He can tell that something is wrong. I am on the verge of tears. My adrenaline has gotten the better of me and I am trembling. He greets me with a hug. I know -- he hugs everyone. But at this moment, it is sincere and just what I need. A flurry wells up in my stomach, a mixed rush of fear and solace, all raw, all at the surface. He is my friend -- the most powerful man I know, the most powerful many anyone knows. Surely he can help me, give me some hope, maybe a job, anything to help me out of this crisis. A hug is a good start. Then he looks into my face, into my eyes.
"What's going on?"
"I just really need to talk with you about something," I start to explain as we sit at his desk. "I've got some real problems." I have helped him for a long time, worked for him, supported him when other people didn't. I figure a relationship like that goes both ways, and I don't think twice about asking him for help. But I don't want to cry in front of him, and I try not to let go of the tears. "I don't know what will happen with Ed and me. He's gotten himself into real financial problems and we need help."
"I can see how upset you are," he said. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"
"Oh, yeah, okay."
"Well, come on," he says. "Let's go back to my kitchen."
He opens a side door that's discreetly integrated in the paneling of the office wall, and I follow him through it into a narrow hallway. There's a small bathroom on the right and just past it, a little galley kitchen. A steward starts to ask what we would like but he is quickly dismissed and we are alone.
"I will fix you a cup of coffee," he says. "Decaf?"
"No, high test."
We stand in the hallway for a minute or two. He pulls down a Starbucks cup and pours my coffee into it, mentioning that he only takes decaf.
"How do you like it?"
"Um, cream."
He hands me my cup. My hands are shaking and I worry about spilling, so I quickly taste the coffee.
"Come on back here to my study," he says, "where it's easier to talk."
I follow him through a narrow hallway into his private study. He rests on the back of a chair while I stand, leaning against the doorjamb. At six feet two, he is a big man, but half-sitting he no longer towers above me and we are at eye level with each other. It's subtle, yet I wonder if he knows that this makes me feel a little more at ease. Still, I tremble. Holding the full cup of coffee, my hands are shaking. I think, Now just calm down! I grip the warm mug to steady myself.
"I can tell you are really upset," he says, looking at his watch. "Are you okay? Tell me more about what's going on."
"I'm frightened," I said. "And worried about my family and where this is going to all end."
My voice trembles as I quickly tell him about my crisis, passing over the details. I have a serious problem. I don't know what's going to happen with my husband. I don't know if we're going to get divorced, and I don't know what's going to happen to us. I only know that Ed is in trouble, owes a lot of money, and I have to do something. I am scared to death. I've got to rise to the occasion. I have not had a paying job in twenty years, but my volunteer days are over.
I've got face time with a very powerful friend who only has a few moments for me, so I'm going to make the most of it. Tears well up in my eyes. I try to maintain my dignity. I don't want to lose it in his office. I just need him to point me in the right direction. That's basically how I look at it. I want him to know that times are bad and this is very serious. With all this desperation and nervous energy, I run my mouth for five or ten minutes. He looks at his watch again. His assistant said he would see me before a three o'clock meeting, and I cam in at about two forty-five, so I should finish talking and get out of his way. "I hope you can give me assistance because I desperately need a job. Please, send me anywhere."
"We'll see what we can do."
But my coworkers wanted me to tell him about some office problems, so I tag them on as an aside. "And you really need to know this too," I add. Still on the verge of tears, I think talking about work will help me to level out the conversation and distract me from my panic. "The office is just chaos. It's a mess. There's no protocol, no rhyme or reason, no organization. There's no language code, and it's very inappropriate." Finally, I conclude, "You really need to do something about that." I know it's nervy of me to tell him what to do. But that's just who I am!
Again he looks at his watch. I'm not paying much attention to the time but I know it's close to three o'clock and time to leave. We move back into the small hallway. I set my coffee cup on a shelf to steady myself again.
He promises to help.
There is a loud knock beyond the door from the outer office, and an assistant calls out, "It's time for your meeting!"
He ignores this. He doesn't say anything, not one word. I'm thinking, How can he ignore this? But he does not answer at all. He doesn't even say "Give me a minute," or "Hold on." Why don't they just come in? What must they think if he doesn't answer?
Again he looks at his watch. Obviously, he's trying to show me he needs to get to that meeting, so I should go.
"Well," I say, "I'll be going."
"No, you don't have to rush."
"But you have an important meeting here, and I know you have a lot to do that's more important."
"No, it's all right."
But again he looks at the watch. I think that contradicts his words and my time is up. "Okay, well, I'm open to any possible job, and I could go anywhere," I conclude. "I've taken enough of your time, so I should leave."
The assistant beyond the door resumes knocking. "You're late!"
Somebody's got to move to the door here, and obviously it's not going to be him. You'd think it would be him -- or that somebody would come through the door and say, "Okay, it is time to move along." Yet there's no such person. Instead, he looks at the watch. It crosses my mind: Why does he keep looking at that watch if he's not going to usher me out?
The assistant bangs on the door again. I decide to ease myself out of there.
"Well, thank you for listening. I'd better go, and if you could help me, I'd really appreciate it." I retrieve my coffee cup. I have no idea why, just that I was so full of distracted, nervous energy. I move to the door and head back toward his office. He follows me and moves closer. I turn around and he is right next to me, but it's a narrow hallway, so I don't really feel like he's crowding me. I finish the conversation, "So, you know, whatever you can do for me ..."
"I'm so sorry this is happening to you."
He reaches around to hug me but I'm holding my coffee cup at my waist, with both hands. He presses into the cup between us.
"I'm going to spill my coffee."
He takes the cup and puts it on a shelf, then gives me a big hug. But this hug lasts a little longer than a hug should. I pull back. All of a sudden, his hands are in my hair and around the back of my neck. What the hell? And then he kisses me on my mouth. Somehow, before I know it, I'm backed up in the corner by the little bathroom, against the wall behind his office. I am trying to maintain my space but he's all over me, just all over me. And all I can think is, What the hell is he doing?
I try to twist away. He is a foot taller than I am and nearly double my weight. I can barely think. What do I do? He is my friend, my boss. He is a very powerful man. And I am trying to be a lady.
"What are you doing?" I finally manage.
"I've wanted to do this since the first time I laid eyes on you."
I am totally unprepared for this. I have been off on this other plane -- terrified for my husband, for my family, for our future -- and he says, "I've wanted to do this ..."
What?
He takes my hand and places it on his genitals, on his erection -- perhaps to show me how much he's "always wanted to do this." What is he doing? I am shocked! I yank my hand away but he is forceful. He is all hands -- just all hands. His hand goes up my skirt, he touches me everywhere, pressing up against me and kissing me. His face is red, literally beet red. It is as though this bizarre scene gives him a different kind of rush.
My mind is racing. I should slap him. That would shake it out of him. Can I slap him? I don't know if I can slap him! I'm pinned in the corner against the bathroom door and the wall, and his hands are all over me, up my skirt, over my blouse. I think he is trying to unhook me ...
"Aren't you afraid that somebody's going to walk in here?" This should give him pause.
He doesn't miss a step. "No. No, I'm not."
"What if your wife or daughter walks in here?"
"I know where they are," he says, "all the time."
The aide outside the office is frantic, banging on the door and yelling from the other side, "You're late for your three o'clock meeting." But the assistant doesn't come in. Why doesn't he come in? Where is everybody? Where is that steward? What about security? Why doesn't someone come in?
I realize why they don't come in. They've been told to stay out. Oh, God! I've got to get out of here! I just have to get to that door. I have to get out!
-- Target: Caught in the Crosshairs of Bill and Hillary Clinton, by Kathleen Willey