by Michael Liss
My brother need not be idealized, or enlarged in death beyond what he was in life; to be remembered simply as a good and decent man, who saw wrong and tried to right it, saw suffering and tried to heal it, saw war and tried to stop it. —Edward M. Kennedy, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, New York City, June 8, 1968
Bobby Kennedy’s casket, covered by an American flag, attended to by the powerful and the humble. In the audience, the Kennedy clan, the Kennedy brain trust, friends and admirers and rivals. Lyndon Johnson, presiding over his second Kennedy funeral. Richard Nixon and Nelson Rockefeller. Hubert Humphrey and Eugene McCarthy. When the service concluded, the casket was taken to Penn Station. From there, a private train, carrying over 700 mourners and reporters, headed through big cities and small towns to Washington. Watching it pass, more than a million common folks, young and old, black and white, some there for the spectacle, most to pay their respects. Then to Arlington, to be buried near his older brother Jack.
Now what? Politics is like a terrible machine, always lurching forward, soulless and with no conscience. The political world stopped for Robert F. Kennedy for a week—because it would have been unseemly not to—but that’s all it stopped for. Bobby Kennedy was dead, but his rivals were alive and wanted the prize. The relentless counting of delegates ran parallel to the math of mourning and, quickly, passed it by. There were still primaries and state nominating conventions. There were speeches to give, doors to be knocked on, commercials to create, interviews, telethons, bumper stickers, and, more cold-bloodedly, wooing of the delegates Bobby had won, and perhaps even some of his team.
There was a complicated three-dimensional chess to this. Where would Bobby’s voters and Bobby’s team go? McCarthy, with his “pure play” anti-war message, wasn’t a perfect fit, either on ideas or demographics. Bobby’s campaign was more than that. He’d brought a passion for economic and social justice, with a special connection to working class and minority voters.
Could Humphrey pick up significant numbers of Kennedy voters? Not likely if they were primarily interested in an antiwar candidate, because Hubert had to play the dutiful Veep on Vietnam. Humphrey did have other assets: he had been in politics for more than two decades, he was well-known (and generally liked), and he had good relationships with much of Big Labor’s leadership. That didn’t make for passion (if there was passion among blue-collar workers, it was for George Wallace), but did keep him competitive.
There was also a more Freudian aspect to this. Bobby created emotional conflicts in others. A lot of the players here had lost to a Kennedy. LBJ had a deep-seated, almost pathological dislike for him, one that being defeated by, and then serving under JFK had not helped. Humphrey had fought it out with JFK in the 1960 primaries, with Bobby as JFK’s campaign manager, and left with some bruises. Nixon followed in the General Election, and never really got over the experience. Each man had fallen to Kennedy money, Kennedy influence, and Kennedy glamour. Finally, Eugene McCarthy, infuriated by Bobby’s entry into the race after he, McCarthy, had taken on Johnson (and the associated career risk), now had no object for his resentment. McCarthy wanted to float in on the strength of his message, the enthusiasm of the “Clean for Gene” young people who flocked to it, and then take it all. Bobby had messed it up in March, and now, paradoxically, in death, he had messed it up a second time.
Layered over these emotional issues was a more practical one that would be generally unfamiliar to modern voters. McCarthy could have attracted 95% of the Bobby vote, and he still would have had to navigate a booby-trapped field. The nominating system of the time had a decisive number of Delegates selected through means other than a straight primary vote. Those “other means” favored the incumbent because the powers exercising those other means were largely state- and city-level party bosses and Favorite Son candidates. Insurgents were not always welcome, and the safe play was to see the favorite over the magic number of Delegates on the first round.
For an insurgent to compete, especially in a fraught and disjointed year like 1968, required two special sets of talents, an outside one and an inside one. Outside, the candidate himself needed to be charismatic and compelling to create a wave of public support. The proper word here is “groundswell,” with all the awe associated with it. Inside, his team had to work every angle, from procedural ploys like credential fights and Delegate-counting rules to basic schmoozing, promising, horse trading. 1968 gave importance to another, the usually sleepy Platform Committee, which would debate the central issue of the campaign, Vietnam.
If Bobby had lived, he and McCarthy, each working for himself but coordinating inside-game tactics, might have succeeded in keeping Humphrey from winning on the first ballot. Both had passionate supporters in the Democratic caucus and energetic staffers to slap backs and deal. Bobby would have added toughness—no one outfought a Kennedy in the back rooms.
That hypothesis could not be tested, but if McCarthy had moved decisively to lock down as much of the Bobby vote (and the Bobby infrastructure), we might have had a different result. It didn’t happen that way. Instead, McCarthy fell into a funk, and never quite made his way out of it. A private meeting with Humphrey, just three days after the assassination, found McCarthy disorganized, pessimistic, and unable even to think about coming to an arrangement. Calls to him, even those from prominent people offering support/money, were not returned. George McGovern was willing to endorse—but was ignored. Richard Daley, ever the operator, saw three phone appointments made and then broken. McCarthy’s staff was smart, organized and committed, and, to their credit, carried on. The candidate…had issues. So many issues that McGovern entered the race on July 23, just weeks before the Convention. Someone, he felt, needed to make the anti-war case aggressively and oppose a desultory Humphrey coronation.
Looming over the Democratic nominating fight, and, in fact, looming over the election in general, was Lyndon Baines Johnson. LBJ had declared himself out in March, but “out” in a distinctively LBJ way. He was out, but still President; out, but still Commander in Chief; out, but head impresario of the Paris Peace Talks; and out, but leader-in-full of the Democratic Party. Finally, he was out, but continued to be Hubert Humphrey’s boss—a demanding, overbearing, alpha SOB of a boss, and everyone knew it.
LBJ was also out, but keeper of the LBJ legacy, and central to that legacy was Vietnam. Johnson viewed the anti-war wing of the party as essentially delusional, particularly with respect to its demand for an immediate cessation of bombing. The old Master of the Senate never ceded leverage without getting back something in return, and the North Vietnamese weren’t offering anything he valued. What’s more, he bought into the advice of his military men, who predicted that a 500% increase in Viet Cong activity would follow a bombing halt. From LBJ’s perspective, it was foolishness to pretend otherwise, and foolish men should not be sitting in the Oval Office. That ruled out McCarthy; it ruled out the entire pacifist wing of Democrats; it almost certainly cast serious doubts about Humphrey. He looked for a hedge.
LBJ’s first bet was on a Republican. In March, he had encouraged Nelson Rockefeller, New York’s Governor and head of the liberal wing of the GOP, to run. Rocky and LBJ were friends, and they shared similar beliefs on two key issues—an affinity for New Deal legislation and hawkish views on Vietnam.
Republicans (some, anyway) liked Rocky, but they liked Ronald Reagan as well, and neither man had the institutional chops and infrastructure that Richard Nixon did. Contrary to expectations after Barry Goldwater’s 1964 landslide loss, the GOP wasn’t really moving back towards the center. Instead, a new highly conservative bloc was building, spearheaded by former southern Democrats for whom a rollback of Civil Rights legislation and a return to the 50s’ social order was a paramount requirement. Nixon had been shrewd in his approach to this group—he intended to court them actively, but maintain the “New Nixon” face of a moderate, law-and-order conservative. To this end, he had a critical private (in a limousine!) meeting with Strom Thurmond, and quietly assured the former 1948 Dixiecrat nominee for President that a future Nixon Administration would be hands-off on “local” matters. Thurmond, in kind, quietly spread that assurance to his fellow Southerners.
For Johnson, the month following Bobby’s assassination did little to change the dynamic. McCarthy still had hopes, but not enough traction, and had not built sufficient bridges to the RFK camp. He looked like a loser. Could Humphrey, trussed and handcuffed as he was, be a winner? Johnson had his doubts. All the while, Nixon remained what, in baseball terms, we would call a “compiler.” While not setting a single heart aflame, step by step, with ruthless efficiency, he was doing what needed to be done in advance of the GOP Convention, scheduled to begin August 4th in Miami Beach.
LBJ noticed, and placed his second (slightly bizarre) bet. He made a small investment in the New Nixon by calling him to the White House for a July 26th meeting to discuss Vietnam. In that meeting, Johnson gave Nixon a better understanding of the negotiation situation, and of his private positions and priorities, than he had given to his own Vice President. The two men made a deal—Nixon would not call for a bombing halt, and would not criticize LBJ directly, so long as LBJ stayed firm and informed Nixon of any material changes in strategy that could bring about peace. Johnson, as history would show, had been snookered in an appalling way by thinking that Nixon could be relied upon to allow Johnson to continue his diplomatic efforts. Dick Nixon had no intention of calling for cessation of bombing—in fact, the longer the war went on, the better it was for him. He had no interest in peace before Election Day, and would, in the future, act on that in an extraordinary, and ethically disgraceful way to make sure there wasn’t.
August 4, 1968, Miami Beach, the sun and fun capital of the world. On that narrow strip of land (heavily policed for the event), were all the pleasures that a good conventioneer might like to have. Beaches, booze, diversions, food, tobacco products, more booze. The Miami Beach Convention was notable for three things: its chilly dispatch of any Rockefeller challenge; its warm, friendly dispatch of any Reagan candidacy; and its harmonious-to-the public love-fest for Richard Nixon and his 667+ first-ballot votes. That was inside the hall, for the television cameras. In hotel rooms, smoke-filled and not, there was a lot of jockeying. The South loved Reagan—loved his politics; thought of him as a kindred spirit on race; and Florida, in particular, had a special thing for him. Ronnie hadn’t exactly entered any primaries, but he did let it be known that, while he wasn’t the pushy type, if you asked nicely, he might be available—as a service to the Party and the nation, of course.
Nixon was too old a hand not to recognize a threat, so his team spread out, looking for stray votes. They tried states with favorite sons: Romney in Michigan, Ohio with John Rhodes. No go. New York was obviously out of the question. New Jersey seemed possible, although its powerbroker, Senator Clifford Case, was a liberal who favored Rockefeller. The Nixon people pushed both spoils and punishment—be the state that put Dick over the finish line, and good things would follow. Be a holdout, and…well, there’s always a place at the back of the line. Delegation by delegation, Nixon’s team picked up bits and pieces, and were immeasurably bolstered by Strom Thurmond’s grip on much of the South.
In the end, it took Wisconsin, and its 30 votes, to put him over. The final first-ballot vote, 692 for Nixon, 277 for Rockefeller, and 182 for Reagan, wasn’t particularly exciting, but it was a clear win for him and his team. Richard Nixon, eight years after he’d lost an excruciatingly close election to JFK, and 6 years after he’d seemingly blown off his political future by losing the California’s Governor’s race, was the GOP nominee in an extraordinarily winnable race against a presumptively weak opponent. The former Vice President was, once again, a heartbeat from the Presidency.
Nixon’s luck continued with a coda to the Convention, a reminder of things past and a harbinger of things to come. For the cameras, Richard Nixon was escorted to the podium by the eminent Strom Thurmond. He gave his gracious acceptance speech. The Delegates broke into a frenzy of cheering. But, outside of the media’s eye, across the water in the Miami neighborhood known as Liberty City, after a racial incident, riots broke out and police moved in. Cars were burned, shops looted, and three Black men died of gunshot wounds. The violence that had plagued America was not going away anytime soon. This, too, like the endless war in Vietnam, was good for Nixon, who was leaning hard into law and order. Dick Nixon would find peace with honor in Southeast Asia and show a firm hand with domestic discord. In 1968, a tired and wary country might find that very appealing. Miami had been good to him.
June and July had not been good to Democrats. Sitting in the White House, surveying the wreckage, brooding about it, and seized, just a little bit, with seller’s remorse, was LBJ. Surely, he was better than any of the duds who were trying to take his place. What he hadn’t foreseen when being statesmanlike in March was that his ability to control events was waning. Lame-duck status put him on a clock when the big things, Vietnam and social and racial issues at home, didn’t lend themselves to easy solutions or just sheer willpower.
LBJ had some obvious ways of impacting who his successor would be. First, the Convention was going to be run (and “run” was not a strong enough word) by Richard Daley, the formidable Mayor of Chicago, and a Boss of Bosses. Second, it was his people who could exert influence on the Credentials, Rules, and Platform Committees. Third, he allowed Humphrey no distance whatsoever on Vietnam—not before the Convention, and not in the Platform. It’s not that Humphrey didn’t try…but, every time he brought anything for LBJ’s review, he was torched. The nominating process itself forced Humphrey’s into silence. On his own, he had earned only a few Delegates. Everything else would come from the party bosses, many of whom were LBJ men.
LBJ realized the obvious: There was no one to advance his legacy, to finish the job. Hubert was weak and unworthy. McCarthy would give in to the Communists in Vietnam. McGovern was more of the same. And now Rocky was down to pebble size. His “deal” with Nixon was one of convenience.
Gradually, by degrees, an idea bubbled up. He needed a man more closely aligned with his thinking. One who shared his domestic concerns and stood shoulder to shoulder with him on Vietnam policy. Ideally, that candidate should be from the South, considering the danger of a Wallace challenge, hopefully from a big state. So, why not….Lyndon Baines Johnson?
Of course, this sounds a little absurd, especially since his withdrawal announcement on March 31 (“I shall not seek, nor will I accept”) seemed to be definitive. If, however, duty called, and his fellow Democrats wanted him, it would be a little selfish to deny them his LBJ-ness. The “how” is procedurally interesting: LBJ would be traveling the same pathway as Hubert Humphrey—the party bosses would get in line, as they controlled a decisive block of Delegates, and “HHH” could easily be supplanted by “LBJ.” It’s just a matter of letters. Quietly, he sent out some feelers: to John Connally, then Governor of Texas. Would Texas and other Southern states be welcoming of such a move? Richard Daley, controller of ballot boxes, conventions, and delegations got the same question. From them, he learned that the swap was possible…perhaps hearts would swell when the party celebrated LBJ’s 60th birthday on August 27, serendipitously the second day of the Convention, and a tribute film celebrating his accomplishments could be shown? McCarthy and McGovern had already revealed the limits of their strength, and Hubert would just have to revert to his Tonto role for four more years. LBJ might just pull this one off.
Drama. Miami Beach might offer the casual Convention-goer some stunning amenities, but Chicago, the City of Big Shoulders, was ready for some real drama. Not just from the politicians, but from names you knew: Tom Hayden, Rennie Davis, David Dellinger and MOBE, Bobby Seale and the Blank Panthers, the Beat Poet Allen Ginsburg, Abbie Hoffman and his Yippies. All coming to Chicago to take in the sights, maybe a deep-dish pizza and a (mostly peaceful) demonstration or ten. They hoped for a half-a-million-or-more turnout.
Waiting for those hordes of the unruly, the obstreperous, the disrespectful, the hairy, bearded and unwashed, was Mayor Richard Daley, in the 30th year of a 43-year reign. Daley was sufficiently ferocious all on his own, but, in case he needed a little backup, he had control over the permits where protestors could gather, and a posse as well: 12,000 city cops on 12-hour shifts, 6,000 National Guardsman, and, at the ready, 6,000 regular Army troops equipped with rifles, bazookas, and…flame throwers? Other than start a second Great Fire, it’s hard to understand what use flame throwers might have…but, one never knows, I suppose, and the Mayor was not a man to be unprepared.
The candidate’s teams assembled to fight out the administrative rules. Credentials Committee, Rules Committee, Platform Committee. Some ugly issues. There was a bloody feud about Mississippi’s delegation. A nasty argument about the “Unit Rule” on August 22nd almost tore the Convention apart. The Unit Rule was an absurdly undemocratic method for the leaders of state delegations to force all members to vote as the majority did. Small states, in particular, liked it, but one of the biggest adherents was John Connally. Humphrey, basically being a liberal, disliked it, but Humphrey being Humphrey, he started suggesting a compromise…keep it for 1968, review it in 1972. Whether this would have worked or not became irrelevant once someone in his campaign released a statement advocating for the immediate end to the Unit Rule. Connally was incensed and threatened to take Texas off the board for Humphrey. That would make a first-ballot majority much more difficult to assemble. Richard Goodwin, a top staffer for McCarthy, went to Connally with an interesting idea—pull Texas; have McCarthy block Humphrey on the first ballot; have Connally join the McCarthy ticket; and, with all that wonderful ticket-balancing that party professionals love, take the nomination. Connally was intrigued; McCarthy was furious. He just didn’t like deals, and so probably tossed away his last real shot.
On to the Platform Committee. lnMcCarthy wanted what he campaigned on—an orderly but definite end to the war, Humphrey wanted whatever was slightly more (emphasis on “slightly”) than what LBJ would have written himself. But Johnson wanted unadulterated support for his present stance. Two planks were drawn reflecting the goals of both sides. Both went to Hale Boggs, head of the Platform Committee, Carl Albert, chairman of the Convention, and Senator Jennings Randolph of West Virginia. All three were Johnson people. They met with Johnson, who repeated what General Abrams had told him—a cessation of bombing would cost American lives. The Committee voted, 65-35, against the Peace Plank, but the 35 were enough to get it out of Committee and put it on the floor for all the Delegates.
That same week before the Convention began, the Yippies, Hippies, MOBE and Students for a Democratic Society began to make their way to Chicago and settle in. Daley countered by handing out gas masks to Chicago police, and showing his mastery of the rules (and the police) by setting curfews and limiting places for the protesters to assemble. Wild rumors were spread—the most colorful of which was that the Chicago water system would be poisoned by LSD.
The Yippies had a counter-programmed “Convention” planned for Sunday, the day before the Convention, but Jerry Rubin brought a 145-pound pig (to receive the nomination) on Friday, and was arrested for disorderly disturbance. On Saturday, 300 FBI agents arrived. On Sunday, the police (forcefully for some, firmly for others) enforced an 11 p.m. curfew. Heckling and rocks were opposed by riot shields being employed and batons being used ferociously, including on some members of the press. Monday, the first day of the Convention, U.S. Army troops from Fort Hood arrived, with plenty of tactical gear.
While all this was going on, a great deal of back-door bargaining was happening as well. The Massachusetts delegation arrived, without Teddy Kennedy, who had largely remained silent since his brother’s death. A quiet but persistent Draft Teddy campaign began, with back channels running between the Kennedy camp and Mayor Daley. It was obvious to Daley that Humphrey was a weak candidate who would lose it all in 1968. Daley had a long history with Kennedys and was confident Teddy could win. He offered to keep the Illinois delegation silent for two days. Teddy’s people were worried that if he were seen maneuvering for the nomination, particularly so close to Bobby’s death, it would decrease his chances, and if he failed to get it after a draft campaign, he would damage his brand for 1972.
Monday, the draft Teddy movement was getting legs. There were a lot of interested Delegates out there, including some surprising ones—a bunch from Pennsylvania, supposedly strong for Hubert, and some from the South. LBJ, with better antennae than anyone, got Convention security to block any Teddy petitions from being circulated inside the hall. Hubert was bad enough, Teddy would be too much to swallow.
The “seen” Convention was in chaos. There was a raucous debate about the Unit Rule, which had Southern Delegates screaming at Humphrey. The fight over the Mississippi delegation got uglier, and there was movement to disqualify three other states—including John Connally’s Texas. The air-conditioning failed, and the microphones seemed to have a mind (a Daley-esqe mind) of their own. All this “live from Chicago” on national television. Also live from Chicago, a replay of the previous night’s curfew enforcement—with more rocks, a great deal of tear gas, and police batons coming down on any skull within reach.
Tuesday morning, the Draft Teddy movement got a (potential) ally—Gene McCarthy. McCarthy acknowledged his candidacy was over. He would endorse the draft Teddy movement, and his own delegates added to Teddy’s would be enough to stop Humphrey on the first ballot. He wanted one thing—to have his name placed in nomination—then he would gracefully step away.
The problem with the whole plan was it relied on one man—the increasingly erratic Eugene McCarthy, who had previously shown no love at all for Kennedys. Would McCarthy actually go through with it…could he handle it emotionally, could he keep his composure (and his promise) when he was being bathed in adoration by his supporters responding to his name being placed in nomination? Tuesday night, they got their answer—a CBS news report that an emissary of Teddy had approached McCarthy. That this wasn’t true didn’t mean it didn’t have psychological impact. Kennedy pulled the plug on the Draft Teddy movement and told Humphrey he wouldn’t run.
Tuesday had more drama for the cameras. Half a day on the Credentials committee. John Connally got to keep his Texas delegation, and there was a compromise on Mississippi. Viewers were treated to seeing Dan Rather being shoved to the floor. Walter Cronkite weighed in. Everyone knew it was Daley in charge of security and charged the chaos to him.
After midnight, they moved to the Platform Committee, and the attendees got even more nuts. Booing, shouting, microphones being turned off. Carl Albert used his speaker’s gavel to rule out a motion to adjourn. He then recognized Daley, who first fought the idea for a recess, but then, realizing the entire nation was watching, signaled to close it down. Meanwhile, back out on the streets, more of the same. More tear gas, more beatings.
Through all of this, one man stood at the center, Lyndon Johnson, and he knew in his bones that two days of this meant a two-day funeral for his last-minute Draft Lyndon campaign. There would be no rhapsodic moment, not with all the shouting and venom in the room—and certainly not outside it. Johnson would stay home at the LBJ Ranch, the plane gassed up to take him to Chicago would be grounded.
Wednesday, things got worse. The Platform Committee had not yet voted on the Peace Plank, so they had to begin with that. The (secretly) LBJ-drafted Vietnam plank was introduced with a note that Humphrey personally endorsed it. Speakers, some rough, some eloquent, defended and assailed it. Hale Boggs announced that intelligence indicated that stopping the bombing would increase enemy strength by 500%. To some, this was dispositive, to others, dangerous propaganda. Votes were taken, and the Johnson Plank prevailed. The anti-war delegates were crushed; some started singing “We Shall Overcome.”
Outside was again worse. National Guardsmen joined the police. Rennie Davis was beaten into unconsciousness. Policemen got into formation and charged. Like scythes cutting through hay, they moved, sending people to the ground. From the National Guard, more tear gas. Across the street, at the Hilton, Gene McCarthy watched the demonstrators being hemmed in as more of the National Guard arrived to cut off their escape. When the trap was sealed, organized squads of cops charged the crowd, pummeling and gassing people indiscriminately, then throwing them into paddy wagons. Cops pressed a crowd into a hotel restaurant’s plate glass windows until it gave in, spreading bodies and glass everywhere. McCarthy had given permission for his space to be used as a makeshift hospital, and some of the bloodied and broken were taken there.
By 9:30 p.m., the networks had the footage, but few of the Delegates knew what was going on. Nominations for Humphrey and McCarthy. More shouting and booing. Then, finally, a moment of clarity for the history books. Carl Albert gave the podium to Senator Abraham Ribicoff of Connecticut to nominate George McGovern. Ribicoff was widely respected, and, at the start, gave an eloquent address, touching the bases of war and domestic policy. He paused, and then looked down at Mayor Daley, uttering “and with George McGovern as President of the United States we wouldn’t have to have Gestapo tactics in the streets of Chicago.”
“Gestapo tactics?” the Daley men hooted. “You bet. You bet,” Ribicoff responded. Daley, red-faced, growled unheard into a dampened microphone, but obviously to anyone looking at his mouth, “Fuck you, you Jew son of a bitch.”
It was all over but for the counting, and the counting occurred. Inside his suite at the Hilton, Hubert Humphrey could smell the tear gas. In McCarthy’s operation-center-become-makeshift-hospital, the bloodied and bandaged got whatever rudimentary treatments were available. The counting concluded, decisively, in Humphrey’s favor. With Hubert celebrating, Carl Albert asked it be made unanimous. Over shouts of disapproval, he decided that the motion carried.
The Democratic Party had its nominee, and its nominee, Hubert Horatio Humphrey, had his Democrats, however many remained. The fourth night of the convention was subdued, uneventful, and boring. Given what preceded it, there was no need for more.
In Key Biscayne, Florida, Richard Nixon, sitting with his aide, H.R. Haldeman, could scarcely believe his luck. 1968 might just be a very good year.
You can find Part 1 and Part II here