Marathon Man

By Laurence I. Barrett

A tacky mural of the Lower Manhattan skyline served as backdrop. The band's version of Theme from New York, New York compensated in decibels for what it lacked in finesse. The ballroom of the thoroughly lived-in Omni Park Central Hotel was too small and too warm for the hundreds crammed together like rush- hour commuters on the A train. But the atmospherics last Tuesday night mattered not at all. Chants of "Duke! Duke! Duke!" alternated with cries of "Let's go, Mike!" And when Michael Dukakis paused before speaking, his usually constricted smile was as broad and welcoming as New York harbor. Campaign workers cheered ecstatically at the Duke's every prosaic line. "I love New York!" brought hurrahs. "Friends, if we can make it here, we can make it anywhere." Delirious applause.

For once, primary-night hoopla matched reality. After a week of bogus suspense in which it appeared that Jesse Jackson's insurgent tide might carry the state, Dukakis took New York in grand fashion, 51% to Jackson's 37% and only 10% for Al Gore. The victory ended any hope Jackson had of fighting Dukakis to a draw -- an outcome that would have produced chaos at the Democratic Convention in Atlanta. Though Jackson, after a period of uncertain silence, insisted he could still win the nomination, Campaign Manager Gerald Austin conceded that his patron's prospects had turned "pretty bleak." Even before the votes were counted, Jackson was retreating to claims of symbolic victory; then a few of his advisers talked publicly about seeking the vice-presidential nomination.

Gore's latest failure proved terminal: he suspended campaigning Thursday, though he will attempt to hold his delegates together by remaining a nominal candidate. Gore was a star of Super Tuesday just six weeks earlier, but his erratic performance since then seemed to eliminate him even from the roster of vice-presidential prospects.

Dukakis' breakthrough is the sum of math and momentum. New York was the last chance before the June 7 California primary to spike the wheels of his bandwagon. The Duke now has roughly 1,070 delegates of the 2,081 needed to nominate. Despite the quirky tendency of Democratic voters to turn against front runners, Dukakis appears assured of capturing at least two-thirds of the 1,000 delegates still to be elected. A majority of the 643 super-delegates -- public and party officials who are nominally unpledged -- are also known to favor Dukakis. These recruits, together with scores of delegates now uncommitted or hooked to defunct candidates, will provide the critical mass necessary to settle the issue.

Dukakis, the plodding survivor, the paradigm of caution who has launched not a single imaginative political theme, has outlasted seven rivals. Barring acts of God, this candidate described by one of his own aides as an "earnest nerd" will be the nominee. Sighs of relief were audible among much of the Democratic establishment. Because Dukakis evokes wild enthusiasm? Hardly. A TIME poll last week conducted by Yankelovich Clancy Shulman showed that only 34% of registered voters consider Dukakis an "exciting" candidate (vs. 66% for Jackson). Rather, the party has grown weary of a nominating contest that combined the worst elements of burlesque and trench warfare. Now at last the stable, competent craftsman can begin to build a campaign against George Bush.

But if the Democratic muddle has been sorted out, if "brokered convention" and "Mario scenario" have become yesterday's buzz words, new questions arise: Can Dukakis pull together the quarrelsome factions of his party? Can he and Jackson live together constructively? Can he lure back the millions of disaffected Democrats who supported Ronald Reagan in 1984? Although for the moment at least Dukakis leads Bush in national surveys, his advantage is tenuous -- and so is the Democratic coalition.

Dukakis is only beginning to focus on these new pitfalls. Whatever dangers lie ahead for him, baseless euphoria is not among them. The day after his New York triumph, the Duke was once again the practicing Governor in Boston. While commentators were loudly proclaiming him the apparent nominee, Dukakis was modestly observing, "It's not over until it's over, and I mean it." His mode of travel was similarly humble at day's end: he walked across the Boston Common from the Massachusetts State House to the Park Street T station to start his customary half-hour subway ride home to Brookline.

The token clerk offered free passage, but the Governor bought a 60 cents token, then dashed through the turnstile carrying his nylon briefcase. From the straphanger position, he talked about the Democrats -- "There is a very broad consensus for this party, probably more than we've had in 30 to 40 years, around issues of opportunity and jobs and housing and health care and civil rights" -- until he was interrupted by an irritated older woman with a more local concern. "Excuse me, Governor," she asked in a raspy Boston accent, "when are you going to put our streetcars back to the Arborway?" "As soon as we get the place shaped up," Dukakis answered. Another elderly citizen insisted on conveying "one bit of advice for you -- don't worry." Dukakis assured this well-wisher, "I don't worry. I'm having a good time."

In fact, there is still much to worry about. Dukakis' latest and most important victory to date was a product of shrewd defensive play and some luck, rather than the innovative offense he will need in the fall. Jackson started off with virtually solid backing from New York's blacks and heavy support among Hispanics. To win, he still had to reach a significant bloc of white liberals and union members. Most of all, he had to hope that Gore would peel enough white votes from Dukakis to make the race competitive. Instead, Gore flopped utterly. He became a prisoner of his chief local patron, New York City Mayor Ed Koch, whose vituperative attacks on Jackson further polluted the city's dense ethnic atmosphere and totally obscured Gore's own image. Local TV cameras repeatedly captured Gore looking bewildered, like a farm boy being fleeced by a Times Square three-card-monte artist, as Koch lashed out at Jackson's shortcomings.

Jackson's campaign was his usual kinetic circus, strong on spirit, short on tactical precision. While he avoided a direct duel with either Koch or Gore, he was helpless in preventing media attention on his problems with Jews rather than his current themes. A button seen on many lapels read I'M A TOUGH 'HYMIE' -- JEWS AGAINST JACKSON. The night before the vote, on a rainy street in Harlem, Jackson let some of his bitterness show. The press was ignoring his arguments about public policy. Instead, he complained, the coverage was "all about diversion, all about bright lights and showtime and deflection. It's all about jive."

In the final days, Jackson's local centurions, rather than his national advisers, dominated his scheduling. He found himself returning repeatedly to black and Hispanic districts instead of mining racially diverse neighborhoods, as he had in other states. Jackson complained about his itinerary, but not strongly enough to change it. Conceded one of his aides: "It was a very, very black campaign."

Dukakis, for his part, practiced a speak-no-evil strategy designed to avoid mistakes and emphasize his sober competence. Over and over again he reminded listeners, "I don't want to be a great communicator. I want to be a great builder." Unlike Gore, he courted the large Jewish community without debasing himself. Unlike Jackson, he sounded sympathetic about big-city problems without committing himself to grandiose spending programs or a tax increase. Dukakis' New York manager, Paul Bograd, summarized the tactics simply: "We just bore in, bore in, bore in with the basic Dukakis message." Yet the winner was an oddly passive figure as the campaign pivoted on Jackson, Gore and Koch. By default, he occupied the middle position between Jackson on the left and Gore's vague pretensions about patrolling the party's right flank. The ABC News exit poll indicated that about a third of Dukakis' supporters were voting primarily against a rival rather than for him.

Afterward Dukakis bemoaned the tenor of New York's campaign: "What happened obviously polarized things. I think it's very important that that not happen again." Yet during the brouhaha, Dukakis did not take a stand against Koch's excesses. Nor did he campaign in black precincts, except for one brief symbolic visit. When the votes were counted, Jackson had captured 97% of the black electorate, according to the NBC News survey, and 16% of the white. Dukakis won the primary in the suburbs and upstate areas; ethnically, he mustered a strong combination of Jewish and white Catholic supporters. Most troubling, from Dukakis' viewpoint, was his inability to win among blue-collar and union families, which Jackson carried in New York. "Democrats who sweat for a living" are not yet in a lather over Dukakis. The candidate professes unconcern about these ethnic and class fault lines: "I can't remember a time ^ when the Democratic Party was more together in a fundamental way."

Yet blacks, the most devout faction in the Democratic temple, are virtually unanimous in support of Dukakis' remaining rival. Many white voters still reject the Jackson candidacy. In TIME's poll, only 34% of white voters say they could vote for Jackson in November (vs. 59% who could support Dukakis). Even among white Democrats, just 45% say they could vote for Jackson.

For now at least, black Democrats continue to demonstrate their customary party loyalty. When blacks supporting Jackson are asked if they would vote for another Democratic candidate in the fall, 89% say yes. More white Democrats now supporting Dukakis would defect if he lost the nomination; just 66% say they would be content with another candidate. However, blacks may yet become so angered or frustrated by what happens to Jackson that they lose interest. Many party leaders fear what a black adviser to Dukakis calls a "real danger of letdown" -- a retreat to the sidelines -- because Jackson's success has raised expectations so high. Eddie Williams, president of the Joint Center for Political Studies, a black think tank, argues that blacks are so eager to put a Democrat in the White House that they will turn out in large numbers "provided that Jesse Jackson is not beat up or treated unfairly." How to define that treatment? "It will be defined," says Williams, "by how Jackson reacts to whatever occurs."

Thus even if Dukakis can assemble a majority of convention delegates on his own, Jackson will continue to exercise tremendous power. How Dukakis deals with that power will be critical. On the personal level, their dealings have advanced from politely cool to vaguely friendly. Jackson customarily greets his adversary with a breezy "Hey, Duke." Dukakis, after some prodding, has recently taken to placing small-talk phone calls to Jackson. "We're going to continue to build what I hope will be a good relationship," Dukakis said. "We are united in the feeling that the stakes are very high in this election. We both want a new kind of leadership in the White House."

Jackson last week expressed his "sincere congratulations and respectful appreciation" to Dukakis for running a high-road campaign. Dukakis lately has been almost flowery in public allusions to his rival. Yet the prospect of genuine comradeship between these diametrically opposed personalities seems farfetched. The two men are poles apart in their approaches to just about - everything.

Jackson likes to talk in rhyme and think in metaphor; Dukakis is as poetic as a slide rule. Jackson, the college quarterback, is a scrambler, an improviser, a mixer; Dukakis, the college runner, is essentially a loner who learned the Greek monos mou (by myself) as his first words. Jackson sweats, gestures, emotes, preaches when giving a speech. Dukakis uses a terminal monotone and metronomic motions. Where Dukakis is cerebral and calculating, Jackson is visceral and physical. During a joint appearance in New York, as Jackson succeeded Dukakis at the lectern, the Governor shook hands as they passed. That was not enough for Jackson. Using his bulk, he maneuvered the diminutive Dukakis back to the stage for a thumbs-up photo.

But a strong common bond is love of and skill in negotiating. A species of political bargaining has already begun, tentatively, in public. Some of this is thematic: Dukakis, for instance, has begun to match Jackson's emphasis on combatting the drug menace. Last week, with a large publicity flourish, Dukakis signed a bill establishing the first statewide health insurance plan. The fact that Jackson also emphasizes health care gives them another patch of common ground, although they have differing views on how to pay for it.

A different form of bargaining involves power and position rather than issues. During one TV debate last week, when asked about the vice- presidential nomination, Jackson said, "I certainly will have earned serious consideration," although he gave no indication that he wanted it. Then Campaign Manager Austin and Campaign Chairman Willie Brown talked to reporters about the second spot for Jackson as if it were a live option. Dukakis responded the next day by observing that being second banana in the nomination race carries no guaranteed prize.

As conjecture over second place rose to a roar, Jackson realized that it was a damaging distraction as well as a tacit admission that the brass ring was beyond his reach. Dukakis even kidded Jackson Friday night during their first one-on-one debate. When a questioner asked about Jackson's interest in the vice-presidential nomination, Dukakis ostentatiously stage-whispered, "Are you interested? Talk to me later." Jackson responded with a playful elbow jab.

Beneath the banter, both were uneasy over the issue. Jackson's present mission is to win as many delegates as he can, starting this week in Pennsylvania and climaxing in New Jersey and California. Austin calculates that California is the one big arena where Jackson might stage a dramatic upset. Democrats there have a contrarian history of shafting the front runner, and Jackson's operatives were even putting a perverse "win by losing" spin on their situation after New York. "Now it's okay to vote for Jackson, because he's not going to be President," an adviser explained. "It's safe to go after white votes again."

Jackson himself was turning up the pressure in a different manner. With the field reduced to two, sharper comparisons are inevitable. In speeches, Jackson is drawing distinctions in subtle terms. "This is no time for politics as usual," he said in Pennsylvania. "We don't need to massage Reaganomics; we need Jackson action." By inference, he was saying that Dukakis is a masseur whereas he is an orthopedic surgeon who will rearrange the economy's skeleton. In an interview with TIME, Jackson lapsed into the third person: "There will be a lot of comparative analysis between our approaches. Who can excite the crowds? Jackson. Jesse also has a definitive plan and a budget, for fighting drugs, for building housing." That kind of specificity, along with Jackson's dubious claim that his support base is far broader than Dukakis', is also a factor in the public phase of negotiation.

At some point, probably soon after the California primary, the negotiation will have to go private. The high stakes in this chess game will include the Democratic ticket's prospects in the fall and Jackson's future in the party. One can imagine a conversation in which the two fence about how radical or mainstream the platform should be and what Jackson's role will become. Dukakis will hope that his proud companion can settle for influence rather than a specific prize, such as a place on the ticket.

And then will come one of the most critical moments in the 1988 campaign. Jackson could insist that being the first black on a national ticket is a historic milestone, one that he and his supporters have earned; it would be a bold stroke against the nation's greatest sin, one that could actually sweep the Democrats to victory by arousing the passions of social justice. Or he could say no, that he has never had the least desire to be Vice President and he is smart enough to realize that such a ticket would probably lose and thus cripple both his personal ambitions and his cause.

If Jackson says no, Dukakis can afford to let down his reserve and hug Jackson tightly. Jackson would immediately become a great party statesman, with either a formal or an informal role, tapped and consulted on all major issues. If Jackson says yes, that he feels the Veep spot is his by right, a long and delicate dance will ensue. Dukakis will have to decide whether putting Jackson on the ticket would be more harmful than trying to exclude him, and if so, whether he has the convention votes to win such a fight.

The further Dukakis goes in mollifying Jackson, the greater the danger of alienating moderates and conservatives in the party, particularly in the South. Though these factions again proved feckless in the nomination game -- unable even to field an effective candidate, let alone win any primary outside the South -- they are still essential in amassing an electoral-vote majority in November.

Southern white leaders are already sounding alarms about any leftward tilt. Some pols running this year are maneuvering to put distance between themselves and the national ticket in order to avoid a liberal taint. Jon Mills, speaker of the Florida state assembly, warns that Dukakis "has to show us that he isn't just another northeastern liberal. He's going to have to give us some material to work with." Texas Democratic Chairman Bob Slagle, a Gore supporter, fears that Jackson will nail even more left-wing planks into the platform than were there in 1984. "If Dukakis gets pictured as soft on defense," says Slagle, "he's in a ton of trouble down here." Slagle's solution: lure Georgia Senator Sam Nunn onto the ticket by offering to make him Secretary of Defense as well as Vice President. That unorthodox approach would compensate for Dukakis' lack of expertise in national security affairs, but it would be a confession of weakness on his part. A choice for running mate is supposed to welcome the invitation without imposing large conditions.

While Nunn would be ideal for placating Tory Democrats, his conservative voting record would hardly delight Jackson or other liberals. So the hot name on the Veep gossip circuit last week was that of Senator Bob Graham, former Governor of Florida and a Dukakis supporter known to be more interested in the assignment than Nunn is. An affable, energetic campaigner highly popular at home, Graham could at least reel in the South's second largest state, one that is essential to building an electoral-vote majority. Other prospects are slipping into speculation as well.

As that untidy process lurches along and as Dukakis tries to navigate between competing factions, his strategy is clear on one point: it is time to focus as much fire as possible on the departing President and the Republican who would succeed him. Like all other Democrats, the Duke has already been blasting at a variety of targets, from the misadventures of the hapless Ed Meese to the federal deficit to mismanagement in the Pentagon. That makes partisan sense; while the Democrats have been sniping at each other, Bush has enjoyed relative immunity from attack since he locked up the Republican nomination.

Going after the opposition serves another purpose as well. One way to encourage peace in the family is to focus hostility on the tribe across the street, and political parties operate on the same principle. Until the convention in Atlanta confirms last week's verdict in New York, and until Dukakis, Jackson and the Southern Tories discover whether the Democratic Party is big enough to contain them all, the common enemy may help concentrate their attention wonderfully. And as the Democrats' marathon man heads toward even bigger hurdles, some of his fellow runners must help him along.

With reporting by Michael Duffy with Jackson and Michael Riley with Dukakis