Ashcroft on 9/11, America's security and more

Throughout the summer, most pollsters reported that Mel and I were running neck and neck, as every public poll gave me a slight lead. A month earlier, the Zogby poll taken for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch in the first week of September had found me running ahead of Carnahan, 45 percent to 43 percent, with a 4 percent margin of error.⁴ Although the race was by no means a runaway, going into the mid-October debate, a new public poll indicated we were ahead by ten points and stretching our lead over the Carnahan camp. My campaign team emphasized that our own polling research revealed a much stronger position and growing. We were breaking away finally after a twenty-three-month-long pitched battle. Our advertising campaign was working well, and we had just locked in a huge advertising buy for the homestretch. We were not on autopilot, but with only three weeks before the election, barring any unforeseen circumstances, we were on a clear track to win. I was exhausted but encouraged.

And now, suddenly, winning or losing an election seemed not to matter. Mel’s plane was down and nobody knew whether he was alive or dead.

The farmhouse phone continued to ring. More calls poured in from frantic people, posing questions I could not answer. Memories flooded my mind as I recalled an incident in which I had been flying a small plane during a turbulent storm. It was one of the most frightening experiences of my life. I could picture all too well what the men aboard the Carnahan plane may have experienced, and it caused chills to run down my spine.

Rrrrriiing! The phone rang again. It was David again.

“John, we’re still not absolutely certain, but it looks as though the reports are accurate. The plane has gone down, and by all indications, there are no survivors.” I stood holding the phone in my hand, unable to speak, feeling as though someone had suddenly punched me in the stomach, knocking the wind out of me. Finally, I mustered the wherewithal to respond. “Pull down the campaign, David,” I whispered. “No advertisements, no public appearances, nothing. Put out a release to the press letting them know that we are on hold.”

David went to work attempting to stop a large campaign machine that was energized with momentum, rolling under its own power. He issued a press release, before midnight on Monday, October 16, reflecting that we were still uncertain about many of the details regarding the Carnahan crash. David’s statement read simply: We hope and pray that this tragedy has not occurred. Out of respect for Governor Carnahan and his family we’ve suspended the campaign indefinitely. We’re suspending all campaign advertising and canceling Senator Ashcroft’s appearances, effective immediately.

The moment I placed the phone back on the receiver, it seemed to ring again ... and again ... and again. Instead of answering, dazed, I wandered to the couch. Waves of emotion overwhelmed me, and large tears coursed down my face as I held my head in my hands. “God, help us ... please help the Carnahan family.” I thought of Jean, Mel’s wife. Not only had she lost her husband, but her son, Randy, as well. I prayed for our state and for our country. And I prayed for myself, as well. “Please, God, give me wisdom, that I might respond with compassion and be a unifying force in the midst of this heartrending tragedy.”

It dawned on me that the phone had been ringing again. “Hello?” It was Steve Hilton, my press secretary, warning that the press would soon begin chasing me for my reaction to the developing story. I had scarcely begun talking with Steve when a sharp knock at the back door caught my attention. I looked at the clock. Who in the world would come out here close to midnight? “Who is it?” I called from behind the door.

“It’s me, John. Jerry.”

I recognized the voice of Jerry Jacobs, a television reporter from the NBC affiliate KY3-TV in Springfield. Jerry and I had met a number of years earlier as supporters of the University of Missouri basketball team. We had grown to be friends, and he had been to the farm before a few times.

I unlocked the door and swung it open. “Thanks for coming,” I said, almost as if I’d invited him. “Come on in. I’m on the phone. I’ll be right with you.”

The expression on Jerry’s face alerted me that I was a mess. My eyes were red and puffy and my hair was disheveled. Jerry later told a friend that I looked as though someone had punched me in the face.

If Jerry had any thoughts of interviewing me that night, they were doused right there at the door.

I concluded my phone conversation and sat down with Jerry. The TV reporter had some solid information regarding the crash. Mel Carnahan’s six-passenger Cessna 335 took off from Cahokia, Illinois, right across the Mississippi River from St. Louis. The small twin engine plane carried three people: forty-four-year-old lawyer Randy Carnahan at the controls, Chris Sifford, a campaign aide, and Governor Mel Carnahan. Apparently, as David had heard earlier, they were traveling from St. Louis to New Madrid, about a 145-mile flight, when they encountered the vicious storm immediately after takeoff. Chris Sifford had even called from his cell phone to tell the rally organizers the Carnahan group was concerned about the lightning and was thinking of turning back.

“Although most everybody advised against it, they took off in the inclement weather with extremely low visibility,” Jerry said. “The governor’s son has been flying for some time now, and I guess he had expressed some concerns about risking it, going or not, and all that. The early reports indicate that he became disoriented due to the storm, although there is already talk about a possible equipment failure aboard the plane. In weather like this, it’s hard to tell.”

“Have they found the ... have they identified ... ?” I couldn’t bring myself to finish the questions.

“No, not yet,” Jerry said. “They are still dealing with the wreckage. It’s going to take a while.”

“It must have been awful,” I said. I told Jerry of my terrifying experience in a small plane, and about the frightful feelings I had known in the darkness of the storm. The telephone continued to ring, and I repeated the same questions and answers over and over. Even with Jerry’s help, I had little information to offer. Jerry and I talked for a while longer. Sometime around one-thirty in the morning, I stood up, grabbed a cap and a jacket, and said, “I’ve got to get some air ... clear my head. Let’s take a walk.”

The young reporter didn’t flinch; he quickly reached for his coat to come along with me. Jerry and I stepped into the drizzle drenched night and started walking down the lane from the farmhouse, back through the woods to our fields near the river’s edge. On better days, I oftentimes watched bald eagles fish there. Tonight, the dark, hovering clouds, ominous tree branches, and gurgling sound of the river made for a more surreal scene.

The rain halted, but the storm clouds remained as Jerry and I walked and walked, intermittently questioning: Why? Pondering, soaked, sometimes simply walking in silence. Near three o’clock in the morning, we trudged onto the back porch of the farmhouse. Sometimes the act of walking in the face of the elements helps us come to grips with reality. Or it simply exhausts us to the point of seeing the futility of resisting reality and the futility of denial. Spattered and soaked, we gave in.

Jerry shook the moisture from his jacket and stayed a little longer to knock the chill off his body before heading back to town in time to be on camera for the six o’clock morning news. “Thanks again for coming, Jerry,” I said as he opened the door to leave. “I appreciate you being here.”

“I really didn’t think you’d want to be alone,” the reporter replied. He was right.

As soon as Jerry departed, I peeled off my damp clothes and climbed into bed. In a few hours, I’d have to get up and go to St. Louis to make a formal announcement about our campaign cessation. I was deeply grieved and suddenly depleted by a draining weariness. This day had been a nightmare, and I had not yet been asleep.

Endnotes
1. Public Broadcasting Service, “A Missouri Battle Royal,” NewsHour with Jim Lehrer, October 13, 2000; www.pbs.org/newshour/election2000/races/mo_10-13.html.

2. Jo Mannies, “Carnahan, Ashcroft Use First Debate to Rip Each Other’s Records,” St. Louis Post-Dispatch, October 14, 2000, p. 5.

3. Bill McClellan, “When Given Chance to Excite, Governor Chose the High Road,” St. Louis Post-Dispatch, October 18, 2000, p. B1.

4. Glen Johnson, “MO Governor Dies in Crash; Impact Seen on Senate Balance,” Boston Globe, October 18, 2000.

Excerpted from “Never Again: Securing America and Restoring Justice,” by John Ashcroft. Copyright John Ashcroft, 2006. Reprinted by arrangement with Center Street, an imprint of Hachette Book Group USA. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission from the publisher.

MORE FROM TODAY BOOKS: HISTORY POLITICS

What was the greatest moment in sports history?

What was the greatest moment in sports history? ‘A History of Ghosts’ explores paranormal past David Alan Grier: Is beige the new black? Is price gouging in wake of a hurricane wrong? New book places blame for Pat Tillman’s death Blagojevich tells his side of story in ‘Governor’ Geraldo on Hispanics’ new era of prosperity Ousted Ill. governor explains self in new book Michelle Malkin: Obama’s team is corrupt Book: Obama turning slump into socialism   Add Today Books: History Politics headlines to your news reader: