis' campaign manager Susan Estrich and a handful of other aides from both teams, hammered out the details of an agreement involving staff and platform issues and Jackson's role in the fall campaign. By Sunday afternoon there was nothing left for the deputies to do but wait for the bosses to get in touch.

When Dukakis arrived in Atlanta on Sunday, Brountas urged him to schedule a meeting. Jackson, he said, was eager to settle. Dukakis was still unconvinced. He wanted to phone Jackson to gauge his sincerity for himself. Around midnight Sunday, by prearrangement, Dukakis reached Jackson backstage at the Fox Theater, where a gospel-music tribute to the candidate was being held. Jackson passed Dukakis' credibility test, and the Governor invited him to breakfast Monday morning in his Hyatt Regency suite. He still refrained from seeing Jackson one-on-one; Brountas and Jackson Aide Brown would join them.

"This time they connected," says a Dukakis aide of the Monday meeting. "They spoke frankly and candidly." Over fruit, cereal and coffee, Dukakis and Jackson discussed their shaky relationship. While Dukakis kept bringing the discussion back to party unity, Jackson seemed to want to probe the Governor's soul, to try to find out what makes Mike run.

"They talked about things that had transpired during the campaign, some of the things that had irritated the other," one adviser revealed. "There was some concern about some of the things that each had said." Dukakis griped about Jackson's "big house" remark. Jackson took Dukakis to task about his "quarterback" dig. They discussed the miserable Independence Day dinner, the bungled call about Bentsen, the generally poor communications between the camps. "They got it out on the table and they cleared the air," said an $ aide. Added another principal: "The interaction was very open and honest."

The cornerstone of the agreement between Dukakis and Jackson was a promise to employ Jackson supporters in positions on the nominee's national campaign staff. Jackson would also receive a plane and the funding to travel around the country, campaigning for Dukakis and registering voters.

Once relations were reasonably thawed, Dukakis invited Bentsen to the suite. The Texan added a note of realpolitik to all the candor in the room. "We're facing a tough election," said Bentsen. "It's going to take all of us to win. Any one of us can pull it all down, and all three of us will share the blame." Fifteen minutes later, the three men went out for their joint press appearance. Dukakis was careful to avoid any appearance of having caved in to Jackson. "There's no deal and there's no fine print," said the Governor. So how was the agreement between the two men sealed? "You don't put it in writing," Dukakis said. "You understand it. You feel it."

Moments later, Jackson addressed more than 1,200 of his delegates. He urged the crowd to focus on winning the election. "Quite a lot is at stake," he said, "and our eyes must be on the prize." For the cadre of disciples who had been heeding his calls to "keep hope alive," there was an inevitable letdown. But they went along, trusting his judgment. "Jesse is my leader," said Bill Crawford, an Indianapolis delegate. "I'll be satisfied if Jesse is satisfied. I will work for the ticket, but not as hard as if Jesse was on the ticket." Mississippi Delegate Alvin Chambliss was somewhat less amenable. "I'm not saying that Dukakis needed to let Jesse run things," Chambliss said. "But I came here looking for some recognition of the role blacks have played in the party. Up to now, we haven't got a damn thing. A plane for Jesse to campaign for Dukakis. So what?"

When Jackson spoke before the convention the following night, the Dukakis camp did its best to ease any bitterness among his boosters. Some Dukakis delegates gave their credentials to Jackson alternates and friends so they could gain entry to the hall. Others moved to the back of their state's sections on the floor or waved red-and-white JESSE! signs. "Jesse Jackson got 35% of the ((California)) vote," said Susan Good, a Dukakis delegate from Fresno, who waved a sign for Jackson while balancing a deck of DUKAKIS signs between her feet. "We all have to give in to keep us together."

Jackson showed his appreciation with a spellbinding address. Early in his 50-minute speech, he saluted Dukakis: "His foreparents came to America on immigrant ships. My foreparents came to America on slave ships. But whatever the original ships, we are both in the same boat now." His speech culminated with a wrenching account of his impoverished childhood in South Carolina. Speaking directly to the poor and dispossessed watching him on TV, Jackson made it plain why he has stayed so tenaciously in this election race. "When my name goes in nomination, your name goes in nomination," Jackson cried. "Wherever you are tonight, you can make it. Hold your head high. Stick your chest out. You can make it. It gets dark sometimes, but the morning comes . . . Keep hope alive!" Dukakis tried to reach Jackson by phone to congratulate him; Jackson, however, had clambered down the front of the gargantuan podium to exit through the throngs of delegates and camera crews.

After Jackson's electrifying turn, most Democrats were expecting Dukakis' acceptance speech to be a letdown. Even the nominee was self-effacing. At a Democratic fund raiser, he told his audience that he had given a draft of the speech to Kitty to read. Later, he said, he discovered his wife "fast asleep on the bed, and the speech was beside her, half read."

The first draft of Dukakis' speech was, in fact, a poor effort. Written by a close Dukakis adviser, Ira Jackson, the address was deemed "irretrievable" by the Governor. Dukakis' chief speechwriter, Bill Woodward, handed in a new version, but by last Saturday the candidate still had not found the time to focus on it. After hearing the liberal rhetoric of Jackson's address Tuesday night, party officials urged Dukakis to aim his words at Middle America. "Get Joe SixPack into this convention," one top Democrat said. "You've got to talk to him and include him." With a little help from J.F.K.'s famous wordsmith Ted Sorensen, Dukakis and Woodward were polishing the address into Thursday.

Reaching deep down for a resonance he has previously not shown, Dukakis delivered an inspired and touching address. He graciously returned Jackson's complimentary rhetoric, praising the civil rights leader as a "man who has lifted so many hearts with the dignity and the hope of his message." Dukakis had called Jackson that morning to tell him that he would include in his speech a special toast to the Jackson children. "Jackson's been tickled all day," an intimate friend related. After praising all five of the Jackson children in his speech, Dukakis singled out Jackson's twelve-year-old daughter for a grace note: "Young Jacqueline Jackson goes to school in my state, and last month she visited with me at the statehouse in Boston. She's a remarkable young woman, and I know her parents are very, very proud of her." From a sea of blue Dukakis signs, the crowd roared; in a box high above, Jacqueline's dad beamed.

By Friday it was clear that the Dukakis-Bentsen-Jackson trinity had pulled off a show of unity that transcended what could have seemed imaginable just a week earlier. When Dukakis appeared at a gathering of Jackson delegates, Jackson introduced him as a "man I've come to know in great detail and love." The crowd began to chant enthusiastically: "Duke, Duke, Duke!" The Governor told the audience, "We need you. We want you. We can't win without you." And with that business taken care of, he rejoined his official running mate, Bentsen, for a flight to Texas and the beginning of the general election campaign.

With reporting by Michael Duffy and Michael Riley/Atlanta