The Wicked Wine of Democracy by Miller Joseph S.;

Author:Miller, Joseph S.;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: University of Washington Press

I am being charitable to myself in describing the next incident as bad luck. Sheer stupidity is the more apt characterization. Oregon, a key primary state, was my turf. I was the expert on its Democratic politics and had talked with most of the significant figures about the presidential primary. Although these people represented different elements of a fractious party, they nonetheless were united on one point: Keep Bobby Kennedy out of Oregon.

The recent Senate Rackets Committee hearings, with Bobby as counsel, had centered on Oregon, and Portland's respected Democratic mayor, Terry Schrunk, had been indicted. RFK testified against him in the subsequent trial in which Schrunk was acquitted. The bad blood against Bobby was still boiling, and I was importuned by those I talked with, including such Kennedy supporters as Congresswoman Edith Green of Portland, to let Jack know about it.

Did I stop to think that the relationship between the two brothers, which I had observed close up, should call for a delicate, sensitive approach on my part? No. I blunderbussed my way in a one-on-one dialogue with JFK in which the following took place: “Jack, do you remember the Listerine ads with the headline, ‘Even your best friends won't tell you'?”

JFK (puzzled): “Yes, I do.”

Me (nervously): “I am in that situation regarding the Oregon primary. Every Oregon Democrat, including your strongest supporters, have told me the same—that Bobby should stay out of the state. They think I should be authorized to give that assurance when I go to Oregon to help organize your statewide committee.”

JFK: “I don't fully understand. Why?”

Me (struggling for words): “Well, ah, um, they think that Bobby kind of made a horse's ass out of himself in the Schrunk trial and all.”

Kennedy's eyes became pale blue slits, and his voice was as frigid as I had ever heard. “You know more about Oregon than we do, and if we have to accept that judgment, we will. That doesn't mean we like it.”

With that I was dismissed. I had blundered, I knew, but how badly I was not to learn until a few months later. In the meantime, I was so absorbed with the fight against Landrum-Griffin and the ongoing steel strike that I had no time to brood over my faux pas. Nineteen fifty-nine was turning out to be a year in which everything seemed to be happening at once, and there was no time for reflection. It was just one damned thing tumbling on top of another. Coming next were the primaries and the AFL-CIO convention.

John Salter accompanied me on my western swing. He was more than Senator Scoop Jackson's chief assistant. He was his best friend and more than an equal when it came to politics. As a onetime Catholic seminarian, John had a natural interest in Kennedy, and I had induced him to come aboard. Scoop had grumbled that Kennedy “didn't have a chance” and added “I hope you know what you are doing.”

The climate at the AFL-CIO national convention at San Francisco's Civic Center was cold enough to Kennedy to give us pause.

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