care of business.He once drew a favorable parallel between his press secretary, Robert Gibbs, and the consigliere role played by Robert Duvall in
The Godfather
.
As Democrats had gained a supermajority of sixty votes in the Senate, Obama’s chief of staff, Rahm Emanuel, spoke of “putting points on the board”—an early mantra of the new White House that meant doing what was necessary to pass bills. This suited Reid, who became Obama’s key legislative partner, wrenching the administration’s prime accomplishments through a scared Senate: a $787 billion economic stimulus bill in early 2009 and the health-care bill a year later.
Reid and Emanuel became close allies. (As an aside, Emanuel is an observant Jew, and Reid loves Jews. Reid’s wife, Landra, was Jewish before she met “Hank,” as she calls him, and they became Mormons. A mezuzah still hangs in the doorway of the Reid home in Searchlight.) Reid and Emanuel spoke often by phone, usually for a bare minimum of seconds, just long enough to transact.
Both could be crass, especially Rahm. Shortly after Obama took office, he and Emanuel were meeting with Nancy Pelosi, when the chief of staff started cracking his knuckles. When Obama turned and expressed annoyance with the habit, Emanuel held the offending knuckle up to Obama’s left ear and snapped off a few special cracks for his presidential benefit.
Both Emanuel and Reid could be vindictive, especially Reid. Back when Nevada’s other senator was the exuberant Democrat Richard Bryan, a running joke had it that Bryan woke up every morning wondering how many hands he could shake, while Reid woke up wondering how many enemies he needed to screw.
Reid rarely wastes his powers of persuasion on policy arguments or charm offensives. “He goes straight to ‘What do you want?’” said Senator Susan Collins, a moderate Republican who supported the stimulus bill. Again, despite the pugilistic tendencies of Reid and Emanuel, their philosophy of managing Democratic lawmakers usually came down to accommodation.
Harry Reid understands his customers’ needs: which senators need to be home, if possible, to put their kids to bed, or whose father is ill, or who might need special praise for their forgettable floor speeches. If they are going to Vegas, Reid will help them get dinner reservations or show tickets. He is adept at recognizing people who might feel overlooked. For instance, Susanna Quinn, Jack Quinn’s wife, can sometimes feel like an appendage to her lobbyist husband—like when a cartoon rendering of Susanna with Jack on the wall of the Palm identified her merely as “Mrs. Quinn” (the restaurant later added her full name). “Susanna is really a charmer,” Reid said in a special toast to her at a fund-raiser the Quinns hosted for the senator at their home. “I know I tell everyone that I love them but I REALLY love Susanna,” Reid continued. “Jack has been such a good friend to me, but Susanna makes all of us feel so good about ourselves.” This made Susanna feel good about herself.
It turns out that Susanna Quinn’s grandfather, a Democratic senator from Oklahoma, used to sit at the desk on the floor that now belongs to Reid. Susanna’s then eight-year-old daughter Jocelyn wrote a letter to Reid, and Reid in turn sent her a signed copy of a book he wrote about Searchlight and a kid’s book written by Ted Kennedy in the voice of his dog, Splash. (Reid signed that one too.)
Reid caters with supreme efficiency, no wasted motion. To keep phone calls streamlined, Reid often skips saying good-bye. The other party might keep talking to a dead line for several seconds without realizing it.
I first met Reid in 2005, not long after he had become the Democratic leader. When Jim Manley walked me into his office and introduced me, Reid barely looked up and said to Manley, “Is this the sleazeball you told me about?” He had me at “sleazeball.”
Reid randomly called my desk a few years later to wish
The Godfather
.
As Democrats had gained a supermajority of sixty votes in the Senate, Obama’s chief of staff, Rahm Emanuel, spoke of “putting points on the board”—an early mantra of the new White House that meant doing what was necessary to pass bills. This suited Reid, who became Obama’s key legislative partner, wrenching the administration’s prime accomplishments through a scared Senate: a $787 billion economic stimulus bill in early 2009 and the health-care bill a year later.
Reid and Emanuel became close allies. (As an aside, Emanuel is an observant Jew, and Reid loves Jews. Reid’s wife, Landra, was Jewish before she met “Hank,” as she calls him, and they became Mormons. A mezuzah still hangs in the doorway of the Reid home in Searchlight.) Reid and Emanuel spoke often by phone, usually for a bare minimum of seconds, just long enough to transact.
Both could be crass, especially Rahm. Shortly after Obama took office, he and Emanuel were meeting with Nancy Pelosi, when the chief of staff started cracking his knuckles. When Obama turned and expressed annoyance with the habit, Emanuel held the offending knuckle up to Obama’s left ear and snapped off a few special cracks for his presidential benefit.
Both Emanuel and Reid could be vindictive, especially Reid. Back when Nevada’s other senator was the exuberant Democrat Richard Bryan, a running joke had it that Bryan woke up every morning wondering how many hands he could shake, while Reid woke up wondering how many enemies he needed to screw.
Reid rarely wastes his powers of persuasion on policy arguments or charm offensives. “He goes straight to ‘What do you want?’” said Senator Susan Collins, a moderate Republican who supported the stimulus bill. Again, despite the pugilistic tendencies of Reid and Emanuel, their philosophy of managing Democratic lawmakers usually came down to accommodation.
Harry Reid understands his customers’ needs: which senators need to be home, if possible, to put their kids to bed, or whose father is ill, or who might need special praise for their forgettable floor speeches. If they are going to Vegas, Reid will help them get dinner reservations or show tickets. He is adept at recognizing people who might feel overlooked. For instance, Susanna Quinn, Jack Quinn’s wife, can sometimes feel like an appendage to her lobbyist husband—like when a cartoon rendering of Susanna with Jack on the wall of the Palm identified her merely as “Mrs. Quinn” (the restaurant later added her full name). “Susanna is really a charmer,” Reid said in a special toast to her at a fund-raiser the Quinns hosted for the senator at their home. “I know I tell everyone that I love them but I REALLY love Susanna,” Reid continued. “Jack has been such a good friend to me, but Susanna makes all of us feel so good about ourselves.” This made Susanna feel good about herself.
It turns out that Susanna Quinn’s grandfather, a Democratic senator from Oklahoma, used to sit at the desk on the floor that now belongs to Reid. Susanna’s then eight-year-old daughter Jocelyn wrote a letter to Reid, and Reid in turn sent her a signed copy of a book he wrote about Searchlight and a kid’s book written by Ted Kennedy in the voice of his dog, Splash. (Reid signed that one too.)
Reid caters with supreme efficiency, no wasted motion. To keep phone calls streamlined, Reid often skips saying good-bye. The other party might keep talking to a dead line for several seconds without realizing it.
I first met Reid in 2005, not long after he had become the Democratic leader. When Jim Manley walked me into his office and introduced me, Reid barely looked up and said to Manley, “Is this the sleazeball you told me about?” He had me at “sleazeball.”
Reid randomly called my desk a few years later to wish
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