The wild west thing.

Every morning they read The Washington Post that hits their front door and listen to National Public Radio while they shower. Then, their appetites whetted by the day's news, they creep out of the underbrush of Washington neighborhoods and come to the White House briefing room.

They are the lions of the press. They enter through the Secret Service gate on Pennsylvania Avenue, submit their cameras for search, show their passes for the 500th time, snarl at the uniformed police manning the identification computers, and finally trudge up the long and winding driveway to work.

They are entering a cage as real as any zoo ever constructed. Their movements within the White House are monitored and managed. The president's schedule determines their lunch time and their leaving time; his agenda controls their thoughts and ideas. Presidential minions just out of college will tell them to "wait here" and "move there." By the 11 a.m. briefing (known as "the feeding time"), they are pissed. It's no wonder.

For the White House staff, the press is a problem to be managed, like a cocklebur that attaches to your pants leg. We move them around like checkers--into the Oval Office at the top of each meeting, into the Rose Garden for a bill signing. This is the power center of the democratic universe. The more the president's power is challenged by sources outside the White House, the more it is exercised within the White House.

In March 1987, the outside challenges could be counted in truckloads--from the Tower Board looking into the "arms for hostages" question, from Democrats hungry for the presidency, and from a press corps that smelled the blood of an injured president. Reagan would conduct public events the way groundhogs test the day, sticking out his nose for a time, uttering a few words, then quickly ducking back into the Oval Office.

It was Friday, March 13, 1987. As usual, I began my day by greeting Carl Jones, who has welcomed White House visitors through seven presidential administrations. Carl has a 14-inch TV set stashed in the coat closet, and can stand in the doorway watching the morning news, take my coat, welcome me to the day, and never miss a beat. Sometimes he would warn me, "Lot of reporters around today."

He said that today.

Oh Christ, I thought. What have I missed? "Got a paper, Carl?" He motioned me to the coffee table. The stories on the Post's front page seemed harmless. Something about the new certification procedures for the Soviet arms-control treaty. No emotion there. Certainly wouldn't cause reporters to come in early to try to ambush me going into the White House, or even cause Carl to notice.

Must be The New York Times, I thought, which was buried beneath The Wall Street Journal and The Washington Times. I dug it out, glanced at both sides of the fold, and my heart stopped. The headline was, "Reagan Counsel Recounts Chaos Over Iran Affair." Peter Wallison, who had just resigned as the President's counsel, but not yet announced it publicly, must be covering his ass. The first paragraph confirmed it: "President Reagan's chief legal adviser today depicted scenes of chaos in the White House in recent months and said he had been prevented from looking into the Iran affair for several weeks after its disclosure last November." Wallison had given the interview to Gerald Boyd of the Times's Washington bureau.

I knew what this meant: My morning briefing would be war. There is nothing the press likes better than internal squabbling--even better if there's a hint that the President might be blamed. Most of all, this provided them with an opportunity to break my rock-solid policy of not discussing Iran-Contra from the White House.

When I started the new job on February 2, 1987, Oliver North, John Poindexter, and Bud McFarlane had all departed the National Security Council, and the Iran-Contra investigation was just getting into full swing. The Tower Board, including Senator John Tower, General Brent Scowcroft, and former Secretary of State Edmund Muskie, had been appointed by President Reagan to look into the sale of arms to Iran and make policy recommendations. The Congress was about to hold hearings. And an independent counsel, Lawrence E. Walsh of Oklahoma City, had been appointed to investigate any criminal activity related to the affair.

I saw the outside investigations as a blessing. After all, the independent counsel law was passed on the theory that the White House could not investigate itself. So why try, in any way, shape, or form? My policy would be: "This matter is being fully investigated by three outside bodies and not by the White House. We will leave all answers to them." In the winter of 1987, if I pretended to know even one fact in my briefings about Iran-Contra, the press would tie me in knots.

I entered my office and Roman Popadiuk came in behind me. Roman worked for my foreign policy deputy, Dan Howard, and had worked in the White House situation room before joining the press office staff. Later he would become my own deputy, and in 1991, he became America's first ambassador to the newly independent nation of Ukraine. But in 1987, I had only known him a week, and he was a Foreign Service officer with no press experience.

He said he didn't think we had a problem. "Wallison is a bit player," he said. "The press won't care about this."

"Wrong, Roman," I said. "They love this. Internal feuding. Chaos. Legal counsel turned away. Another stone wall in the making. They will kill me at my briefing.... Now get me everything you can on Wallison. What did he want this information for? What's he doing? When did he start? I'll take care of the nasty stuff, like why he's accusing his own president of covering up."

"What will you say when the press asks if the President agrees with Wallison, or if he's going to fire him?"

"Don't ever forget," I told Roman. "The President has full confidence in everyone in the Administration, right up until the day he fires them. If you don't say that, if you ever imply the President is down on someone, that person is dead. No one will return his calls. His power is gone. My rule is this: Never criticize anyone in the name of the President unless the President tells you to, and even then, don't do it."

"OK," Roman said. "What will you say?"

That was easy: I would stall. Wallison had already resigned, as had his chief of staff, Don Regan. I'll just say I have to check it out. Once he's gone, the press won't much care anyway. No power, no press.

I needed three lines to use on this thing--lines to stick to no matter how long this affair dragged on. And I needed to write them down.

First, the arms sales to Iran are being investigated by three independent bodies. We are not investigating ourselves. The independent counsel law was designed to prevent that.

Second, we are not going to comment on any information from these investigations. We will comment only when they are completed.

Third, President Reagan brought this matter to the public's attention as soon as he discovered it. He asked for an independent counsel and the White House will fully cooperate with the investigations.

I opened the staff meeting. We always started with the President's schedule, then turned to the day's main story. My goal was to find some way to "advance" that story, give it a White House dimension, add color, give it urgency--all with the aim of influencing the story so it reflected the President's viewpoint. I also liked to know five basic facts about five other stories in the news. If I could do this, I would be smarter than the reporters.

We looked at the schedule. Routine all day. Nothing to overwhelm the Wallison story. I was left to fight this one alone.

"Keep your ears open down there today," I told my staff. "Listen for the anger. Is anyone really pissed at this Wallison thing, or do they dismiss his comments as CYA [cover your ass]? Also, let me know if this is the television network story of the day. If it is, I have to be stem as hell, to treat this really seriously. If they are dismissing it, I'll try to get in and out of it quickly, not build up the story. Also, try and find out what Lou Cannon or David Hoffman [of The Washington Post] think. They may be so mad that the Times got the story, they will ignore it just to devalue the scoop. If that's the case, I really want to lie low."

We had only two hours for all this to happen, but in that time every reporter in the building would pass through the lower press office. Half of them would call in to check the President's schedule. If my people were alert, I would have those answers by 11 o'clock. When the time came, I collected my notes, especially my statement on Wallison, shoved them into a black briefing book, and stood up to get a breath. I put my jacket on and fought the butterflies and the fear. From the first day in 1987 to January 20, 1993, there was always fear. Unfortunately, fear leads to an overwhelming desire to use the bathroom.

"Call the briefing," I said to Liz Murphy Kloak, a young assistant. When my staff heard the word "call" they began to run. Liz told my secretary to announce the meeting, then headed for the lower press office to alert the staff, get the podium secured, the klieg lights on, the microphones and amplifiers in place, and remove any old newspapers left strewn about the podium. She also checked to see that no one had placed obscene pictures or derogatory comments on the stage. While she did this, I stopped by the bathroom next to the Oval Office.

As I reached the briefing room, the television lights flashed on. The standing room only crowd was positioned around the back and side aisles, reporters were holding their tape recorders, and the White House Communications Agency Army enlisted man was ready with electronic boxes that would beam my briefing into the Foreign Press Center across town, to the State and Defense Departments, to other White House staff, and finally to the Oval Office, to an audience of one that loomed behind me like the Wizard of Oz. "Go get 'em Max Marlin," one assistant said as I rushed past her into the briefing room and took my first reading on the group before me.

They seemed relatively calm. I went through the daily schedule and read a statement on the economy. The press dutifully took it down, then turned to the business at hand. My heart began racing.

"Did Wallison tell the President that Poindexter told him that he had no role--as the Iran affair broke? That he had no role in investigating it? I mean, was the President aware that there was this standoff?" Leave it to Sam Donaldson to get things rolling. His famous voice was rising and falling in each sentence, punctuating the incredulity of his question, making it clear that he could not believe the President's naivete or Poindexter's collusions. Reporter questions are seldom uttered in full sentences. One question tends to bounce off another. Even Sam was hard to follow.

"I saw the story in the Times this morning where Peter says that--talks about his relationship with Poindexter," I said. "I have no reason to doubt that, but I don't have any independent knowledge of what his relationship with Poindexter was." I mentioned the Times to signal that I had no independent knowledge and did not intend to make news on this matter.

"Well, it isn't just that," Sam said. "We want to know if the President was told that Poindexter was stonewalling on giving information." The press always wants to take the information to the president, put it in his mouth, and then figure the consequences. Indeed, all that really matters to them is the president.

"I don't think the President was told at the time," I ventured, "but I don't know about subsequent conversations." I had no idea, of course, but decided to take a chance on the first phrase in order to give credibility to the second. If Wallison had told the President, he would have said so in the interview.

"We were told every day here at briefings that Peter Wallison was working on a chronology for the President; that's why you couldn't answer questions. Excuse me, your predecessor."

Then NBC's Chris Wallace picked up the trail, holding a copy of the Times, as he often did, and trying to ascertain some ambiguity between my comments and Wallison's. "But when did--yes--Wallison also says that referring to the President then--the Iran initiative--he says the President does not agree with the Tower Board that he shouldn't have done it and he still believes the policy is valid. Is that an accurate reflection of the President's views?"

Accurate? I couldn't even tell what Chris was saying, let alone Wallison. Do these people think I go to the President every morning and get him to reflect on stories? Do they think we just sit around and chew the fat each morning on what's in the news? Whenever the press got around to the "What does the President think?" questions, I knew it was time to lay down some rules and get serious.

"The President's position was stated in his March 4 speech at some length. It has not changed. And I refer you to that speech," I said, implying that I was not going to speculate.

"So Peter is wrong about the President having no regrets?" Chris said.

The President's speech on March 4, 1987, his first following the Tower Board report released on February 26, accepted the board's conclusions and expressed his regret about the arms for hostages action. Now Chris thought he could get me to acknowledge some kind of change in the President's position, thereby ratcheting up the story for his evening news piece.

We argued back and forth for several minutes, repeating questions and answers. I got so involved in the questioning, and trying to follow the twisted logic they were presenting, that I forgot to present my new policy. I did get it in piecemeal, saying the White House was not investigating itself, the President did not know of the diversion of funds, and we welcomed the independent counsel investigation. But it was a poor performance and I knew I would not capture the offensive in tonight's stories. At least I hadn't gotten into trouble by offering any new evidence that could be presented to Congress or used to embarrass me.

Then Helen Thomas of UPI took a wild guess--or maybe it was her sixth sense, or maybe she'd been tipped-off--and she asked if the President was going to amend his acceptance of the Tower Board report in his Saturday address.

Now this was something. The Tower Board said that although Caspar Weinberger, the Secretary of Defense, did not support the policy of arms for hostages, he did not stop it or try hard enough to stop it. The President's advisers were telling him he had to accept the entire Tower report. If he tried to pick and choose among the conclusions, the American people would be skeptical of the whole thing. But now Weinberger was begging the President to exonerate him in the Saturday address. Weinberger wanted the President to say he accepted everything in the report, except the part about Weinberger.

I had to be careful. I didn't want to say anything that would be contradicted later. "There will be some mention of Secretary Shultz and Secretary Weinberger in the address," I said, "but that's all I can say."

This prompted a chorus of questions. Once I let them know that Secretary of State George Shultz also wanted absolution, the pressure was even greater. They knew that Shultz threatened to quit every time someone in the administration questioned his authority.

"In other words, Weinberger is really putting pressure on the President?" "Has Secretary Shultz weighed in on this question?" "Does the President accept it in full or not?"

"The President's position is quite clear in his speech and it will be clear tomorrow in his Saturday radio address," I said. "I have nothing to add."

They started again, like cannon fire.

"Well, how can it be clear in two ways?" "How can you tell that it's clear tomorrow if you haven't seen it?"

"Because everything the President says is clear," I said, hoping for levity.

"He's the Wizard of Oz," someone joked.

I tried again to get my new Iran-Contra statement out, but I was halfhearted. At least I didn't sound defensive--and I was still standing. After only 39 minutes, the briefing ended. It was relatively short by daily standards.

When Helen said, "Thank you," as she did by tradition as the "dean" of the White House press corps, it was with reluctance. She always seemed as if she hated to let me go. No press secretary had ever walked away from a briefing without being excused and survived. It was the tightest unwritten rule: "The Press Secretary Stays Until He is Dismissed by the Press." It is their iron grip on your life. It is why there is no premium on snappy answers, or concise statements, or even great presentation. The premium is on patience and survivability because they will hold you at the podium until everyone has tried breaking you.

There is a Wild West quality to it. You feel like the gunslinger at first, armed with presidential words and deeds. But each reporter has an invisible string tied to your belt buckle. They torture you with repetitive questions. When they see that your mouth is dry, and that you have probably made at least one embarrassing slip, then Helen turns in her seat, twists until she can see over her shoulder, and decides if the lions have any fight left. If not, you are thanked and dismissed.

I moved quickly off the podium and retraced my steps up the hall, past the lower press office, past the Oval Office, and toward my door. Behind me I could hear the footsteps, like a herd of horses, fast and hard as if galloping, and reporters calling my name. "Marlin, what about Weinberger? Marlin, when's the press conference?"

I rushed into my office and firmly closed the door behind me. I walked over to my desk, totally drained, legs weak from strain, my suit soaked from the sweat of fear and tension, and dropped into my chair.

Wallison left the White House that weekend to join a prestigious Washington law practice, and the press corps never asked about him again. This was my first experience in the eye of a Washington scandal frenzy, in which the spotlight searches every day for a new victim, and a full media cycle of newspaper articles, evening news broadcasts, and weekend talk shows will be dedicated to any face that falls in its glare. Then, in about five days, it moves on.

This is a reflexive, not contemplative, process. Wallison was a nonplayer in Iran-Contra, but he raised his head above the fog with one newspaper interview, and the media pounced on him like a leopard on sheep.

RELATED ARTICLE: Television: An Opiate for Journalists

Some years ago the press got it into its head that follow-up questions allowed it to be tough, to ask that penetrating second question that would render the president utterly helpless. Reporters must dream about the president turning into a mound of quivering Jell-O when faced with one of their sizzling follow-ups.

In fact, the result is just the opposite. The follow-up question allows the president time to more fully consider his first answer, and then to leave the issue with just the right words. It also means that the president in 30 minutes will receive about 26 questions on 13 subjects. If everyone got a separate question, he would have to cover 20 to 25 different subjects, a much harder task.

I always feared that reporters would discover this and return to the "one question" format, but by the time some reporters made the connection it was too late. Television had taken over. With the cameras trained on the questioner, and reporters standing before the world with one fleeting chance at fame, none wanted to give up the air time, the new lifeblood of journalism. And another thing. It takes nearly 20 seconds for the television producers to identify the questioner and put his or her name on the screen below the picture. Now everyone wants to ask a follow-up.

Television is an opiate for journalists. It gives them fame, power in the eyes of their peers, recognition by their families, ego gratification, and lecture fees from the Storm Door and Sash Associations of the world.

Marlin Fitzwater was press secretary to Presidents Ronald Reagan and George Bush. This article is adapted from Call the Briefing. Copyright [C] 1995, by Martin Fitzwater. To be published by Times Books, a division of Random House, Inc.