TEI and Bill's excellent adventure - or the almost completely true account of President Clinton's visit to the Region IX Conference

Given the way it began, it's astounding that it ended as well as it did. My wife and I arrived at the Hotel del Coronado in Southern California on Saturday night, May 15, so I could attend the annual conference sponsored by Tax Executives Institute's Region IX. Truth be told, the trip was originally intended to be a rather relaxing one. When I first made plans to attend, I had been assigned no official duties, which was a little bit different from what usually happens. As the General Counsel for TEI, I am frequently asked to address the Institute's regional conferences and, with respect to national programs, I often am assigned a full complement of logistical duties. Not this time, however: my jobs were to soak up a little sun and a lot of knowledge, and to recharge my batteries for the battles to come in Washington. My daughters and I arranged for Judy to accompany me (sans children) as a belated Mother's Day present. Things were looking good.

Then a couple of weeks before the trip, Paul Cherecwich called me. Paul works for Thiokol Corporation in Ogden, Utah, and as Region IX's Vice President was the field commander for the regional conference. His call was somewhat plaintive: his luncheon speaker for May 17 had canceled out on him (not surprising, I said, he was a Bush Administration appointee), and Paul wanted me to substitute. Paul made a point of telling me that he had already discussed his offer with my boss (Mike Murphy, TEI's Executive Director), and he thought it was a great idea. So I did the only thing I could: I accepted Paul's offer.

The trip to San Diego was relatively uneventful. A screwup with our airline tickets kept Judy and me from sitting with each other, but I figured that was a sign that I should work on the speech I promised Paul. The United 757 was cramped (aren't they always?), and my creative juices seemed in lower supply than normal. Nothing catastrophic occurred, but neither did I make much progress on my speech. Once in the San Diego airport, we found our luggage, caught a cab, made the pleasant trip across the Coronado Bay Bridge, and arrived at "the Del" at about 8:30 Saturday evening (11:30 Washington time).

The doorman was very friendly, and as he was taking our bags, he inquired whether we would be staying at the hotel through Monday. Responding yes, we were told that we were in for a treat because President Clinton would be at the hotel on Monday. (He was going to be in San Diego for a town meeting in an effort to spur support for his economic plan.) Now, coming from Washington, we generally try to feign indifference in the face of the Washington power structure, but I have to admit, the impending Presidential visit added a spark to our visit. Judy kidded me whether the President would pop his head into the regional TEl meeting: "After all," she teased, "you are a tax organization and it is his tax program you're going to be talking about.' I laughed and responded, "If he knew what we were saying about some of his ideas, he'd surely send the Secret Service dogs in first to make sure it's safe.'

With these comments, we found ourselves at the registration desk, and I put the President's visit out of my mind. I gave the desk clerk my reservation confirmation form, and watched him punch my name into his computer. He paused for a moment and then excused himself to go into the back room. Judy and I could pick up bits and pieces of the conversation (something about "where' to put us), but thought nothing of it when he came out, told us that we would be in room 3302, and called over to the bellstand for someone to take us to our room.

To say the least, our room was not roomy. In fact, "roomy" was the last thing I thought of when I walked into the room. How small was it? It was so small that... Well, just take my' word for it, it was small. The bathroom door virtually touched the bed (it literally had to be all the way open or all the way closed for you to squeeze by on that side of the room), and there were only about 10 inches of clearance between the dresser and the end of the bed. We had a view out our window of... nothing. (Okay, okay, if you strained your neck, you could see another window.)

After the bellman left, I looked at Judy. I asked whether she wanted to change rooms. We were both tired. We were both hungry. We had both been conditioned--as an employee and former employee of a membership association--not to complain about our rooms, because if we complained successfully and "bumped" one of our members-our bosses there could be hell to pay. Anyway, all those things conspired together to make us say, "Forget it. We won't be in the room that much anyway, so we'll stay where we are."

So we went to bed, got up the next morning, negotiated the great expanse of our room, and went out for the day. The hotel was starting to bustle. Not only with other TEI members arriving for the regional conference, but with scores of hotel employees and security personnel starting to prepare for the President's visit. The friends we encountered shared with us the descriptions of their hotel rooms--all of them seemed satisfied and practically all seemed to have snared rooms twice or even three times the size of Judy's and mine. Ah well, I thought, the luck of the draw.

Then, while dressing for dinner on Sunday evening, I heard a television report that the President's party would be taking two hundred rooms at the Del Coronado. The report turned out to be greatly exaggerated, but the light bulb finally went off above my head: We have a crappy room because Bill Clinton--and the millions of people in his entourage-will have good ones! Judy was (rightfully) not too impressed by my lightning speed reasoning--not because it was flawed but because she reached the same conclusion within moments of arriving at the hotel. At the opening reception for the regional meeting, I described my room plight to my friends and acquaintances from Region IX. They all shook their heads, especially the ones who voted for Bush (whose expressions effectively said I told you so).

Overall, everyone seemed to be bemused and a bit excited by the President's visit (even the Republicans). We talked about what we would tell him if he deigned to attend our meeting, we speculated about how much all the sprucing up and security for the trip would cost, and we enjoyed a beautiful San Diego evening.

On Monday morning, the hotel was in the full swing of preparations. Plants and flowers were being freshened, metal detectors were being set up, dogs were sniffing out everyone and everything, and portions of the courtyard were being cordoned off by ropes. I thought I had maturely reconciled myself to our crummy little room, but at the morning coffee break too many people commented on how nice their rooms were. One guy in particular got to me: his room had a king size bed (he was at the conference by himself.r); he had an ocean view; he had a separate sitting area. That was it: As I sat in the morning session and tried to understand a presentation on tax allocation agreements, I drafted a note to the general manager of the hotel. I thought about appropriating a phrase from a letter of complaint we received at my office about the location of a recent conference; the writer complained that the hotel rooms were smaller than the foxholes in Vietnam. Inasmuch as neither the President nor I served in Southeast Asia, though, I thought better of that approach. I decided to be direct:

Dear Sir: On March 30, I made reservations to stay

at the Del Coronado from May 15 to May 19. Imag-

ine my disappointment when I found on my arrival

that I would be staying in a broom closet. For $159 a

night, I really had expected something bigger-es-

pecially since it seems all my colleagues from Tax

Executives Institute are paying the same rate for

much larger rooms.

I assume that my unsatisfactory accommodations

are attributable to the President's visit to the hotel

later today. With all due respect, I think the Hotel

Del Coronado made a terrible mistake. First, unlike

an awful lot of the people I am here with, I voted for

the guy and they didn't. In fact, I would hazard a

guess that most of the people staying at the Del

voted for Bush. Why discriminate against one of the

few Clinton supporters (especially since the hotel's

owner is a FOB and big fundraiser for the Presi-

dent)? [I added the note: "This is intended as a joke,

but believe me, it's true."]

Secondly, your desk clerk could tell from looking at

me (all 230-plus pounds of me!) and my wife that we

wouldn't exactly get lost in the massive double bed

that occupies about 83 percent of the floor space in

room 3302.

Thirdly, as someone who supported Clinton, I prob-

ably could have been co-opted by a simple comment

such as "As you know the President is staying with

us on Monday and, consequently, we are having to

do a lot of switching around. We'll be delighted to

move you to a nicer room as soon as he leaves."

Instead, we were told nothing.

I signed the note, clipped one of my business cards to it, and dropped it off at the front desk.

I won't say I expected miracles, but I expected something. I thought I might get a call or a message from the general manager, or that they might send up a flower arrangement, a fruit basket, or some tangible sign of the hotel's regret. I got nothing. Zero. Zippo. Nada. I do admit, however, that I wondered whether the Secret Service might come pounding on my door, concerned that the crackpot who scribbled such a note to the hotel manager might be thinking about doing something more threatening.

In the meantime, the excitement level was rising. Our conference sessions ended about 20 minutes before the President was supposed to arrive, and a group of us stood around, trying to look at once disinterested and for the best spot to catch a glimpse of the Commander in Chief. (The courtyard where the President would be meeting people was directly outside our meeting room.) The other President at the Del Coronado that week--the Institute's own Bob Perlman-- griped about how much money the whole visit would cost: "He's got a perfectly good naval base right down the road. Why the hell won't he stay there?" Suddenly, someone came up and told us that if we could get to the other side of the courtyard, we could go through security and get in line to see (and, just maybe, meet) the President. (No, not Periman; Clinton.)

For a while, though, it looked as though "you couldn't get there from here." Because of the way the Secret Service had set up the place, you couldn't simply walk across the courtyard. The situation called for ingenuity, and although I am always in short supply, I hitched my wagon to someone who was more daring. Some of our confreres made it through the "employees-only" kitchen door, and emerged on the other side, but we were turned away. (I guess we didn't look like kitchen help.) We didn't give up, however. We traipsed through the hotel, looking for the way through the maze of corridors and security. We went up one flight of stairs, down a couple of hallways, and descended another staircase to find ourselves exactly where we wanted to be.

My guide through all this was Nanci Palmintere of Intel Corporation. As we were being checked with the hand-held metal detectors, Nanci remarked that "this is tougher security than at the Munich airport." The security guard responded, with a smile, 'No, in Munich they do full body cavity searches." What a pleasant thought. But we had made it, and it wasn't too crowded (yet). The courtyard was roped off into three sections. One side was for the President and the other side was subdivided into two parts, one for the hoi polloi and the other for hotel employees (so they would have an easier time getting to the President than the rest of us). I decided I didn't care about the employee preference so long as the General Manager (who hadn't responded to my note) didn't get a good spot (though I figured he would!). One wrinkle was that Nanci was waiting for her husband and child to return from the zoo, and when they arrived they were on the wrong side of the courtyard--the unsecured side. Nineteen-month old Allison waved to her mother, but the Secret Service would not let her join Nanci; she hadn't cleared security. So Allison did what toddlers do in such a situation: she started screaming bloody murder. "Mommy! Mommy!" The Secret Service--so many of them actually having Kevin Costner haircuts--did not relent. (Paul Cherecwich compounded Nanci's discomfort by yelling, "She's abandoning her child, she's abandoning her child?)

Fortunately, Nanci's husband proved to be as persistent as Nancy, and before too long he and Allison were making their way through the metal detector. They were joined by Judy, half a dozen or so other TEl members (we were all cynical tax people--or married to them--but this was an event), and a throng of other hotel guests.

Finally, the President arrived, and a crowd started clapping and saying such profound things as "Four More Years!" I winced at that, not only because it reminded me of Nixon (or Reagan, or Bush), but because Clinton's got three and a half years left on his first term. ("Seven and a half more years" hardly comes tripping off the tongue.) The President worked the rope line, and although Judy and I got to see him clearly, we weren't tenacious enough to work our way to the front. We and others around us contented ourselves with sagacious comments like "His face is a little puffy, but his color is good." Someone said he was having a bad hair day, someone else said he just needed a haircut. Such was the scrutiny to which the leader of the free world was subjected. We felt a little like the White House press corps, whose insights are almost as fulsome. (In fact, after reading later in the week that Christophe had been summoned to Air Force One to give the President a trim, I concluded the courtyard crowd had been prescient.)

I know it's a cliche, but Bill Clinton does have charisma. He exuded charm and warmth from the moment he entered the courtyard, and he seemed to "connect" with everyone he touched. One of those people was Allison Palmintere, whose mother decided that another chance like this one would not come around any too. soon. So Nanci and Allison pressed their way forward. The President reached out to touch Allison and she offered him a ballpoint pen she had been chewing on. He declined to take the pen and, then, almost on cue, Allison returned to form: she started bawling. Nanci comforted her, and they left with the pen and a memory.

By this time, the President was finished with the crowd. As he worked his way up the stairway, I said to Judy, "Hey, we got within six feet." And she--who met Hillary during the campaign--said, "I hate to say it, but six feet just doesn't cut it." The President waved to the crowd and went into a corner room on the second floor--the room I convinced myself would have been mine if he put off his visit for a couple of days. (After all, Bob Periman had the room immediately below President Clinton's room. )

Although the President was clearly operating on CST-- Clinton Standard Time--his timing was excellent, for we left the courtyard just in time to board the buses for the evening's planned activity--a dinner cruise on the bay. We joked that it was too bad the President had a town meeting to attend, because we were sure there would be room for one or two more on the boat. The evening offered no surprises. I continued to complain about my hotel room and I continued to get (at least reigned) sympathy from my fellow travelers. The only down side was Judy's not feeling well because her sun block had failed her completely: as a consequence, she was beet red from sunburn and so uncomfortable that we went straight to our room upon returning from dinner. We reached our grand estate--teeny, tiny room 3302--a little before 11:00.

When we entered the room, Judy noticed that the message light was on. We looked at each other, with a thousand thoughts--all bad--going through our collective minds. The kids ? My folks? Your folks ? With some little trepidation, Judy picked up the receiver and pressed zero. She asked for our messages and then listened. And listened some more. From her expression, I couldn't tell what she was hearing. She nodded her head and said "yes" a couple of times. Then she said "Are you serious? ... Why, of course,... no, no... well, sure, we'll be here."

She hung up the phone and sat down on the bed. 'You won't believe it. I was talking with a member of the President's advance team. Somehow, your note found its way to the entourage and someone apparently showed it to Clinton. How they could read your writing, I don't know, but they said the President wants to thank you for your vote and to apologize for any inconvenience caused by his staying here. They asked if we would mind if he called us after he returns to the hotel. They warned me that it could be late, and that's when I said 'We'll be here.' Do you believe it?"

"No," I sputtered. "I don't believe it, but I guess we won't be going to sleep for a while."

Well, there we were. In our massive room, partially undressed, and totally nonplussed by the situation. What should we say? Is this for real or is somebody-like Bob Periman who accuses both Clinton and McCormally of being communists--playing a very big practical joke? Where's Alan Funt and Candid Camera? We decided that we couldn't risk using the phone to verify the call. I mean, what if Bill called? Our adrenaline was really pumping, so I don't think we could have slept if we had tried, but we were tired. Time passed slowly. 11:30. 11:45.12:15.12:45. God, we thought, he's still operating on Clinton Standard Time!

Finally, at around 1:15, the phone rang. Judy and I looked at one another. There was never any question about answering the phone--like in all those dumb movies and sit-coms. It's just that it seemed like it took me forever to walk across our enormous room to the phone. (It was about two steps.) I picked up the receiver.

"Yes," I said, when asked if I was who I am. "Timothy McCormally.... Her name is Judy. Judy McCormally."

I was told to wait one minute for the President of the United States.

"Hello, Mr. President," I sputtered. "Oh, it's not that late. We don't mind at all ....

"Well, it is pretty small, Mr. President, but .... Yeah, you don't spend much time in the room anyway....

"We're kinda here for the same reason you are, Mr. President. To talk about taxes, and your tax program in particular. Uh, Tax Executives Institute ... it's a group of about five thousand corporate tax officials .... No, I am not with any company, I'm the organization's General Counsel from Washington, D.C . ....

"To tell the truth, Mr. President, there are some things in your plan that we don't much care about ....Oh yes, we've talked to the Treasury, and to the IRS .... And we testified before the Ways and Means Committee .... One of the big things was the royalty provision, which ... yes, that was dropped by the committee .... Well, yes, we were gratified, but I'm not sure .... "

By God, I thought, it's 4:30 in the morning Washington time, and the President of the United States is quizzing me about TEI's position on the Ways and Means bill! Suddenly, he switched gears. He asked about me.

"Well, I've been there for about 11 years .... Before that? I was with the same law firm as your new IRS Commissioner, Peggy Rich... Why, yes, she's great. A great choice, Mr. President .... As a matter of fact, it was Peggy who first asked me to contribute to your campaign ... Well, you're welcome .... Actually, I came to Washington to go to Georgetown law school. Yeah, your alma mater. 1976. As a matter of fact, John Podesta was in my class; we were on law review together."

John is the President's staff secretary, and though I have seen him occasionally since graduation--most recently right before the election--we had not exactly stayed close.

"... Yes, sir, he's a great guy."

Again, my mind was racing. And my heart was pounding away. "Mr. President," I ventured. "How was your town meeting? ... Uh huh ... Sure ... I see .... I'm sure."

Jeez, how articulate you are, McCormally, I thought. You have the President of the United States on the phone and you're being monosyllabic. But the President came to my rescue--he changed the subject.

"She's right here, Mr. President, just a second."

I handed the phone to Judy. There wasn't any need to say anything. She listened for a moment, and then said something like "No, the only taxes I do are our personal return .... Well, yes, they will go up, but ....A free-lance editor and writer ... oh no, more technical writing than that. ... I came along for a little R&R," and "Oh, the beach is magnificent." She laughed and said, "Well, no, you won't see me out there in the morning."

Judy sat down on the edge of the bed, drawn into the intimacy of the conversation. "Two girls, Mr. President .... Kathleen is sixteen, and Erin is ten ....Well, they wanted to come along, but .... A junior .... she's trying to decide .... Oh, she loves to play soccer, and like Chelsea, she wants to get her ears pierced. Well, I think we'll hold out for a while longer.... Mr. President, both girls are big fans of yours. Kathleen met Mrs. Clinton during the campaign and .... Why certainly.... Yes. Well, thank you, Mr. President. Good night."

Judy hung up the phone. We just looked at one another. We barely had time to breathe when the phone rang again. It was someone in the President's party. I muttered a couple of "uh huhs," and in response to questions said "That would be great .... About eighty-five to ninety ... The Crystal Room. . . At eight-thirty.... Oh, I understand. Absolutely." I then said thank you and placed the receiver down on the cradle.

I looked at Judy. "They wanted to know whether "we would mind" if the President pokes his head in our meeting room tomorrow. His schedule is pretty tight, but if he has time, he'd like to stop by and say hello. I guess he wants to make a pitch for our support. Can you believe it? But get this, we can't say anything about it. Nothing. To nobody. Since it's so last minute that's the best way to preserve security, and besides they're not sure he'll make it."

It was about 1:35. Judy and I just stared at each other for a while. In various ways we kept saying over and over again, Can you believe it? I can't believe it. Can you believe it?

We tried to get some rest, but sleep came fitfully over the next four-and-a-half hours. At six, I got up, took a shower, got dressed, and went out for a walk. A crowd was starting to gather on the beach, waiting for the President to go for his jog. A group of Navy Seals were doing calisthenics--very loudly--at least for those who were still sleeping (which I found out later included Bob Perlman). Finally, the President came out, shook hands, and offhe went with a group of Seals. I wasn't that close, but I could see that he looked better after a couple hours of sleep than I felt. After his jog, the President walked right below the balcony of the room where TEl was holding its continental breakfast. His T-shirt was soaked, he was wearing a baseball-style cap, and he was holding an Evian bottle. He posed for a picture with a woman and her child, gave another person an autograph, and waved to those of us on the balcony. He then walked into the hotel, visited the gift shop (where he bought the last Wall Street Journal), and returned (I guessed) to his room.

Meanwhile, the TEl group reassembled in the meeting room, and I was beside myself. Taking the Secret Service's admonition to heart, I said nothing to no one. It was hard, too, because Larry Goodman of Computer Sciences Corporation had shaken the President's hand on the beach and offered to let me shake his hand for five dollars. In fact, Paul Cherecwich made a general announcement to that effect at the beginning of the session. I tried to take it stoically, but I wasn't doing too well. I discerned a few more security-types around the meeting room than had been there the day before, but really had no idea whether the presidential promise in the wee hours of the morning would be kept. (The cynic in me said, He's got to keep one promise.t)

Rob Moore and Tom Johnston of Miller & Chevalier were in the middle of their presentation on IRS audits and appeals when the door opened. In fact, the front and back doors both opened. Three Secret Service men (without sunglasses but with earpieces in place) entered the back of the room and stood quietly. About half a dozen people walked into the front of the room. Just then the President strolled in, and the group stood and clapped. (I won't say the applause was thunderous, but I thought it was more than merely polite.) Paul Cherecwich stepped forward to shake the President's hand as did Rob and Tom. (I was sitting near the back as was Bob Perlman!) The President asked the group to sit down, and then said:

"Good morning. I can't really stay for very long, but I wanted to stop by and say hello. I understand from Tim McCormally that you and I are here for the same reason--to discuss the Administration's economic plan. I also understand that you have some concerns about some of the tax provisions in the plan.

'You know that the Ways and Means Committee approved the bill last week and made a number of changes, most of which I believe improve the bill. I think it's a beginning toward getting our economy back on track, making our tax system fairer and more competitive, and securing meaningful reductions in the budget deficit. It took twelve years-- even longer--for us to get in the fix we're in, and I never expected that it would be easy to make the necessary changes. But we've got to start, and I truly believe that we are on the right track and are making process.

"So I ask for your help and assistance. I know that Tax Executives Institute is the premier organization of tax professionals in the country and that you pride yourself on putting good policy ahead of parochial concerns. I welcome your constructive criticisms and your suggestions on how we can make our budget proposals even better and help restore the American economy's luster.

"I really must go now, and I hope the remainder of your conference is productive."

And with that, the President turned and walked out of the room. The audience again rose to its feet in applause. Bob Perlman, Paul Cherecwich, and I were asked to join the President outside the room for a few photographs, and we chatted briefly while the camera was clicking. Even Bob was respectful, saying nothing of the Navy Seals' waking him up so early in the morning. We shook hands with the President-Clinton, not Perlman--and then, he was on his way.

The meeting room was scarcely back to normal when we reentered it a minute later. Bob made a flippant statement about the "summit" between TEl and the White House, and he suggested that Paul's successor as Regional Vice President would be hard pressed next year to match the day's excitement. I staggered back to my chair as Paul restored the room to order, and Rob Moore and Tom Johnston refocus the group on developments in the IRS's Coordinated Examination Program. Everyone in the room figured they would have something to tell their spouses, their children, their friends, their coworkers--and their bosses. And I figured that I wouldn't be switching hotel rooms after all.

And that's exactly what happened .... Sort of.

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