Back to the Futures

Back to the Futures
What Martha Stewart could learn from Hillary.
BY CLAUDIA ROSETT
Thursday, June 27, 2002 12:01 a.m. EDT

Memo
To: Martha Stewart, Doyenne of Domesticity
From: Hillary Clinton, U.S. Senator
Re: How you can beat this rap

Martha, maybe you're thinking I'm a fair-weather friend, like the rest of those Democratic politicians who backed away faster than a gal can say "I just got lucky" from that $1,000-a-plate fund-raiser you were planning to throw for us in New York last week. Of course, with your ImClone stock sale landing you in enough hot water to poach a tyrannosaur, I do feel you deserve a little quiet time.

But anyone can see that you and I still have lots in common. It's not just that I've done cameos on your TV shows. It's not even that we're both chums of ImClone's former CEO, Sam Waksal, who before he was charged with insider-trading in the same scandal now frying your bacon was donating big bucks to my campaign for the Senate. No, our real bond is that you and I both have this amazing gift of prescience in playing the markets. You sold your ImClone shares the day before the stock crashed. Back in my Arkansas days, I turned a $1,000 investment in cattle futures into a nearly $100,000 profit--a 10,000% return in just 10 months. Pretty neat, huh?

Sadly, as we both know, such talent can kick up all sorts of fuss among folks less gifted. And, having set myself up as a role model for enterprising women, it seems the least I can do--now that you have your own scandal to handle--is to offer you my very own Hillary's how-to guide on how to put a lid on it:

1. Wardrobe matters. For the little-woman-wronged routine, we all know I favor pink. At my famous White House press conference in 1994, it got me through more than an hour of those irritating Whitewater and cattle-futures questions. But when you turned up Tuesday morning on CBS to chop cabbage and insist you'll be "exonerated of any ridiculousness," well, honestly, Martha, that shirt had all the feminine flair of a circus tent.

For these occasions you want something sweet, soft and a touch more tailored. And get your stage set under control. Don't try to play the baffled ingénue while wielding a kitchen knife. Take a hint: I played it perched on a gold brocade chair, and in keeping with the innocent motif, I further accessorized with pink flowers on the mantelpiece and a portrait of honest Abe Lincoln overhead.

2. Three words: "shoulda, coulda, woulda." They worked for me. All I had to add was, "We didn't." That was about Whitewater, but hey, help yourself--it's timeless. Throw in some talk about your "zone of privacy" and how you're now rezoning yourself to "fully cooperate." The trick is to keep evolving. Your story doesn't have to be credible. It just has to morph along with the questions.

3. Stonewall. Forget whatever you need to and obfuscate the rest. Here's the kind of line that's always worked for me: "I just don't have any memory of that." I guess I was referring to my role in Travelgate, but these days, who remembers? Every moment you can delay, postpone, confuse, evade, rinse and repeat, you're that much closer to the day everyone is so sick of it you can just keep movin' on.

4. Find a fall guy. Or many. Blame your broker--with a little luck, it's your word against his. Blame your staff. Blame cell-phone static. Blame the vast right-wing conspiracy. If it's any help, go ahead and blame my husband--Bill's sloughed off Gennifer, Paula, Whitewater, Juanita's rape allegation, Monica, impeachment, the Marc Rich pardon and my own assorted scandals, to hit just a few highlights. A smattering of fresh scandal might even boost his speaking fees--which would help me replace some of that White House furniture and silverware we had to give back after we got caught.

5. Run for office. When you get tired of milking the role of the victimized woman, the Senate is such a tonic, and it puts you in a great position for real payback--just check my voting record. Though on this score, I must say, you have not been provident. You'd be in much better shape if you'd married some guy who (with the help of your financial talents) ended up as president.

The White House comes with a whole collection of perks that money just can't buy. As first lady, you can criss-cross New York state for months with a Secret Service escort that those rubes eat right up. And you can invite your big campaign contributors to White House dinners, like the one I asked Sam Waksal to when he was helping bankroll my Senate race. And you can do it all on the taxpayers' dime.

Girl, eight years ago I was on the ropes, dressed in my little pink suit, defending my measly $100,000 windfall and my down-home real estate projects, and (here's another handy phrase) just "trying to find my way through." Today I'm worth millions, I've got a seat in the Senate, and my eye on the White House (if I can just keep Bill on ice for another two years). Martha, look and learn. Or the day will come when you realize you mighta said shoulda, coulda, woulda--but you didn't.

Ms. Rosett is a member of The Wall Street Journal's editorial board. Her column appears Thursdays on OpinionJournal.com and in The Wall Street Journal Europe as "Letter From America."