I had never been in a motorcade before.
The experience is absolutely surreal. Motorcycles and vans and SUVs move together in a synchronized ballet of deliberate, palpable, urgent momentum. The typical herky-jerky of stop-and-go driving is replaced by the whir of multiple engines propelling vehicles at a constant velocity. There is no acceleration or deceleration noise, rather the sound is a relaxing hum of engines settled into a syncopated, purposeful speed. Only the distant wails of police sirens in front and behind you pierce the thrum.
You stop for nothing: not stop signs, not stop lights, not pedestrians. Nothing.
They all stop for you.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. My boss, Congressman Steve Schiff, died on Wednesday, March 25, 1998. My DC staff colleagues and i were included as part of the Congressional delegation that attended his funeral service in Albuquerque the following Monday, March 30.
‘We Leave at 6…’
Our instructions were simple: be at the House steps on the East Front at 6 am on Monday dressed and ready to go. If you’re not there, you’re not going. And we’ll have you back at the House steps at 6 pm the same day.
Now, the only absolute in the U.S. Congress is that there are no absolutes. One just doesn’t draw an unbending line in the sand with a U.S. Representative, nevermind with several dozen Congressmen, two U.S. Senators and the Speaker of the House. As arrogant as this may sound, most times it isn’t an arrogance of the person, it’s an inconvenience of the office. These men and women are pulled in a million directions, even at 6 a.m. And while my colleagues and I knew we’d be there on time, we did take quiet bets about what time we’d actually leave.
Astonishingly, we left for Andrews Air Force Base at 6 a.m.
We were a motorcade of mourning—my colleagues, me, Speaker’s office staff, Senator Pete Domenici, Senator Jeff Bingaman, Congressman Joe Skeen and quite a few other Members of Congress who had counted Steve as a friend—piled into two charter busses and joined by an ambulance, a couple of U.S. Capitol Police cruisers and a whole bunch of DC motorcycle cops. And it shot away from the U.S. Capitol down South Capitol Street, across the Douglass Bridge and onto the Suitland Parkway, pushing itself through D.C.’s morning rush hour to get us to the airplane at Andrews Air Force Base.
I slumped down in my seat, leaned my head against the cool, dark bus window, felt exhilerated and excited, then guilty for enjoying such a unique experience, and then ultimately sadness as I focused on where we were headed. I’d slept fitfully in the hours leading up to 6 am afraid that I’d oversleep and miss saying goodbye to my boss. The sun wasn’t even up and I was already exhausted.
It was my first motorcade.
The ‘United States of America’ Jet
I don’t remember actually slowing down as we approached the gates to Andrews Air Force Base. I think we blew right through them, then careening through the quieter streets of the Base until quite suddenly we were speeding across a tarmac with gleaming “United States of America” jets on one side and airplane hangars on the other. One hangar, I very clearly remember, had its doors open with one of the special 747’s used for presidential travel parked inside of it. I was awestruck.
The motorcade stopped about 20 feet away from an idling jet. I’m pretty sure it was a C-137. Regardless, it looked pretty much like the photo to the right.
We piled off the busses and piled on to the plane.
The staff was shuffled to the back of the plane pretty quickly. On the hurried trip to the back, I remember being amused by the full size photocopier bolted to the floor in one of the cabins and that several cabins had telephones mounted to the walls. (At this point and by today’s standards, cell phones were fairly large and didn’t have great reception anywhere, so most members didn’t carry them. And once the airplane was in flight, it was just hilarious how so many members suddenly had to call their office.) The cabin in the back of this plane, however, was actually like the first class cabin of commercial airliners: spacious leather seats configured two-by-two with plenty of legroom.
I settled into a seat next to my colleague Lawrence. Two staff members from the Speaker’s office were sat in front of us. One was yammering away loudly on her (gigantic) cell phone. I distinctly remember her saying, “I have no idea where I’m going. I’m on a plane. I think I’m going to a funeral.” I began to quietly fume. How could she be so callous? How could she be so completely situationally unaware? How could she be so rude?
I seethed about her obliviousness until the captain’s voice crackled over the plane’s speakers drowning out the droning of my nemesis.
“Mumble, mumble, crackle, mumble…takeoff…mumble, crackle…and clear skies…mumble, crackle, mumble, mumble…hours…”
His incomprehensible speech was quieted by the yawning of the jet engines as we began a slow taxi. And there was no “make sure your seats are upright, your tray tables are stowed and any carry on items are placed securely under your seat.” The captain’s message became evident as we turned a runway corner and accelerated full-tilt until the ground shrank beneath us. The next stop was Albuquerque.
Through the entire “mumble, crackle…clear skies…mumble, whir, zoom,” the Speaker’s staffer blathered noisily on her phone seemingly unaware that she was even on an airplane.
Albuquerque
Four hours later, we land in an overcast Albuquerque, whiz by the regular airport terminal and park near another idling motorcade.
The motorcade had to traverse about two-thirds of the city to reach our destination. The airport is on the far south end of town and Steve’s synogogue was in an area called the “Northeast Heights” (coincidentally across the street from Cleveland Middle School, where I experienced the Hell that is seventh and eighth grade).
I slumped down in a seat and stared out the window convinced that the sites and haunts of my hometown and the good memories they’d evoke would help diffuse some of my sorrow. If anything, I’d feel the warm comfort of being home.
What happened next I never saw coming. And to this day—15 years later—it still reduces me to tears.
From the moment the motorcade left airport property to the point at which we pulled in to the synogogue, people lined the road, holding signs, waving their arms and waving American flags. To say “I was so moved” doesn’t even capture a micron of my emotional reaction. Through the blurred vision of tear-filled eyes, I saw adults, kids with parents, the elderly, teenagers and college kids, couples and clubs and teams all taking a moment out of their day to pay their respects. While I don’t think outwardly he would have liked the spectacle, I know he would have been incredibly grateful and equally as emotional.
It was—and still remains—one of the most emotionally jarring, yet uplifting moments of my life.
The rest of my time in Albuquerque, including Steve’s service, comes at me in brief flashes of memory:
- The commotion of dozens of men (including me) who had never worn a yarmulke, scrambling to get it positioned appropriately and securely on our heads.
- Running—yes running—from the bus into the synogogue at the urging of the Capitol Police on the ground and glancing up to see snipers on the building’s roof
- Being cordoned off from the rest of the attendees and not being allowed to spend any time with our Albuquerque-based colleagues
- Steve’s son’s devastatingly moving eulogy
- Boarding the plane to go home, turning around at the top of the stairs just outside the door to see the sun crack through the clouds, then glancing across the tarmac and through the chain link fence to see my parents watching me to make sure I was okay
Even recounting the day to friends immediately after the trip, I could only remember snippets of being in Albuquerque.
Vodka Tonic
I have no idea what time it was when I crumpled into my seat on the airplane. But I was completely spent. And I wanted a drink.
I walked back to the galley and implored the airman for a vodka tonic. I even offered to pay, which in retrospect was a pretty crass move. He took one look at me, hesitated, then poured me a nice, strong one. I sat back down as the plane started its sprint down the runway, sighed heavily, felt my shoulders drop and relax, closed my eyes for a second…
…and then I was startled into consciousness by what I thought was turbulence. My first thought was, “oh crap, you’re going to spill your drink!” I opened my eyes and saw my drink dangling from my right hand, held in place by my fingers just like I’d been doing (what I thought was) minutes ago.
I looked at Lawrence and said, “turbulence?”
“That wasn’t turbulence, Brett,” he said. “We just landed back at Andrews.”
Incredulously I looked at my untouched, dangling drink, then looked at Lawrence, then looked out the window. I saw hangars and tarmac and “United States of America” jets. We were back in DC.
I never took one sip of that drink.
‘…We’ll Be Back by 6’
I don’t remember the ride back to the Capitol. I don’t remember if we were a motorcade or just two nondescript charter busses. I don’t remember if we spoke to each other or sat quietly. But I do very clearly remember looking at my watch as I walked off the bus at the Capitol and noting that it was 6 p.m. I was amazed by that. And I was sad that I hadn’t been able to spend more time in Albuquerque.
I was, however, very grateful to be able to say goodbye to Steve in the town that he loved surrounded by people that loved him.