Mouths Wide Shut

Presidential Nominees Let Their Records Speak for Themselves

The language of silence is powerful. We use it to mourn or to protest. It can be a sign of acquiescence, or a shield to maintain control.

When you think about it, silence isn't necessarily so silent after all.

But don't tell that to a presidential nominee for a high-level post, especially a controversial one. Democrat or Republican, it doesn't matter in today's confirmation wars.

Such people don't get to the top of a president's shortlist by being quiet. They always play their A-game, assertive and self-assured. Speaking their mind is what they do.

But answer a president's call to serve on his Cabinet, on the federal bench or even as an ambassador, and you enter a zone of silence. It is that period between the announcement of your nomination and taking your seat before a Senate committee in which you face intense scrutiny, supporters and opponents in motion, and learn firsthand what it feels like to be muzzled. (Even while you're being coached and rehearsed.)

In the silent zone, you cannot speak. You are strongly advised to forgo interviews and to resist the impulse to explain what you meant when you said what you said. You don't fire from the silent zone, either, even when fired upon. That's what the handlers are for. They sing your praises and attempt to vanquish your critics.

Call it Beltway ventriloquism.

Looking at it that way is all wrong, says the White House. "The purpose of our policy is to respect the senators and the confirmation process," says spokesman Dana Perino.

Nonetheless, with John G. Roberts Jr., President Bush's choice to fill the Supreme Court seat of retiring Justice Sandra Day O'Connor, the debate has been whether his reticence goes too far.

For so many others, though, keeping their mouths shut can be a test of body and soul -- even if it ultimately does get them the job. In 1997, President Clinton nominated James C. Hormel to be ambassador to Luxembourg. Before the ordeal was over nearly two years later, the openly gay philanthropist and heir to the Hormel meatpacking fortune would be accused of being anti-Catholic and of promoting porn and pedophilia.

Last week, Hormel began a phone conversation about that part of his life with something of an apology. It had been six years since Clinton finally ended his nomination agony by giving him a recess appointment. He was worried his recollections might be a little off. But it was soon clear that he remembered quite a bit, in great detail.

"When questions arise and they are in public, when they challenge a person's qualifications or integrity . . . it is very tempting to respond," he says. "It is very tempting to regard challenges to one's nomination as personal."