By the time the video of Pence’s disastrous This Week appearance was ricocheting across the Internet, it was clear that the bill was untenable in its current form. Desperate to stanch the reputational bleeding, the Republican state assembly hastily composed a clarification to the law, specifying that it could not be used to justify discrimination. The bill’s original backers complained loudly that this “clarification” defeated the whole purpose of the bill, which was true—and revealing. Their objection exposed the deep truth that, contrary to Pence’s protestations, discrimination had been at the heart of their project all along.
The “fix” was not exactly a leap forward in LGBT inclusion. An effort failed the next year to actually establish a civil rights policy, which meant, going forward, that in many parts of Indiana people could still be fired for being gay. Embarrassingly, we also remained one of just five American states with no ban on hate crimes. But the whole episode showed that trying to appeal to radical social conservatives no longer worked in Indiana, because it would run afoul of what most people believed, including typically conservative groups like the business community. The controversy crippled Pence’s reputation as governor, and created an opening for his Democratic challenger, John Gregg, to mount a credible campaign against him for the governor’s office in 2016.
What no one could have known then was the future benefit to Pence of establishing himself as a hero to the religious far right, a political martyr almost. It made him into a brilliant, if cynical, choice of running mate for Donald Trump. Nominating an evangelical heartland governor was the best way for a thrice-married, formerly pro-choice, philandering ex-Democrat like Trump to reach out to religious conservatives and begin unifying the fractured right around his candidacy. And while Trump’s life story was anathema to everything Mike Pence believed in, this was the right move for Pence, too, if viewed in the cynical light of raw politics. The governor had lost respect on both sides of the aisle in his home state, and was now widely expected to lose his reelection. Strange bedfellows though they were, Mike Pence and Donald Trump needed each other. Win or lose, teaming up with Trump could give Pence a second political life.
13
Hitting Home
It was mild and hazy on the morning of June 1, 2016, as I stood on the tarmac waiting for Air Force One. I had shown up for what I thought would be a perfunctory handshake and photo opportunity. President Obama was to speak in Elkhart, about forty minutes east of South Bend’s airport, which was the nearest place where you could land a 747. As mayor, I would have the honor of welcoming him as he stepped off the plane and walked over to the limousine. Standing alongside Senator Donnelly and the president of the county commissioners as the jumbo jet descended for its final approach, it was easy to be awed by the spectacle of America’s presidential security apparatus. As soon as the big aircraft landed, chase vehicles appeared on the runway seemingly from nowhere, SUVs racing along its sides for some reason as it slowed to a taxi. Innumerable Secret Service and military personnel crowded the apron as the mighty white-and-blue aircraft swung around. Off to the side was a C-17; it had probably delivered the limo earlier along with who-knows-what military equipment and personnel to be at the president’s side, just in case.
I thought of the day in 1988 when my father took me to peer through the chain-link fence at Ronald Reagan’s plane and reflected on the nature of American strength as symbolized by the big jet, the vehicles, the personnel. The arrival of a presidential aircraft is somewhat light on ceremony, but heavy on equipment and personnel—less a show of elegance than one of power. In a sense, it was also proof of the great faith and optimism shown by our cautious Founders in placing this much authority in the hands of one democratically elected human being. Imagine the implications, I thought as I eyed the SUVs, the security men, the big graytail military jet in the distance, if all this were to fall into the hands of someone unfit to wield it.
The president descended the familiar staircase, did his requisite handshaking with the three of us smiling officials, and walked past us to greet a small gaggle of locals who had been invited for one reason or another to view the landing from the tarmac. Then an aide tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to step toward the limo nearby. Moments later, I was sitting inside, facing backward, and looking eye-to-eye at a smiling Barack Obama. I glanced down to make sure my feet did not accidentally tap the president’s shoes.
President Obama was in a buoyant mood. “How are the Irish looking for this fall?” he asked me and Senator Donnelly, seated next to him. The conversation hovered on football for a while, and then ranged through what was happening in South Bend, how the auto industry had come back, how our city was positioning itself relative to the economy of Chicago. It was not a business session, though at one point Obama turned to Donnelly and pointedly mentioned that he needed the Senate to come through with funding for his opioid package.
We compared stories on throwing out the first pitch—admittedly a little different at a South Bend Cubs game than opening day at Nationals Park, but it was nice to be able to have something in common, sort of, with a president. He volunteered that one of the moments when he truly admired his predecessor was when Bush, not long after the 9/11 attacks, nailed a perfect strike in his first pitch at game three of the World Series at Yankee Stadium.
Wishing for the first time in my life that the commute to Elkhart along the U.S. 20 Bypass could somehow grow longer, I alternated between enjoying the conversation and disbelieving that it was happening in the first place. I felt I was comporting myself reasonably well, taking the opportunity to explain what was happening in our city and what our greatest needs were for support. Then, after the conversation had turned to something about my time in Afghanistan, the president interrupted me to ask, “Wait a minute—how old are you, anyway?”
And for what felt like a minute, I had no idea.
A FEW WEEKS EARLIER, I had met for the first time the person most of us assumed would be the next president. Chasten and I were at my parents’ place for Sunday night dinner, as usual, when a phone call came from a friend involved with the Clinton campaign. “Hillary wants to do a campaign event in northern Indiana.” Could we find a good place for her to speak? She would be here on Tuesday.