Ringside at the impeachment

Unique view of proceedings comes from what is not on the floor.

During breaks in the Senate impeachment trial of President Clinton, the only sure way to beat the elevator lockout -- when Chief Justice William Rehnquist left the building -- was to take the stairs.

Otherwise you risked being trapped in an elevator while senators escaped your questions in the basement subway.

On one occasion, I raced from the third-floor press gallery down to the first floor only to encounter a police officer who unexpectedly told me that the corridor was closed. Looking for an explanation, I soon saw an entourage of uniformed guards rounding the corner.

Rehnquist, who walks with a limp, ambled past, wearing a gray sportscoat instead of his black robe.

Moments later, another hurried reporter joined me in the hallway. "Well, tell him to walk faster," the reporter barked to the officer, half meaning it.

"You know he can't walk no faster," the officer said with a laugh, then gave the all-clear signal.

We raced down a hallway and another flight of stairs to the basement where senators were already descending the escalators where a gaggle of anxious reporters swallowed them.

If you timed it right, you might interview a dozen senators in 20 minutes.

Sometimes we jumped into the subway car with them, where a reporter could pigeon-hole a senator for the minute or two it took for the subway to reach the Senate office buildings. On our way back to the Capitol, we could take the underground walkway, intercepting two or three senators as they hurried to their offices.

By early February, the questions were mostly the same. There were no new revelations of information about President William Jefferson Clinton or Monica Lewinsky.

The story became more about Senate procedure: Would there be witnesses? When would the trial end? Did the House managers or White House defense make a good case? And, ultimately, how many Republicans would vote against conviction?

Democrats and Republicans did disagree on both witnesses and when the trial should end. Democrats wanted to wrap it up quickly while Republicans, under pressure from the House trial managers, pushed for an open-ended proceeding.

Most of the real work negotiating Senate trial rules happened in hideaway offices out of the public view. On one occasion before the trial began, I joined a half-dozen reporters who were staking out a backroom meeting in a dim, drab green corridor.

After an hour or two, the meeting broke up. House Judiciary Chairman Henry Hyde emerged with a couple of other House managers and several GOP senators, including Sen. Ted Stevens (R-AK), Senate Majority Leader Trent Lott (R-MS) who appointed to negotiate trial rules.

In his typical gruff manner, Stevens chastised us for crashing the meeting, saying he would not negotiate in public.

"The media is here," he called out to the other meeting participants. "Let's get in the elevator."

No one got much of a story, but we did get a rare apology a few days later.

"I'm normally rude anyway, but I'm going to apologize this time," Stevens said.

Impeachment trial coverage settled into its own rhythms and customs. The extraordinary historical circumstances of the seldom-used constitutional machinery became almost embarrassingly routine.

To a reporter on the beat, the remarkable and unfamiliar sight of all 100 senators sitting quietly at their desks soon appeared ordinary, as the House prosecutors and White House defense team offered up familiar arguments. Almost everyone was sure of the outcome.

Senators grew weary of the long sessions. "I can only absorb so much knowledge," complained one senator.

Reporters groused daily about the tight trial security, which prevented us from roaming freely to catch senators at the chamber entrance.

The Capitol Police would herd the sometimes 200 to 300 reporters behind velvet ropes, prompting the protest of baying like sheep.

On Feb. 12, Clinton was acquitted on both counts of perjury and obstruction of justice, as expected. Neither vote made a majority.

As always, reporters and senators found themselves down by the subways.

During an interview with Senate Judiciary Chairman Orrin Hatch, a tourist broke through the reporters and thrust his trial gallery ticket toward Hatch: "Can you sign this and mark it guilty and sign it?"

Hatch did so readily -- almost automatically -- and the interview continued.

The last day did have surprises. A terrorist scare forced the police to evacuate the press gallery.

A half hour after the vote, I stepped from the elevator onto the third floor with deadline just 15 minutes away. To my amazement, the police turned me around and sent me down the stairs.

On the way down, I met my colleague, who had nearly completed the story. With neither his laptop or even a notebook, we managed to reconstruct the story in the House press gallery -- moments before our issue went out.

Scandal-weary Washington has, at least in public, put the impeachment and trial behind itself, but it has not forgotten.

Two weeks after the trial ended, I passed The Mayflower hotel, where House prosecutors interviewed Lewinsky. Though the camera crews and crowds had disappeared, the doorman used the experience to craft a greeting for arriving guests.

"Welcome to the Lewinsky. I mean the Mayflower," the doorman said to a woman stepping from a cab.

"You forget where you're at." she replied, laughing.