The New Republic

CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

Joe Lieberman is sitting in the second pew at the Morris Brown
African Methodist Episcopal Church here in Charleston, South
Carolina. It's the morning after the senator revived his lifeless
campaign with a strong performance at the Democratic debate two
hours west in Columbia, and about 200 worshipers-- mostly black,
many on their feet--are singing and clapping to the gospel music of
the J.A. Darby Mass Choir, which is belting out a jazzy version of
the Christian hymn "Oh, How I Love Jesus."Senator Lieberman, who is a little rhythmically challenged,
occasionally takes a stab at clapping along but each time abandons
the effort after disappointing results. As the chorus--Oh, how I
love Jesus! Oh, how I love Jesus! Oh, how I love Jesus! Because He
first loved me!--builds to a deafening crescendo, the choir's
leader steps away from the altar, mike in hand, to do some
ad-libbed call and response with the audience. "Do you love Jesus
this morning?" she yells. The crowd shouts back their assent. She
then turns her attention to Lieberman, an Orthodox Jew who believes
that, whatever the differences between the two faiths, his shared
religiosity with Southern Christians is key to winning the hearts
of church-going blacks here in South Carolina. Crouched halfway to
the ground with one hand in the air, the choir leader stands a few
feet away, looking the candidate squarely in the face, and demands,
"Senator Lieberman, do you love Jesus?" It's unclear whether she's
unaware of the senator's religious affiliation or is trying to
effect a conversion, but, regardless, it seems that she really
wants an answer. With just a nod, Lieberman could pull off the
greatest pander in American political history. But he resists the
temptation, smiling nervously until the choir leader gives up and
moves on.

The temptation for candidates to reinvent themselves is everywhere
here in South Carolina. Liberal Massachusetts Senator John Kerry
tells an inquiring voter he "would love to" come speak at
hyper-conservative Bob Jones University, the anti-Catholic college
that until recently banned interracial dating. Antiwar firebrand
Howard Dean shows up as the only candidate to speak before a
luncheon held by the devoutly centrist Democratic Leadership Council
(DLC) on the Saturday of the debate. Dick Gephardt, one of the best
friends the labor movement has ever had, is attacked as a corporate
toady for his health care plan and responds with a stirring defense
of big business. Instead of bashing military spending, radical
peacenik Dennis Kucinich channels Ross Perot and talks about
Pentagon waste and abuse.

The idea behind moving the South Carolina primary to February 3,
just a week after New Hampshire, is to force the Democratic
candidates to appeal to more moderate constituencies than the
spoiled, racially homogenous lefties in Iowa and New Hampshire who
have dominated primary politics for a generation. And the idea
behind the nationally televised Democratic debate in Columbia--the
earliest such debate ever, timed to coincide with the state party
convention-- is to make sure that this moderating effect begins
sooner rather than later. It seems to be working.

While the Columbia debate itself receives a lot of attention in the
press, it's merely the centerpiece of a weekend crammed with
campaign events and speeches, most of which go largely unnoticed in
the national media. At Friday night's Jefferson-Jackson dinner, for
example, party delegates dine to the music of the Dixie Chicks
while Gephardt and Kerry work the room and overeager Dean
supporters slap stickers on the waitresses. "They were putting them
on me, I couldn't say no," says one server when asked why
she--along with the entire wait staff here at Seawell's
Restaurant--seems to back the former Vermont governor. "Who is
Dean? Where's he at?"

Much of the evening is devoted to a tribute to Dick Harpootlian, the
beloved outgoing South Carolina party chairman. Like the senior
senator from South Carolina, Democrat Fritz Hollings, Harpootlian
has a storied reputation for making outlandish remarks and speaking
before he thinks. (He once compared Terry McAuliffe, the chairman
of the Democratic National Committee (DNC), to "a ferret on crank";
more infamously, in 2001, he declared then-Representative Lindsey
Graham too "light in the loafers" to take over Strom Thurmond's
Senate seat and then pled ignorance of the apparent gay innuendo.)
So, when Harpootlian begins to retell a story about Kerry and John
Edwards that he heard from Hollings, the audience seems to brace
itself. When they came for last year's dinner, the three
senators--Hollings, Kerry, and Edwards--all spent the night at the
governor's mansion, Harpootlian says, but Hollings didn't sleep
well. "I said, 'Why not?'" Harpootlian continues. "And [Hollings]
said, 'All night long, Edwards was getting up and going to the
bathroom. And then, all night long, Kerry was getting up to dry
off.'" After a pause during which the audience tries to figure out
the punch line, a wave of uncomfortable groans sweeps the banquet
hall.

After dinner, the whole circus of candidates, campaign aides, party
regulars, and reporters make their way over to "Congressman Jim
Clyburn's World Famous Fish Fry." Clyburn, a wildly popular
politician here, is the only black representative in South
Carolina's congressional delegation, and, ever since the state
moved up its primary, his endorsement, which he will announce at
the end of the year, has become one of the most sought-after prizes
of the preprimary season. That's why the fish-fry gossip mill is
abuzz with chatter that Edwards isn't here. "Where is he tonight?"
asks Jeff Hubbell, a Palmetto State veterinarian who is carrying a
copy of The Almanac of American Politics in which he collects
politicians' autographs. "He ought to be here."

When the candidates are invited to share a stage and make short
comments, Kerry quickly seizes on the fact that Edwards is AWOL.
"Jim Clyburn did us a great favor," he tells the crowd. "Because he
said the next president of the United States is here tonight, and I
notice there are only about five candidates here. So he already
eliminated a quarter of our opponents." But, as it later turns out,
Edwards was here. His campaign aides decided that, as the favorite
son--he was born in South Carolina--he would use this weekend to
try and separate himself from the rest of the pack. So Edwards
arrived at the fish fry before the other candidates, stayed for an
hour, and then left before he would have to share the stage with
the others. Throughout the weekend, an unresolved debate will rage
over whether or not Clyburn was offended.

The second piece of fish-fry gossip also comes during Kerry's
remarks. For weeks, Dean, Kerry's nemesis and rival for the top
spot in the New Hampshire primary, has been using a line uttered by
Bill Clinton in the wake of the Democratic losses of 2002: "When
people feel uncertain, they'd rather have somebody that's strong
and wrong than somebody who's weak and right." With Dean standing
behind him, Kerry suddenly feels the urge to summon Clinton's line
for his own use. Slowly, haltingly, he tells the crowd, "President
Clinton said a few days ago that 2002 proved that you can be right
and weak and lose. And you can be right and wrong and lose." As
Dean observes Kerry struggling through the sentence, he flashes a
priceless look of sarcasm, rolling his eyes left and right before
lifting his eyebrows skyward. Once the candidates finish their
speeches, Clyburn steps up to the mike a little impatiently and
announces, "Let's have a party." With that, the music starts, and
everyone on the dance floor breaks into the electric slide.

Kerry's mangling of the Clinton quote was not exactly a high note
for his campaign. Nor was his performance in Saturday's debate, in
which he was widely seen as spending too much time sniping back and
forth with Dean. But these two episodes aside, Kerry had a good
overall weekend in South Carolina, where there is a palpable sense
of enthusiasm for his campaign. He received the warmest cheers from
the revelers at the fish fry. The next day, at the state party's
convention, Kerry won the best response from the delegates of any of
the major candidates. It's hard to pinpoint the exact source of
Kerry's strength, but his trips to the state, which is rich in
veterans and military bases, usually place a huge emphasis on his
Vietnam service. On Friday, for instance, Kerry spoke before the
South Carolina Combat Veterans Group for a wreath-laying ceremony
to honor Vietnam Survivors Day. And the more that local Democrats
here fear the general election will be dominated by imagery of
President Bush dressed as G.I. Joe and armed with a $250 million
campaign account, the more they seem willing to buy the Kerry
campaign's argument that his combat experience and wealth make him
their best shot. As one local woman explained to a group of
undecided party regulars at the Jefferson-Jackson dinner, "He's got
a military background. He's got a rich wife."

Moreover, Kerry's not as bad a retail politician as his reputation
for being aloof and out of touch suggests. (It's the flip side of
Edwards's mythical ability to tap into the soul of every person he
meets, a reputation that vastly overrates his retail politicking
skills.) On the afternoon before the Saturday debate, most of the
candidates attend a meet-and-greet session for reporters and voters
at the state fairgrounds. Inside one building, the candidates are
sectioned off into little pen-like areas divided with blue curtains,
a setup that allows the curious to wander around and do
side-by-side comparisons. It's an opportunity to poke and prod the
livestock before the cattle call tonight.

During the meet-and-greet, Kerry looks comfortable mixing it up with
people, not strained or self-conscious. A woman makes a big deal of
wrapping her arms around him, and Kerry beams, "That's what I love
about South Carolina. In Massachusetts, you have to work hard for a
hug." One woman actually walks away with tears in her eyes after
Kerry takes her hands and tells her about both his military service
in and his opposition to the Vietnam War. There are also a couple
of great moments of spontaneity. One woman asks Kerry about an
article she read in Boston Magazine that questioned the senator's
consistency on the issues. Kerry tells her not to believe it before
bending down to whisper in her ear a secret about the article's
author: "His name is Jon Keller, and he and I have had a feud for
years." Another woman has an even more provocative question: Would
the senator come speak at Bob Jones University? "I would love to,"
Kerry tells her without missing a beat. When I ask her why she wants
Kerry to visit, the woman replies, "I just think it's time for
Democrats to come across as Christian." (Asked later about the
exchange, Kerry press secretary Robert Gibbs says in an e-mail,
"Senator Kerry would love to speak at Bob Jones, challenge the
university, and tell them everything that George Bush did not have
the courage to say in 2000 about views that clearly have no place in
our society.")

But whatever flashes of wit and strength Kerry showed with voters
throughout the weekend were gone by Saturday night's debate. Kerry
looked tired and overprogrammed, his head crammed with the
opposition research he used to attack Dean, and his voice cracked
from overuse. "Maybe if he rested on the Sabbath like his
grandfather, he wouldn't have had such a hoarse voice," a Lieberman
aide joked.

But, even if Kerry's decision to attack rather than ignore Dean
knocked the supposed front-runner down a few notches in stature, in
the end it may not have been as unwise a tactic as most of the
post-debate analysis suggests. Certainly, during the debate, Kerry
looked petty and slightly desperate when he threw out statistics to
make the point that the number of insured in Vermont had actually
dropped by one-tenth of a percent during Dean's twelve-year
gubernatorial tenure. The Dean campaign, repeatedly forced to
respond to the charge after the debate, cried foul and mustered its
own stats showing the number of insured actually rose during Dean's
terms in office, from 87 to 91 percent--an important and positive
change no doubt but not exactly the kind of quantum leap forward
that the self-described health care candidate often brags about on
the campaign trail.

Before the debate, Dean spent much of the weekend talking about how
he intends to win in the South. When discussing this strategy among
liberal Northerners, Dean often says he wants to win over
Southerners "who drive pickup trucks with Confederate-flag decals"
by appealing to them on economic issues. But I didn't hear him
utter that line once in South Carolina. It's not clear whether he
was worried about offending black voters or, as an aide to a rival
campaign argues, concerned about demeaning Southern whites. Either
way, it's clear that Dean's cutting arrogance remains his Achilles'
heel. When that arrogance is channeled into anger, it serves as the
source of his strength on the stump, as it did during a fiery
four-minute presentation at the fish fry that was warmly received.

But, without a rapt audience to feed off of, Dean has a tendency to
come across as, well, mean. During remarks at the DLC luncheon on
the afternoon before the debate, an audience member applauds a Dean
line about how Republicans always inject race into elections. The
man is obviously expressing agreement with Dean's statement, rather
than support for the GOP's racial tactics, but Dean seems angered
nonetheless. "I wouldn't clap for that," he says caustically,
glaring at the man, "because the way they do it is not very nice.
The way they do it is phone calls three days before the election,
[and by] having guys intimidate people from going to the polls."
The man, looking a little embarrassed, raises his palms as if to
say, "Back off, I didn't mean it that way."

It's hard to imagine Edwards ever provoking such a chastened
response. The foundation of the North Carolina senator's candidacy
is that "he connects with voters," in the oft-repeated words of his
aides. Indeed, the extent to which the Edwards campaign believes
that his likeability, personal charm, and talent for retail
politics will carry him to victory can't be overstated. "I would
argue that [likeability] is the only thing that matters," a senior
Edwards adviser recently told me.

At the candidate meet-and-greet, Edwards introduces himself to
prospective voters in an exaggerated sing-song: "How ... are ...
you? ... Nice ... to ... see ... you." When he looks folks in the
eye, his tanned face and penetrating blue eyes have such intensity
that, as often as not, people can't help but look away. Unlike the
other candidates, he seems slightly distant throughout the weekend.
Just as he separated himself from the pack at the fish fry, he
broke away from the field at the debate. His aides say his goal was
to come out of the weekend strongly branded as the
anti-big-business populist. His foil to accomplish this was
Gephardt's health care plan, which Edwards savaged, suggesting its
slogan should be "You're in good hands with Enron." Edwards came
out so hard against Gephardt's plan that even Dean--who's competing
with Gephardt to be seen as the race's health care
candidate--seemed genuinely stunned. When asked his opinion of the
plan, Dean had to admit, "Actually, I don't think it's quite as bad
as John Edwards said. I was pretty shocked at some of that. It's
not taking money out of working people." Later, Edwards aides
argued that the night marked the beginning of the end for Gephardt's
plan.

It's not at all clear that's true, but, if it were, it would likely
mean the end of Gephardt's candidacy as well. For, if Edwards is
the candidate of Personality, Gephardt is trying to make himself
the candidate of Ideas--and his health care plan is the biggest
idea he has to offer. Edwards wants you to like him first. He can
talk to you about policy later. For Gephardt, it is the opposite.
He doesn't need to get to know you, indeed he might be happier not
to. He just wants you to hear the details of his latest policy
proposal. At his stall at the meet-and-greet, he uses his health
care plan like a shield. Unlike the other candidates, who stand
surrounded by voters and reporters, Gephardt stands behind a
folding table piled with thick pamphlets explaining the intricacies
of his plan to bring health insurance to virtually all Americans.
Faced with almost any question, Gephardt--who has a reputation for
being what political consultants admiringly call "a disciplined
candidate"--manages to respond with an almost rote recitation of
his health care stump lines. When a disabled veteran approaches and
complains about the lack of help he gets from Washington, Gephardt
spends little time empathizing. Instead, he launches into an
explanation of what his plan would do for cash-strapped states that
are cutting benefits and services to deal with budget deficits.

Gephardt's policy-first strategy is a dull one, but it is not
without opportunities to score points at his opponents' expenses.
After Edwards's peculiar effort to cast him as a corporate stooge
during the debate, Gephardt was only too happy to play up the
style-versus-substance subtext. "I beg to differ with [Edwards's]
characterization of all corporations as Enron. They aren't," he
told me after the debate. He then proceeded to give his rival a
sharp elbow: "Maybe he would read the plan. That might help."

By the end of the South Carolina weekend, in addition to the
Kerry/Dean and Edwards/Gephardt feuds, a third rivalry was
emerging: Graham/ Lieberman. Bob Graham remained an oddity here all
weekend. The only thing most people seem to have heard about him is
his famed habit of writing down every detail of his life in pocket
notebooks, a fact that is a never-ending source of jokes among
rival campaign staffs. At one point, a bevy of aides from various
campaigns play a BlackBerry-transmitted game of "fun things to ask
Bob Graham," producing a hilarious--and mostly unprintable--string
of queries, including, "Check all your pockets, and then turn and
ask him if he has a pen and pad on him you can borrow." Graham's
official kickoff tour won't come until a few days after the debate,
and so the Florida senator has a low-key presence here. On Saturday
morning, while some dozen reporters shout questions at Kerry during
a breakfast with local supporters, Graham sits anonymously a few
tables away and quietly takes notes while dining with Harpootlian.
At the party convention, Graham has few volunteers or supporters in
sight. When they are called to the podium, each candidate organizes
their own little show of support using loud, sign-waving
twentysomethings. When Graham speaks, a handful of his senior
consultants silently hold signs above their heads. Graham has an
explanation for this minimalist presence. "We can close the gap in
terms of organization and fund- raising," he tells me after the
debate. "They cannot close the gap in terms of maturity and
experience and demonstrated executive leadership." The simple
argument that the centrist former governor makes is summed up by the
line with which he closes his speeches: "My name is Bob Graham. I
come from the electable wing of the Democratic Party."

Unfortunately for Graham, it's Lieberman, whose campaign sees Graham
as a threat to its centrist niche in the primaries, who best makes
the electability argument this particular weekend. Until now,
Lieberman has failed every key primary test to date. Although he
talked about running for president throughout 2002, his campaign
team has seemed disorganized and tractionless since he announced
his candidacy. While he brags in his recent book that he "broke
fund- raising records" for the DNC after joining the ticket in
2000, he came in fourth among the six major candidates during the
money race of the first quarter of the year, raising only a little
more cash than Dean--and burning through it at a higher rate than
any other campaign. As his communications team tinkered with his
message, he flitted from cattle call to cattle call, generating
little enthusiasm.

Before the debate takes place, there is little indication that his
performance this weekend will be any different. Lieberman's weekend
is the opposite of Kerry's: a lackluster two days of events on the
ground capped by a powerful showing when it really mattered at the
debate. Absent from the state party convention because he is
observing the Sabbath, Lieberman sends a video address instead. His
onscreen delivery is dull and senatorial, weirdly out of context
during an afternoon of red-meat speeches by flesh-and-blood
candidates. "I was sitting there watching that video, and I
thought, this is like something from 'Saturday Night Live,'"
Richard Cain, a 53-year-old Democrat, tells me later. As
Lieberman's taped address plays, many delegates talk loudly; others
walk over to shake hands with Edwards, who has just climbed down
from the stage. "If we were a nonentity in [the debate], it would
have been a nail in the coffin," says a Lieberman aide.

But he's not, and it isn't. Unencumbered by the kind of left-liberal
audience he's seen so far, Lieberman uses the debate to return to a
version of the "left-right" strategy that pollster Stan Greenberg
designed for him when he unseated Lowell Weicker as Connecticut
senator in 1988, attacking Weicker from the left on the environment
and consumer protection and from the right on crime and foreign
policy. After the debate, other campaigns will argue that, while
Lieberman shined, he defined himself as too far right to win the
Democratic nomination. Lieberman aides argue that his positioning
is more nuanced than that. "He's not running as a New Democrat,"
says one. "He's running as Joe Lieberman. He's redefining that
[centrist] space." During the debate, for instance, Lieberman
attacks Gephardt's health plan from the right as "big spending" and
from the left as a drain on resources for education, Medicare,
Social Security, and medical research. He criticizes protectionist
opposition to free trade but also promises to lead a revival of the
nation's manufacturing sector and force the federal government to
buy American-made goods. On the war he slams Kerry for his
"ambivalence" but also draws a sharp distinction with Bush,
condemning preemptive or preventive war--a cornerstone of the Bush
doctrine--as a declaratory policy of the United States.

Thanks to his showing, Lieberman looks, for the first time this
year, like a contender. "We had our first piece of positive
momentum--and the key is, can we turn it into a roll?" asks one
adviser. On his way out of the postdebate spin room, a smiling and
swaggering Lieberman ends a brief interview with me by shouting
into my recorder a greeting to a mutual friend, "Shavua Tov." It's
a Hebrew expression uttered after the Sabbath that means, "Have a
good week." Joe Lieberman has finally had one himself.

By Ryan Lizza

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