public. As her case stretched out over five years, Jones became a fairly accomplished public performer, but at this moment she was painfully awkward to behold. With her untamed Arkansas twang and her curls stacked so high that her hair bow was barely visible in the tangles, she projected a wounded innocence but painfully little sophistication. “What was wrong,” Jones said, “is that a woman can’t work in the workplace and be harassed by someone that high, and it’s just humiliating what he did to me.”
“Will you tell us in your own words something about what really happened in that room? Everybody has been vague,” another reporter said.
“I will not speak on that,” Jones replied.
The reporters, clearly perplexed, followed up. Jackson had read the relevant portion of the American Spectator article and denounced it as untrue, and Traylor had said vaguely that they were seeking an apology from the president. So, the journalists wondered, why weren’t they suing the Spectator ? Why wouldn’t they say what Clinton had done? Why were they here?
“Understanding that you don’t want to go into any great detailed description of what happened,” one reporter ventured, “can you tell us just what happened in the room?”
“I’ll just put it this way,” Jones replied. “He presented hisself to me in a very unprofessional manner. I would call it sexual harassment, and that’s all.”
“Did he ask you to have sex with him?”
“A type of sex, yes.”
After another reporter harangued Jones about the details of the encounter,Traylor jumped in. “I appreciate that concern, but you also have to appreciate our deference to the first family and you have to appreciate the sensitive nature of what we’re discussing, but I am going to talk to Paula right now and ask her to give you kind of a blow-by-blow account …”
Snickers filled the room at Traylor’s choice of words.
“… of what transpired in the room.”
Then, as the bewildered reporters waited, Traylor and Paula and Steve Jones conferred behind the podium.
When they finished, Paula expanded her story a bit. “When I went into the hotel room, then he proceeded to take my hand and pull me over, and then slide up my legs. I pushed him back. It was just humiliating for someone of that nature, you’re supposed to trust somebody like that or I would never have went to that room.… Somehow it worked its way into, ‘You have nice curves.’ ‘I love the way your hair goes down your body.’ Garbage like that.”
Finally, the reporters grew a little giddy with the sparring. “You have mentioned that he asked you to perform a sexual act,” one person ventured. “Was this something that could have been performed without you taking your clothes off?”
The reporters groaned, and Traylor allowed, “The answer is yes.”
Finally, as Jackson said they would take only one more question, one reporter asked, “Did the governor ask you to perform fellatio?”
“Excuse me?” said Paula.
“Fellatio?” he shouted back.
With that, Jackson closed the proceedings. Back in their room, Paula and Steve were distraught. So was Traylor. They knew the event had gone badly. (The press conference received little coverage, and the White House dismissed it. “It’s just not true,” said press secretary Dee Dee Myers.)
It had been two months since Paula’s name surfaced in the Spectator , and the efforts on her behalf had ranged from ineffectual to catastrophic. The White House had dismissed her; the press had scorned her; her prospects for a lawsuit were dim and for a book or movie deal nil.
Amid the gloom of that February night in the capital, Cliff Jackson told the group he did have one idea. He had one final hope for keeping Paula’s story alive. There was someone he wanted her to meet.
2
“Isn’t That What Happened?”
I n the summer of 1987, a new reporter joined the staff of The Washington Post and was assigned a desk next to that of
“Will you tell us in your own words something about what really happened in that room? Everybody has been vague,” another reporter said.
“I will not speak on that,” Jones replied.
The reporters, clearly perplexed, followed up. Jackson had read the relevant portion of the American Spectator article and denounced it as untrue, and Traylor had said vaguely that they were seeking an apology from the president. So, the journalists wondered, why weren’t they suing the Spectator ? Why wouldn’t they say what Clinton had done? Why were they here?
“Understanding that you don’t want to go into any great detailed description of what happened,” one reporter ventured, “can you tell us just what happened in the room?”
“I’ll just put it this way,” Jones replied. “He presented hisself to me in a very unprofessional manner. I would call it sexual harassment, and that’s all.”
“Did he ask you to have sex with him?”
“A type of sex, yes.”
After another reporter harangued Jones about the details of the encounter,Traylor jumped in. “I appreciate that concern, but you also have to appreciate our deference to the first family and you have to appreciate the sensitive nature of what we’re discussing, but I am going to talk to Paula right now and ask her to give you kind of a blow-by-blow account …”
Snickers filled the room at Traylor’s choice of words.
“… of what transpired in the room.”
Then, as the bewildered reporters waited, Traylor and Paula and Steve Jones conferred behind the podium.
When they finished, Paula expanded her story a bit. “When I went into the hotel room, then he proceeded to take my hand and pull me over, and then slide up my legs. I pushed him back. It was just humiliating for someone of that nature, you’re supposed to trust somebody like that or I would never have went to that room.… Somehow it worked its way into, ‘You have nice curves.’ ‘I love the way your hair goes down your body.’ Garbage like that.”
Finally, the reporters grew a little giddy with the sparring. “You have mentioned that he asked you to perform a sexual act,” one person ventured. “Was this something that could have been performed without you taking your clothes off?”
The reporters groaned, and Traylor allowed, “The answer is yes.”
Finally, as Jackson said they would take only one more question, one reporter asked, “Did the governor ask you to perform fellatio?”
“Excuse me?” said Paula.
“Fellatio?” he shouted back.
With that, Jackson closed the proceedings. Back in their room, Paula and Steve were distraught. So was Traylor. They knew the event had gone badly. (The press conference received little coverage, and the White House dismissed it. “It’s just not true,” said press secretary Dee Dee Myers.)
It had been two months since Paula’s name surfaced in the Spectator , and the efforts on her behalf had ranged from ineffectual to catastrophic. The White House had dismissed her; the press had scorned her; her prospects for a lawsuit were dim and for a book or movie deal nil.
Amid the gloom of that February night in the capital, Cliff Jackson told the group he did have one idea. He had one final hope for keeping Paula’s story alive. There was someone he wanted her to meet.
2
“Isn’t That What Happened?”
I n the summer of 1987, a new reporter joined the staff of The Washington Post and was assigned a desk next to that of
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