The Secret Conversation

We won't know until long after it matters what transpired between Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama when they met secretly after the last primaries. But having just seen a brilliant production of "Nixon's Nixon" at Washington's Round House Theater, elaborating on Henry Kissinger's private meeting in the White House with President Nixon on the eve of his resignation, I have a newfound appreciation for the usefulness of literary license to fill the vacuum until history fills in the facts. Kissinger never discussed what went on between the two men, leaving lots of room for conjecture.

As the playwright imagined the unloved, self-pitying Nixon fretting about history's judgment, and the careerist Kissinger focused on getting Nixon to persuade his successor, Gerald Ford, to keep him on as secretary of State, I found myself imagining how the conversation between Clinton and Obama might have gone. Hillary can be blunt, sometimes to a fault, and I can picture her cutting to the chase pretty fast, saying she'd like to be on the ticket, but she won't embarrass him by forcing the issue. She's a big girl and recognizes it's his decision.

Ever the gentleman, Barack would say he's open to the idea (even if he isn't), but what about Bill? Hillary assures him Bill won't be a problem, but they both know that's not true. The former president is the angriest person in Clintonland. He blames the Obama campaign for playing the race card against him and besmirching his legacy. As improbable as that sounds, "he absolutely truly believes it, and he's viscerally angry about it," says a Clinton friend. Those hurt feelings could be mended, but the former president would have to come clean about his business and personal relationships, and that could be messy. Barack would have to meet with Bill separately.

Clinton believes she's earned a place on the ticket after winning nearly half the delegates and almost all the big states. If she were anybody else, that might be true. But given her baggage, and that includes Bill, her audition as Obama's running mate has just begun. Her Saturday concession speech kept her in the running, and if Obama thinks he needs her to win, he'll pick her. He's a dreamer, but he's also a practical politician. The problem with Hillary: she's the embodiment of the 1990s. Obama helped define her that way, and it would require political jujitsu to take her as his running mate and make it a ticket of the future.    

The last winning team on the Democratic side was Clinton-Gore, two Southerners reinforcing the message of generational change and regional strength. Applying the same double-down formula to Obama, three likely contenders emerge. First, Kathleen Sebelius, the popular governor of Kansas, a state moving from Red to Blue; she'd become the woman positioned to break through the glass ceiling cracked by Hillary's 18 million voters. The problem with Sebelius: how do you put a woman on the ticket without choosing the woman? Picking Sebelius risks a backlash from Hillary and her supporters.

Then there's Jim Webb, the Virginia senator, Vietnam War hero, acclaimed author and a former Republican. His resume is all about the new politics Obama represents. Pro-gun, popular and quirky, he could probably bring Virginia home for the Democrats, and he could court the rural vote that has so far eluded Obama. The problem with Webb: he doesn't have the soul of a vice president, a job that requires a degree of subservience.