"THE LEGACY," The Events in the White House in 1998

Sometimes history is slow in revealing the true nature of events. It may take years, decades or, frequently, centuries. Now, however, the story of the events surrounding the Clinton Presidency during the summer and autumn of 1998 can be told.

We go back to September 1998, Washington, DC, The White House:

This situation, which could no longer be called the Paula Jones case, or even the Monica Lewinsky matter, was growing worse by the day. Here we were now, with the president accused of committing sexual assault in his White House office ... sexual assault. His accuser, the wife of a political ally, seemed most credible and, as far as we could discern then or even now when years have passed, had no motive to damage the president, having been one of his early supporters.

Nor did she seem to have some secret agenda. Certainly she was not part of Hillary's imagined right wing conspiracy. Not even the Clinton smear machine tried to make that connection. It appears that she went public for just the reasons she stated on "60 MINUTES", i.e., she grew tired of hearing the lies and seeing lives ruined by Clinton.

So what happened as a result of her revelation? Nothing, really. The president denied everything, his flunkies hit the TV shows to try to discredit his accuser, the American people yawned and muttered something about how good the economy is, and his poll numbers went up. Oh, Jay Leno made some jokes about it for a week or two and "Saturday Night Live" played with it, but that's about all.

What should have happened, of course, is a different matter. Attorney Stuart Taylor, on the "TODAY " show, pointed out that what the president was accused of fits the legal definition of sexual assault. If the president did what the woman said he did, it happened on Federal property and crimes which are committed on Federal property are Federal crimes, investigated by the FBI. The FBI should have opened an investigation to find out exactly what took place. But the FBI reported to Janet Reno. Expectations for learning the truth of what happened were low.

Never the less, picture the scene, for entertainment value if nothing else. Suppose the FBI did investigate and determined that Clinton did, indeed, commit sexual assault. On the morning of the first warm spring day, a battery of FBI agents, Janet Reno and Louis Freeh in the lead, would be seen marching to the White House to take the president into custody.

They are met at the door by Robert Rubin, the Secretary of the Treasury, to whom the Secret Service, or SS, reports. Rubin, flanked by the White House SS detail, crosses his arms across his chest menacingly. "No way, sister," he says to the Attorney General, "you're not getting past us. Our job is to protect the president and that's exactly what we're going to do."

Rubin turns to a Treasury aid and, in a whisper, says, "Look at her, for pete's sake. The sleeves on her combat jacket are too short. Where did she get that thing? A surplus store in Miami?"

The president is in his office surrounded by his interns. Everyone is nude. He must be conducting a seminar of some sort, or perhaps it's time for their afternoon "Maximus del Sol" session, as the president calls it.

They hear the commotion in the hall and instinctively tighten the protective circle around Clinton. The interns are cold - apparently - and the president is frightened - apparently. They'll protect him with their bodies, if necessary. That's what they are trained to do.

"Give it up, Bob. You're the Secret Service, not his Palace Guard," Reno says. She's a tough customer and Rubin knows it, short sleeves or not. He remembers all too well that Waco happened on her watch.

"You're outgunned," she tells him. "turn him over to us before someone gets hurt. You're in enough trouble as it is. Don't make things worse."

"Hah!," Rubin laughs, throwing his head back defiantly. "You forgot a little detail, Reno. The BATF reports to me and they're right outside. Come on in boys, and girls, too, of course."

Suddenly the hallway is teeming with armed men and women, dressed in black fatigue outfits, black helmets and jack boots, with BATF across their backs in yellow block letters. "God," Reno thinks to herself, "the NRA was right about these guys, and gals, too."

"Not so fast, Bobby. You must think I'm new at this sort of thing. Waco happened on my watch, remember? I'd never come here without backup and overwhelming force." Reno says, "The Federal Marshals report to me and they have your people covered. Come on in, boys, and girls, too, of course."

The hallway was very crowded now, and the armed mob was spilling out onto the lawn. Things didn't look good for Rubin and his people. The Iron Lady had won. It was all over for Clinton. Except that nobody had reckoned with long time Clinton ally, Bruce Babbitt and his crack National Park Service Police.

They pushed into the already packed hallway. "Come on in girls," Babbitt said, his face flushed with excitement, "oh, and boys, too, of course."

"Reno," he said, "my people, - and just so you know, they're the ones in the Smokey Bear hats? - although we've always liked your people and have gotten along well with them, now actually have them covered. Put your hands up. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think that's the saying."

"I will not." Reno was adamant.

"But you have to," Babbitt insisted, "now just do it."

"I can't, damn it. My sleeves are too short. Louie, I think I took your jacket by mistake."

Just as it looked like curtains for Reno and her people, in charged the Postmaster General. Everyone in the hallway seemed to remember that his name was Runyon, but nobody could remember if that was his first name or last name.

"Hold it, Bobbitt," Runyon says.

"It's Babbitt ... Babbitt, you ninny," stammers the Interior Secretary. Everyone makes the same mistake and he's tired of it.

"Whatever. You're surrounded by my Postal Inspectors and they're armed. They have AK-47s and they know how to use them. Come on in boys, and girls, too, of course."

Louie Freeh jumped to his feet. "AK47s? How did you get AK47s? All the FBI can get are those crummy Army surplus rifles."

"Relax, Louie," Runyon said. "They're not ours. We borrowed them from the postal workers. They all have them, but they want them back by tonight. So we'll have to make this quick."

Runyon turned to the crowed. "To paraphrase the Post Office motto," he said, "give me your tired, human refuse of a president and ..."

Babbitt slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. "That's the Statue of Liberty motto, you ninny. The Post Office motto goes on about dark of night, rain, sleet and all that."

"Oh," was Runyon's quick response. He turned to an aid, "Make a note."

Then a shot rang out. A nervous National Parks Police Officer had accidentally pulled her trigger. It was followed quickly by another shot, then another and suddenly the air was filled with the sound of gunfire. Magazines were emptied, reloaded, then emptied again. Pistols were fired until their barrels were white hot. Janet Reno tossed one of the grenades she had hanging on her bandolier. She learned later that you have to pull that little pin thingy before you throw it to make it go off.

Terror and panic gripped all in the hallway, packed with dozens of Federal officers and officials. Hundreds of shots were fired that terrible day.

Fortunately, no one was injured, but the president, seeing his opportunity, leaped out the window to the Rose Garden and, with a few of his interns in tow, ran for his helicopter. Off they went, waving. "I feel your pain," he was heard to say.