So help me god, p.17
So Help Me God, page 17
Should you then seek great things for yourself? Do not seek them.
—Jeremiah 45:5
My summer was county fairs, campaign stops at diners, and quiet days in the statehouse, which is delightfully casual when the legislature is out of session.
On June 10, at the end of one of the quiet days, I was in the back of the state-owned black Chevy Suburban, heading home. We passed through downtown Indianapolis, then north up Meridian Street, where that warm light particular to midwestern summer afternoons was shining on the historic homes. My cell phone rang, and it was the last call I ever expected.
At the other end was Steve Hilbert, an old acquaintance, an insurance industry executive and confidant of Donald J. Trump. He opened with some friendly banter but then got to the point: he said a friend of his wanted to know if I would be interested in being considered as his running mate, even if that meant I would have to give up running for reelection as governor. Indiana law forbids running for state and federal office at the same time, and it would obviously be impossible, given the demands of a presidential campaign.
It was a quick conversation; he asked me to get back to him, I said I would pray about it and talk to my family and left it at that. The word “Trump” was never mentioned. I spotted Karen in the driveway, talking with a friend who was visiting from out of town. Shaken, I stepped out of the Suburban and interrupted. “Karen, we need to talk.”
Other than during the days leading up to the Indiana primary, I had met Donald J. Trump only twice before. They had both been instructive meetings. The first was during a small fundraiser at his Mar-a-Lago resort in Palm Beach in 2010. He didn’t attend the event but stopped by the lobby where I was standing and introduced himself. It was a brief but warm conversation. “I’ve seen you on TV,” he told me, “and I like your style.” I was actually kind of shocked that Donald Trump had any idea who I was. The second time, in November 2011, was at his office in Trump Tower. I was beginning my campaign for governor and stopped in New York to share our plans to build on Indiana’s recent string of successes and see if he might chip in financially. The meeting was once again short and positive: He offered his fundraising support, and I went on my way, down to the lobby to the golden escalator and out the door. By the time I reached the sidewalk, members of my staff were receiving calls from Indiana media outlets asking about my meeting with Trump. Annoyed, I asked, “Who told the press what we were doing today?” No one, a staffer told me; Trump had tweeted about our visit and endorsed me for governor before I got to the car. It was my first experience with the man and his medium, one that would dominate American politics for the next five years.
I reflected with Karen and prayed about how to respond. The first part of the deliberation was easy. I was basically being asked if I would be willing to give up my job if I thought I could help the country. I thought of Dad. He had risked his life for his country in Korea. He had raised me to believe that you ought to be willing to give up your life for your country, that sacrifice and duty are part of what it means to be an American. After all, as he said, to whom much is given, much is expected.
Giving up my job as governor of Indiana, honor and privilege as it was, was a rather small sacrifice compared to what a soldier risked—but one that carried with it a chance to do some good for our entire country. But that was the question. In fact, the day Steve called, I wrote and then circled a note in my day planner: “If I could help the country.” But to know whether I could help, I needed to know what the job description was. What role would the vice president play in a Trump administration? John Nance Garner, one of Franklin Roosevelt’s three vice presidents, had described the job as “not worth a bucket of warm spit.” I kind of doubt he actually said “spit.” But in any event, I wasn’t interested in holding that bucket, whatever was in it. But if Trump wanted a vice president who would play a part in helping him lead, that was another matter.
I decided not to call Steve back. If the interest was real, he would call again. We placed the outcome in God’s hands, took a deep breath, and headed off for the weekend to Aynes House, the Indiana governor’s retreat in Brown County State Park, to celebrate Charlotte’s twenty-third birthday. The Hoosier Camp David is a cabin built in the late 1920s. The surrounding park, with its rolling hills, steep valleys, and breathtaking vistas, is Indiana’s largest and often claimed to be its most beautiful. It was always a place of comfort and peace for our family. We were sitting on the screened-in porch, staring down the slope of green leading away from the cabin toward one of the most gorgeous expanses of southern Indiana’s rolling hills, when I told Charlotte about the call. She turned to me and said, “We all saw this coming. We all knew you were going to get this call. And he would be smart to pick you.” Things only a daughter would say. During that weekend, as we talked as a family of that possibility, it became clear to me that the only way it would work, the only way I could be a partner of Donald Trump, whom I did not know beyond the two brief meetings, would be if our family was able to meet and get to know him, find out who he really was and what his family was like. And since the Republican National Convention was just a few weeks away, it seemed fairly obvious that there wasn’t enough time for that.
Steve called again on June 16. I was transparent: I told him I was certain that there were better choices than me, candidates who knew Trump better, but I wanted to help. At the end of eight years of Barack Obama as president and with the possibility of another eight with Hillary Clinton, the Democratic candidate, who was already hugely favored, I thought the country was in trouble. It could not endure even another four years of leaders who believed that there was no problem facing America that couldn’t be solved with more government, more spending, and less freedom.
Responding to his first question, I told Steve that I had no problem leaving my current job if I thought I could help the country. But in the event that I was asked to join the ticket, I told him I wouldn’t be able to provide a yes or no answer unless my family and I had time to get to know Trump and his family. I needed to see if we could work together, and I needed to know what the job description was, which is defined every four years by the president. I told him very respectfully that I needed to know those things before we went any further. Steve said he would relay the message.
The phone rang again the next day. “He loved your answer,” Steve said. “He wants you and your family to come to Bedminster.” While we waited to hear from the Trump team when that would be, I focused on work at the statehouse and my campaign for reelection. On July 1, I was in Newburgh playing golf with some supporters at Victoria National Golf Club when a member of my team interrupted. Trump’s team had called and wanted us to fly to Bedminster for Independence Day. I walked off the course, leaving the game with eight holes still to play. I did promise my companions, who knew where I was heading and why, that if it all worked out I would come back someday and finish the game. I kept that promise five summers later with the same golfers on the same course. My game hadn’t improved.
Karen, Charlotte, and I flew to New Jersey that night, a Friday. We arrived at the golf club before the Trumps did and settled at a tall table on the balcony overlooking the golf course to order dinner. The club manager stopped by to let us know that Donald and his wife, Melania, were on their way. He asked if we were okay. I told him we were. And we were not expecting to see them until the morning. He replied, “You know how he is!” “I have no idea how he is,” I responded. “Well, he just wants things to be right,” the manager said, adding “Mr. Trump has called three times to make sure everything is okay.” It was my first glimpse of the insistent and personal attention that I would see him give to important matters for the next four years.
We didn’t see them that night, but we spent much of the following day together. Donald wanted time to talk with Charlotte, so we added a breakfast to the schedule. First thing, Karen, Charlotte, and I headed to a sunny room in the clubhouse for a light brunch and were joined by Donald, dressed for the round of golf we had scheduled for a late-morning tee time. From the outset, he peppered my daughter with questions about her time in college, her generation, and, of course, her dad. He engaged her without a hint of condescension, and she responded with her characteristic candor, not the least bit intimidated by his celebrity status. The four of us had a great conversation.
At one point, I said that his message to working people reminded me of a book by the historian Amity Shlaes: The Forgotten Man: A New History of the Great Depression. The book chronicled Franklin Roosevelt’s distortion of the term “forgotten man” to advance his welfare state agenda, when the forgotten man of that time was actually the workingman who wasn’t looking for a handout but just wanted a job. No sooner had I used the term than Trump reached for a napkin to write down the title, saying, “The forgotten man, that’s good. We could use that,” to which my daughter offered, “Well, it would be the forgotten man and woman.” At that, Donald stared at her briefly, nodded approvingly, and wrote the addition on the napkin.
Since we were at Bedminster, Trump invited me to play a round of golf at the Trump National Golf Club. I love golf but am not much of a player. Donald, on the other hand, is a 7 handicap. We took on a team of two scratch players and began the match with a minor miracle. Given my level of play, it was agreed that I would have two strokes a hole to reduce my score and keep things competitive. On the first hole, I managed to finish with one stroke over the par scores of the other three and won the hole, eliciting some skeptical looks from the other team. On hole two, I was able to drive the green on the par three and one-putt for a net score of 0. Donald was ecstatic and proceeded to announce at that moment and in recounting the story in the years ahead that I was the only man ever to shoot a zero on the second hole at Trump National. The other players thought they had been had. I would often say it was proof of the existence of God.
Though I enjoyed my brief flourish of golf magic, right on cue, my normal game showed up. It was a close match. While we were golfing, I asked what he had in mind for his potential vice president. He repeated the word “active.” He mentioned my experience as a congressional leader, on the House Foreign Affairs Committee, and as governor. He asked about Indiana’s string of successes. How had we managed to balance budgets? How had we cut taxes? He wanted a partner who would be a presence on the Hill, around the country, and around the globe, playing a part in foreign policy.
Toward the end of the game, we were alone in the golf cart, traveling along the immaculate greens, when he put the question to me. “What do you think will happen?” he asked. “We can take these guys,” I answered. “I don’t mean the golf game!” he shot back. “You’re going to be the president of the United States of America,” I told him. Donald tapped the brake. The cart came to a halt, and he looked right at me. “Well, that’s pretty definitive,” he said. Then I told him, “And that’s irrespective of who you choose to be your running mate.”
When he asked why I could be so sure, I told him what I had seen back in Indiana. As a candidate, Donald Trump was reaching, connecting with, and inspiring people who had been left out in the cold by both Democrats and Republicans. He was offering not just an agenda that put American jobs and American workers first but also a style of leadership that was distinctly American. His message was delivered with a brashness that sometimes—well, often—shocked. That was nothing new in the history of US politics, though. Earlier that year, I had read a book by Jon Meacham entitled American Lion: Andrew Jackson in the White House. It was no real surprise to me that President Trump had a portrait and statue of Old Hickory in the Oval Office all four years of his administration. Like Jackson, Trump was a counterpuncher; if attacked—and he was constantly—he didn’t turn the other cheek. The political class feigned outrage at his combativeness, but the voters appreciated it; they saw him as not just fighting to win but fighting for them. Beyond that, though, was a sense of optimism and confidence in what the United States was capable of. I knew he was going to prevail in the fall.
Our day at Bedminster provided a clue as to why. He spent most of his time talking to the men and women working on the grounds and in the club—the people who made the place run with their hands. It was clear that he motivated them and made them feel seen and respected. That was the secret of his success, first as a businessman and now as a politician: he didn’t talk to the contractors, he talked to the subcontractors. I understood it. I had seen it before. My dad had had the same quality. He was just as comfortable talking to the mechanic working at one of his gas stations as he was with the CEO of Marathon. With that background, I could see that Trump understood voters in a way that more conventional politicians couldn’t.
During the discussion in the golf cart, he asked why I was interested in being vice president. On top of telling him that I believed he could do a great deal of good for the country and I believed I could help him, there were two other matters. I had run for Congress in 2000 because I was alarmed by the way Bill and Hillary Clinton had diminished the presidency with a lurid scandal and the fundraising tied to China by the Democratic Party in the 1990s. Sixteen years later, the Clintons had their bags packed, ready to return to the White House, and China was now the United States’ chief geopolitical foe. I told Trump that the Clintons could never be in power again. Aware of my history opposing the Clintons on the radio and in my first election, he said, “Well, this has really come full circle for you, hasn’t it?”
Our visit ended with dinner on the patio overlooking the beautiful grounds as the sun went down. There we sat, just the four of us, at a table in the middle of the restaurant talking like old friends for hours as club members dining nearby tried not to stare. On paper it seemed a strange gathering: the billionaire mogul and his supermodel wife breaking bread with the small-town lawyer and his schoolteacher wife. We probably looked like the odd couple of couples. Everyone was comfortable, though; the rapport was natural.
They spoke to us with gentleness about our faith; Trump told me he was a believer, too. They asked us if we prayed often, and we told them we had just done so. We had prayed for them just before we had come to dinner. The Trumps were surprised and caught a little off guard, but they were touched. We talked about our lives, not just politics or the election. The Trumps seemed fascinated by the fact that we had followed a calling into public service, forgoing the opportunity to build financial security. Despite our differences—and our different bottom lines—we had plenty in common. He had spent a decade on television hosting a reality show; I had spent years on radio and TV as well. The audience sizes were, of course, just a little different, but it was common ground. He spoke about Queens, New York, where he had grown up. As far as it seemed from Indiana, Trump explained that it really wasn’t. He didn’t deny his own family’s wealth but explained that Queens is a working-class borough and not that different from say, Terre Haute, a city in southwest Indiana he was familiar with.
As we were preparing to call it an evening, he gave me some parting words. “Whatever happens, this has been good for you,” he reassured me. I had a bright future, he said, and if nothing else, he would find a place in his cabinet for me. “That’s fine, it’s been an honor,” I responded. On the flight back to Indiana, the three of us reflected on the visit. Charlotte remarked, “He was Trump, but he was nice.” She said he was the same person she had seen on TV. It was not an act. He had shown real kindness to her and our family in the time we had spent together. She was impressed. Karen said, “I really liked them,” but in a moment of wifely candor said, “but there is no way he’s picking you.” That hurt. She interpreted his parting words at dinner as a soft letdown. When I thought about it, her words made sense, as they usually do. Either way, it was out of our hands. We resolved to put it to prayer and trust the Lord for the outcome. There would be no lobbying. I actually forbade my staff and political team to pursue the vice presidential slot on my behalf. If we were called, we would serve, but I was determined to put it all in God’s hands. As the prophet Jeremiah wrote, “Should you then seek great things for yourself? Do not seek them.”
A few weeks later, on July 12, the Trump campaign stopped in Westfield, a town just north of Indianapolis, for a rally. I was asked to speak and cheerfully obliged. There were few updates on the selection process, which involved submitting materials to the campaign for vetting, but the Trumps had asked that Karen and I fly to New York the next day to meet the rest of the Trump family. The candidate was still deliberating, and we were in the mix.
That night in Indiana, the explosive impact he had on voters was on full display. The crowds were only growing. Afterward Karen and I joined Trump and his middle son, Eric, for dinner at the Capital Grille in downtown Indianapolis. The Trumps had rooms upstairs in the Conrad Hotel, just a few blocks from the statehouse. Donald had not yet appeared, so I had some alone time with Eric. I asked a personal question, in a fairly direct manner: “What’s the deal with you kids?” He understood what I meant.
He told me, “We worked.” He said that he and his siblings had worked at construction sites from an early age. As a family, they believed that all work was valuable. Their income was not blue collar, but their work ethic certainly was. Again, it explained his dad’s connection with voters. I connected with it as well. At my parents’ urging, as a teenager I had washed dishes at Gene’s Cafeteria, the home of Columbus’s finest fried chicken and pies, and pumped gas at one of my dad’s gas stations. It had taught me the importance of work—that all honest work is honorable—and given me the ability to relate with people, no matter their background. The Trump kids had had the same experience.
Karen and I had not yet met any of Eric’s brothers or sisters, hence the planned trip the next day. There was a hitch, though. That night, Trump Force One, the candidate’s Boeing 757, had a flat tire at Indianapolis International Airport. For the record, I had nothing to do with that.
