Hype & Glory

NED ZEMAN

Beer and loathing in Arkansas: Whitewater comes to a head at the Capital Hotel bar

The New York Times is not a supermarket tabloid. ' '

The voice belonged to R. W. "Johnny" Apple Jr., the seasoned New York Times Washingtonbureau chief, and he was responding to a query as to whether the paper of record would be reporting on two Arkansas state troopers' lurid charges about Bill Clinton's gubernatorial years—a story that swiftly became known, in journalistic circles, as Fornigate. A few days later, in step with countless "Eyewitness News" teams and the British tabloids, the Times dispatched firststring reporters Michael Wines and Sara Rimer to Little Rock.

But, really, who could blame them? Every other paper and network had hightailed it down South, and then along came all that Whitewater unpleasantness and soon reporters were all over Little Rock—skulking after bureaucrats and scoundrels, trolling for purported "Bill Babes." But at night they all returned to their hub, the sumptuous Capital Hotel, a 114year-old landmark with vaulted ceilings, huge rooms, and a staff that memorizes every guest's name—all for just over $100 a night. It's what the Caravelle was to war-tom Saigon, what the A1 Rashid was to Baghdad—a journalist's sanctuary. "Also," notes Rex Nelson, the seasoned political editor of the Arkansas Democrat-

Gazette, "I think they like the bar. " Ah, yes: the hotel houses the legendary Capital Bar, which is the prime watering hole for local and visiting muck-a-mucks. "Used to be a whorehouse, you know," Nelson adds, as if the media needed another reason to be there.

Anyway, it's the place to be. In just a few days at the hotel, one might spot representatives from Time, ABC, CNN, Newsweek, NBC, the Los Angeles Times, and the BBC. Not to mention all the tabloid reporters. But these are journalists.

Which is to say that no matter how nice their setting may be they always find the underbelly. Time writer Richard Behar, an engaging sort who, like most of his colleagues, has nevertheless been known to launch into tirades when the hotel fax machine screws up, thinks there's a ventilation problem at the hotel. "There's no air here. I took a tool and started chipping away at the window, but we're trapped." Behar is Time's point man on Whitewater, so everyone at the Capital knows him, including the competition. He was recently awakened late at night by loud pounding on his door. Then a voice demanded, "Go home! There's no story here, you bastard." Dazed, Behar figured it was a source coming for a little payback. But no. It was Alan Frank, an ABC producer with a flair for the dramatic.

This frat-house gamesmanship is typical. For example, all faxes can be found in one area at the front desk, which means they're available on a first-come, first-swipe basis. There's plenty of superficial professional courtesy, but when one alleged Clinton mistress dined in the hotel restaurant, "everyone was suddenly running down the hallways," recalls a CNN staffer, "jockeying for position." Meanwhile, it's become routine for reporters to greet new arrivals with the message "Welcome aboard. Your phone is tapped." (Even better is the fact that hotel staffers will cheerfully read you that message, adding, "Have a nice day.") The buggedphones theory has been propagated because reporters always seem to know who called whom and because the Capital is owned by Stephens Inc., a financial holding company with close ties to the Clintons. (Needless to say, the hotel denies employing any Big Brother tactics.)

Spend some time in the Capital Bar and a complicated journalistic ecosystem becomes evident. Most reporters are happy to chitchat with one another, particularly after hours (however, Los Angeles Times reporters are widely considered "aloof" and "very 'Spy vs. Spy' "). But as a general rule, daily reporters steer wide of other daily reporters. Time's Behar may sit a few tables apart from Newsweek's current man on the scene, Mark Hosenball; ABC and NBC don't exactly share finger food. Still, there's "a lot of winking and nodding," says Newsweek's Ginny Carroll. Behar adds, "If all of us spread out our reports here, we'd have Whitewater solved in 15 minutes."

Lately, journalists have been tiptoeing out to a quiet little hamlet called Yellville, in Marion County, only about 20 minutes from Whitewater. It's a good three-hour drive from Little Rock, but it's worth it because that's where many Whitewater-related documents are stored. "I hear reporters have been tripping over each other out there," says Chris Vlasto, an ABC producer, who arrived at the Capital with a two-day supply of clothes (he was still there four weeks later). Yellville is also where journalists truly learn to appreciate all that Little Rock has to offer. There is a Ramada Inn and a Super 8 motel nearby, and many reporters frequent the Front Porch restaurant because it has a salad bar. Aside from a combination coffee shop/ secondhand store, that's about it. Yellville, says Time's Suneel Ratan, "is very conducive to work."

Particularly amusing is how the confluence of Fomigate and Whitewater have addled the pack—although, as BBC reporter Peter Marshall notes, "one suspects Whitewater only became a big story because everyone was already down for the sex story. " Reporters for several top-caliber publications complain that their editors had them chase down the names of Clinton's alleged mistresses—not for stories but just because they were curious. And on a given night at the Capital Bar, one could witness a bizarre McLaughlin Groupstyle quorum of staffers from Newsweek, The New York Times, ABC, and numerous British tabloids. The Brits have cultivated a singular image around town. "All the reporters have been nice customers, especially CNN," says Capital bartender Nathan Griffin. "The British ones drink more."

Back in the 1992 campaign, Clinton aide Betsy Wright routinely held anti-bimbo press sessions in the Capital lobby, and reporters were "three-deep at the bar," says Carroll. Then there was a lull until Little Rock attorney Cliff Jackson, who represents the tattling troopers, began holding his own impromptu P.R. sessions in the bar. Now it's hopping again, with dozens of media types checked in during meaty weeks, sometimes under pseudonyms. The Schadenfreude has grown so intense that when Time columnist Walter Shapiro walked into the bar with Clinton chief of staff Mack MacLarty every reporter there stayed through the meal. "Just in case Walter got up and left the guy exposed," said one reporter, adding sadly, "He didn't."

This is not to say that hard-digging and nerve-jangling competitiveness has precluded the absorption of local culture. Reporters from The New York Times, ABC, and the BBC recently convened at Doe's, the pay-by-the-ounce steak house frequented by the president. Everyone loved it—except for the Brits, who, despite pleas of warning, | ordered fish. And late one night a reporters' pack made a | jaunt to a raucous Little Rock nightspot featuring the band > "7th Street Peep Show." But, of course, journalism is a ⅜ 24-hour job. The nightspot's name: the Whitewater Tavern.