Amy Chozick - Chasing Hillary

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Hillary Clinton dominated Amy Chozick’s life for more than a decade. Here, she tells the inside story of Clinton’s pursuit of the US presidency in a campaign book like no other.‘A breathtaking, page-turning masterpiece’ Mary KarrA NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLERAmy Chozick’s assignments, covering Clinton’s imploding 2008 campaign and then her front-row seat to the 2016 election on ‘The Hillary Beat,’ set off a years-long journey in which the formative years of Chozick’s life became, both personally and professionally, intrinsically intertwined with Clinton’s presidential ambitions. As Clinton tried, and twice failed, to shatter ‘that highest, hardest glass ceiling,’ Chozick was trying, with various fits and starts, to scale the highest echelons of American journalism.In this rollicking, hilarious narrative, Chozick takes us through the high- and low-lights of the most noxious and dramatic presidential election in history. Chozick’s candour and clear-eyed perspective – from her seat on the Hillary bus and reporting from inside the campaign’s headquarters to her run-ins with Donald J. Trump – provide fresh intrigue and insights into the story we think we all know.But Chasing Hillary is also the unusually personal and moving memoir of how Chozick came to understand Clinton not as a political animal, but as a complete, complex person, full of contradictions and forged in the crucible of many earlier battles. In the process, Chozick develops an intimate understanding of what drives Clinton, how she accomplished what no woman had before, and why she ultimately failed.The results also make Chozick question everything she’d worked so hard for in the first place. Political journalism had failed. The elite world Chozick had tried for years to fit in with had been rebuffed. The less qualified, bombastic man had triumphed (as they always seem to do), and Clinton had retreated to the woods, finally showing the real person Chozick had spent years hoping to see. Illuminating, poignant, laugh-out-loud funny, Chasing Hillary is a campaign book unlike any other that reads like a fast-moving political novel.

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The bad blood from Bathroomgate never went away. I remembered something a Journal editor told me after a lengthy correction was appended to one of my early stories: “We are all forged in the crucible of our mistakes, both professionally and personally.” That was true of me and the CGI bathroom story. I assumed it was true of Hillary, too. Forged in the crucible of all the conflicts she’d endured and the mistakes she’d made, ready to confront another campaign as an older, wiser, better version of herself.

Ever since Jill put me on the beat, I’d anticipated 2015—the year Hillary would be a formal candidate and I’d have an actual campaign to cover. But I also dreaded what was to come: the stress, the constant travel, the battles both with The Guys and inside the Steel Cage Match. Until then, the Hillary story had been mostly mine, but soon it would be bigger than me, bigger than any of us. I couldn’t postpone the inevitable, but by some stroke of luck and a lot of sucking up to Carolyn, I could ring in 2015 on Oahu, one of the last places on earth to celebrate the New Year.

By 3:00 p.m. Hawaii-Aleutian time, Washington had completely forgotten about me. They’d practically forgotten about POTUS. I’d send notes updating my editors on his movements, as instructed—“Presidential motorcade departed Kailua compound at 4 p.m.,” or “POTUS is bowling with friends.” But Obama’s mundane vacation whereabouts hardly warranted a story. So I packed every indulgent afternoon with things I knew I wouldn’t have time to do in the next twenty-two months until Election Day.

I took surfing lessons. I discovered the Frosé and sucked them down like seventeen-dollar Slurpees. I tested out various shave-ice options before settling on a little stand in a back alley behind a Thai massage parlor. I never wore makeup or anything other than flip-flops and left my watch in my hotel room because I didn’t want a tan line. I didn’t care what time it was anyway. Bobby came to visit for a few days with his golf clubs and SPF 50.

On day seven, reinforcements arrived to help me with this arduous assignment.

The Times ’ Mike Schmidt waddled onto the warm carpeted sand of Waikiki fully dressed and squinting. With a bulky black ThinkPad under one arm and his other hand cupped over his eyes looking out toward Diamond Head, he spoke loudly into an earpiece. (“No, it has to go tonight or we lose the exclusive.”) Had anyone else’s restive DC ambition planted itself upon my eighty-five-degree beach day, I would’ve been pissed off, but the sight of Schmidty made me smile. I waved for him to come sit, but he looked right past me.

“Yo, Schmidt, over here!” I stood up.

“Hold on a sec,” he said into the phone. “I didn’t recognize you. You look Latin.”

This didn’t feel like an accomplishment. In the time that I’d worked on my tan and learned to stand up on a surfboard for a grand total of fifteen seconds, Schmidty had already written a feature about Obama’s mediocre golf skills (14 handicap, at best) and had broken a real talker on the presidential motorcade tapping inexperienced volunteer drivers to shuttle the press. He’d reemerged onto the beach in a swimsuit and was talking about how he needed to “source” (i.e., drink) with White House staffers who spent most of the Hawaii trip lounging around the pool hoping not to have to partake in tropical beverages with some go-getter reporter in Panama Jacks. We were bad enough fully clothed.

I loaned Schmidt the highest SPF I had and dragged him into the ocean. We didn’t so much swim as wade in to where the water was so deep we couldn’t touch and buoy around—a couple of uptight beat reporters dipped into the warm water.

The surfers and catamarans on the horizon drew nearer and my de facto beach office became a tiny sliver on the sand. I don’t want to call it a baptism. That would be melodramatic, and if the two of us had anything besides scoring the winter White House gig in common, it was that we looked like old friends from Jewish summer camp. But the universe was trying to tell us something in the ocean that day.

Schmidty calls it the Last Good Day. I think of it as the Afternoon of Impending Doom. Whatever you call it, we got back to the mainland and before our tans had faded, an editor called me late one Thursday night to tell me that David Carr had collapsed and died in the newsroom.

I dragged myself into the office the next morning, past the spot under the Times awning where David always smoked. I took the elevator to the second floor, walked to what had been David’s corner cubicle—his piles of illegible notes scrawled on legal pads, the backsides of press releases, and the insides of file folders; his silly Minnesota knickknacks; donut crumbs sprinkled like a dusting of snow across his desk; that scarf strewn over the back of his chair. I sat on the floor, by the trash can, pressed my back against the cold windows overlooking the Port Authority Bus Terminal, hugged my knees into my chest, and bawled. I tried to muffle this drooling, groveling fit into my gray sweatshirt. So many people lost David—his wife and three daughters; his siblings; his journalism students; his neighbors in Montclair, New Jersey, who knew him as the goofy suburban dad with the leaf blower; the millions of readers who relied on his steady, scathing voice to make sense of things. But for those three minutes in a cubicle that still smelled of Camels and cafeteria coffee, I let myself wallow in self-pity, sobbing to the spirit of David that I couldn’t make it through the election without his all-knowingness, without our ramen lunches and his reminders that I deserved to be where I was, doing what I was doing.

Two weeks after that, Schmidty broke the story that Hillary exclusively used private email at the State Department. I soon found myself at the United Nations for the first “WHAT ABOUT YOUR EMAILS?” press conference and everything took an irrevocable turn for the worse.

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