The Boredom of Proof

A friend of mine joked recently that if somebody told him the President had been driving Princess Diana's car at the time of her death, his first reaction would be, "Didn't we know that already?"

If that's the bar the House managers delivering the case against Clinton must surpass, there's no shame in failing to deliver. With the choreography they chose--all 13 of them getting an hour-plus in front of the cameras--they surely weren't concerned about repetition. Already, the 60,000 official pages, the hundreds of unofficial ones, plus nonstop Geraldo and MSNBC, have seeped into the public consciousness like elevator music. We can hum along with "We were never really alone." "There is absolutely no sex of any kind." "It depends on what the meaning of the word is is."

But these managers dared to be dull for a purpose. Dull was the right antidote to their frothing performance in the House. Dull is good when the Senate has deigned to be host to the poor relations with country manners in the upper house. Dull fits their perverse purpose: to make a case strong enough to vindicate their vote to impeach, but not so strong that the need for witnesses isn't manifest. The only way to pre-empt Days of Our Lives is to get the gold-festooned Chief Justice to ask Monica Lewinsky to raise her right hand. It's their last chance to change the public's mind.

Henry Hyde opened by reading the resumes of the other 12 managers. This reverse voir dire yielded one illuminating fact: they're not just lawyers; four of them served in the JAG corps, which punishes adultery with imprisonment. (Is it just a coincidence that JAG is majority leader Trent Lott's favorite TV program?) They heaped both flattery ("We want you to know how much we respect you") and abuse (each speech duplicated others, with lectures on the law to lawyers, who had to sit there and take it). The House managers are such unknowns that photos were circulated so the Senate wouldn't confuse Bob Barr with George Gekas.

Still, the managers had the undivided attention of the Senators, sitting quietly for what must be record-setting periods. Fatigue was an ever present danger. When I met up with Senator Orrin Hatch in his office at lunchtime, he was eating lightly to forestall his usual midafternoon slump. But that broccoli and baked potato were no match for air on the Senate floor, as recirculated and stuffy as that on a 747. By 3 p.m. his head was nodding. Those scribbling most energetically were not necessarily the most attentive: Senator Byron Dorgan was writing on cream-colored stationery what looked like thank-you notes. John Breaux hunched over two nearly identical briefing books, one on the trial, the other on an upcoming Mardi Gras event. Jay Rockefeller, a compulsive highlighter, covered entire pages in yellow. Bob Kerrey drew a rainbow. Joe Biden kept taking out his pocket calendar, as if it must surely be February by now. Senator John McCain perked up enormously when a page delivered a phone message. What fun, a hall pass! It would be a cheap shot, looking down from the press gallery, to comment on hair. But on a per capita basis, the Senate must contain the largest number of adult gum chewers in the country.