How to Be a Popular President: Unlike Trump, Bill Clinton Was Well-Liked, Even After the Monica Scandal

Newsweek published this story under the headline "Collateral Damage" on August 31, 1998. In light of recent news involving President Donald Trump and his potential impeachment, however unlikely, Newsweek is republishing the story.

WITH A SINGLE WORD, the president of the United States can command the furies. But can he command personal respect? Bill Clinton gave the word at 3 a.m., in his borrowed vacation home on Martha's Vineyard. Sandy Berger, his national security adviser, was on the line. For a week, in deep secrecy, Clinton and his innermost circle had planned retaliatory airstrikes against Osama bin Laden, the wealthy Saudi terrorist they blamed for the bombing of two American embassies in Africa. Now it was launch time, Berger said. But the president still had the option to call it off. Clinton's reply: "Go." By morning, they went: 80 cruise missiles, fired from warships, exploding in the heart of Khartoum and the hills of Afghanistan.

There were cheers in Washington and throughout the world. But there also were instant questions about…a movie. In the Pentagon briefing room, only minutes after the president announced the strike, Defense Secretary William Cohen got the query. Had he seen the film Wag the Dog?

It's the one about a fictional president who creates a made-for-TV war to divert attention from a sex scandal. Was our real president striking just at terrorism—or also at Independent Counsel Kenneth Starr and his superstar witness, Monica Lewinsky? "The only motivation," said Cohen with practiced cool, "was our absolute obligation to protect the American people."

Solemn and surreal, combining high stakes and low moments, the extraordinary events of last week tested everyone's confidence in the president. In Washington, the ferocious cynics of politics thought they were beyond shock—but weren't. Outside the Beltway, the reaction was far less apocalyptic, but Americans were transfixed by the spectacle. On Monday Clinton became the first president to testify before a federal criminal grand jury investigating his own behavior. That night, before a Super Bowlsize audience, he became the first to admit he'd been unfaithful to the first lady—and to admit, in essence, that he'd lied because it was too painful and politically damaging to tell the truth.

And that was just Monday. Clinton, it turns out, was in the midst of a dizzying split-screen war, publicly fighting his legal and political battles with Starr while meeting secretly with aides to plan the antiterrorist airstrike. The two stories collided, finally, on Thursday. In her second appearance before the grand jury, Lewinsky discussed obstruction charges and a flurry of details about the affair. The leader of the free world, she reportedly testified, had repeatedly received oral sex from an intern half his age. Yet at the very moment she was talking, the president was unveiling his mission: attacking the high-tech, stateless terrorism that poses a grave threat to democracy in the 21st century.

Can Clinton still lead the nation, or the world? The public is supportive but worried. In the Newsweek Poll, Clinton's job-approval rating rose slightly—from 59 percent to 62 percent. Few (22 percent) are willing to believe anything he now says about his personal life, yet most (63 percent) find him credible on national issues. Still, voters don't much trust him. A majority (54 percent) think he is lying about whether he obstructed Starr's probe; 40 percent think that political diversion had at least something to do with the antiterrorist strike. And voters now fret about Clinton's effectiveness, believing that the Monica story has eroded—either seriously or somewhat—his ability to lead the country (60 percent) or the world (63 percent).

If the public reaction was calm and measured, the first reaction of the pundit class was near hysteria. In the corridors of Washington and the editorial pages of the country, Clinton wasn't commander in chief but philanderer in chief, the object of derision and distrust—a politically crippled character, trapped by his own crude behavior. In his angry, hair-splitting address to the nation, Clinton confessed to a relationship with Lewinsky that was "not appropriate," but not exactly sexual. Most of America thought the speech went far enough and that the press has been too quick to judge Clinton. And yet the speech loosed a torrent of vituperation from pundits unlike any seen since the last days of Richard Nixon. "There is a tidal feeling of betrayal and embarrassment running across the country today," The New York Times thundered. Suddenly, the air inside the Beltway was full of talk of censure or impeachment, which didn't fully subside even after the airstrike that the public approved by an overwhelming (73 percent) majority.

Whatever the public now thinks, the likelihood of a congressional "censure" or the onset of impeachment hearings depends on something else entirely: Starr's report, now being written and expected to arrive on Capitol Hill next month. If it contains clearcut evidence that the president tried to illegally thwart the investigation—specifically by seeing to it that evidence of the relationship eluded prosecutors—the consensus on Capitol Hill and in the Cabinet is that hearings are inevitable, probably early next year. "And if the gavel falls, all bets are off," a senior Clinton official told Newsweek. "The process at that point takes on a life of its own."

Other ifs are outside politics per se. If the stock market tanks, if China devalues the yuan, if American civilians become victims in an undeclared war of controversial origin (as opposed to merely launching cruise missiles from a safe distance), if Alan Greenspan raises interest rates—if any such scenarios occur, Clinton could start to sink beneath the waves. In any case, he no longer controls his own fate. "There's a risk of political collapse," said historian Robert Dallek, who has written major studies of LBJ and Nixon. "That happens when people simply lose all trust in a president. At that point, they assume his only concern is his own survival—not their welfare. And the reaction can be severe."

We're not there—yet. Clinton remains widely respected abroad. But as the personification of American democracy, his moral character as a leader is part of the equation. So Arab propagandists had their predictable field day with the double helix of last week's events. In Khartoum, protesters paraded through the streets with signs of Monica and Bill. Europeans scolded. In London The Economist called Clinton a "proven liar." In Paris the newspaper Le Monde declared: "The American president is too diminished by his domestic saga for his credibility not to be called into question" by the attack.

But there's another dimension to Clinton's character: He's a fighter and a survivor. He knows that voters liked the strikes, dislike the press and Starr, and like the status quo above all. White House strategists, accordingly, were playing for time. Emerging from their bunkers by the weekend, they began searching for a way to repair damage. Aides passed the word that Clinton had come to realize his speech was "incomplete," and that he wanted to amend it, perhaps in answer to a question, by saying the crucial words "I am sorry." But such talk may be wishful thinking, and many Democrats were dubious. "It's way too late," said one skeptical member of the inner circle. "His credibility is shot."

As they worked to recover their balance, White House staff and Cabinet members were numb and obviously angry. For a host of reasons—legal and psychological—Clinton didn't confide in them before the speech, and the few conversations he had afterward were awkward and brief. Longtime friends were left in the dark. One was Education Secretary Richard Riley, who once enjoyed a somewhat fatherly relationship with the president. He hadn't heard from Clinton—until he was invited to Martha's Vineyard last weekend. Perhaps the president was about to start his next campaign: selling himself (again) to his old friends.

Among Clintonites, there was a widespread sense of betrayal. It had little to do with being lied to; the president had never spoken to most of them about the issue in any case. Spinners were enraged at Clinton for undermining them. "Last dogs" such as political aide Paul Begala had insisted that they believed the president—and that they wouldn't champion him if they knew otherwise. What do they do now? Clintonites in and out of the White House also had to confront the reality of the boss's selfishness, by which he imperiled what they viewed as their cause—a sensible, compassionate liberal centrism—for a series of cheap thrills next door to the Oval Office. "We're still quite supportive of his goals," said one longtime friend of the president's from Renaissance Weekend days. "And you want to be supportive of him. But let's be frank. What kind of a**hole jeopardizes everything this way?"

Democrats on the Hill weren't shocked by the truth. Some who had been lied to face to face, notably Sen. Dianne Feinstein of California, reacted angrily. ("I wish she'd get a grip," said one White House political loyalist. "This is an affair we're talking about.") But few Democrats had ever believed his denials. Rather, as students of political disaster, they were furious at him for bungling his own resurrection. "I thought his speech Monday was incredible," fumed Rep. Tim Roemer, a moderate from Indiana. "The American people have given him the benefit of the doubt, and I am extremely distressed by his inability to tell the truth, perhaps even under oath. The president is in serious trouble—even with Democrats out in the country."

It's not clear yet how much collateral damage Democrats will suffer in the fall. In the Newsweek Poll, most voters say their view of Clinton won't affect their vote. The Democrats had only a vague hope of regaining control of Congress in any case, and it seemed to be fading even before Clinton misfired in the Map Room last week. But in culturally conservative districts where Democrats have a narrow edge, a difference of two or three points is critical. Republicans went on the air with anti-Clinton ads in North Carolina, last week, and others are expected elsewhere. "This certainly doesn't help us at all," said Democratic consultant Alan Secrest. "It's going to hurt us in places like Alabama or central Pennsylvania. We're going to lose some races because of this."

As for Clinton, his political fate is now encrypted—as yet uncompleted and unreadable—in Starr's report. There is no longer any doubt that it will be sensational and explosive. But will it blast the president into impeachment hearings, or a censure vote, or even amplify calls for his resignation? Running to at least 300 pages, the report's overarching theme will be the president's disregard for the truth and the operation of the law, using Clinton's attempts to cover up his secret sex life as the example. The challenge for Starr is to show any acts of obstruction clearly enough to justify the titillating sexual details. "However gross the sex, that's not going to matter," said a lawyer who is advising Democrats in Congress. "Neither will lying about sex. Let's see what they've got. Until we know, you can't predict."

In anticipation of the report, the staff of the House Judiciary Committee has commandeered portions of a ramshackle old congressional office building below Capitol Hill. Locked and monitored rooms have been set aside, and GOP leaders plan to pass a resolution restricting access to members of the committee. The report surely will leak anyway. The Democrats' strategy is to demand not only the report itself but all the raw grand-jury transcripts that went into writing it. The idea is to see if Starr shaped his report fairly or in the manner of a political vendetta. "It's standard operating procedure in a case like this," said one Democratic lawyer—but one designed to tie up the committee in knots. No one expects any hearings before Congress recesses at the end of next month, regardless of what the report contains. If there are hearings—and it is now quite likely that there will be some "preliminary" version of them—they won't take place until next year. If the Democrats are back in the minority again, they will be in a foul mood, said one administration insider. "They're going to blame the president, and they're not going to lift a finger to help him."

Back on Martha's Vineyard, the president had more immediate business to attend to. Having declared war on Osama bin Laden, he was returning to the role of commander in chief. In his regular radio address, Clinton pronounced last week's raids a success. He announced an executive order aimed at crippling Bin Laden's financial network. And Clinton warned somberly that "all Americans are targets." "Our efforts against terrorism cannot and will not end with this strike," he vowed, urging Americans to "close ranks against international threats."

And then it was off to the other battlefield. As they do every August, investment banker Steven Rattner and his wife, Maureen White, were hosting a party. The elite of summer people would be there—the media types, politicos and literati who make up this beachside corner of the chattering class. Clinton had no choice but to go: to duck the event would have been tantamount to a social resignation speech. And he knew that the crowd would greet him warmly. They would avoid any mention of That Other Problem. And of course they would praise him for his courageous missile strike. He was, after all, still leader of the free world.