No Exit

On an ordinary day, Henry Aaron, senior fellow in economic studies at the Brookings Institution in Washington, comes across as the quintessential policy wonk: knowledgeable, thoughtful, measured, perhaps even a tad boring. With his rumpled suits, snowy hair, and rosy jowls, the genial septuagenarian brings to mind one's favorite uncle--assuming that uncle had spent the past 40 years exploring tax policy, health care financing, and the intricacies of sprawling entitlement programs. He is, in short, not the kind of guy you'd expect, in his opening statement in a debate on health care reform held before the National Association of State Comprehensive Health Insurance Plans, to launch an extended, blistering, ad hominem attack on his opponent.

But this mid-September afternoon holds no ordinary encounter, and the object of Aaron's broadside is no ordinary adversary. A few feet from his maroon-flocked podium sits Betsy McCaughey, former lieutenant governor of New York, former fellow with the conservative Hudson Institute, and longtime scourge of health care reform. A constitutional scholar by training, McCaughey (pronounced "McCoy") blazed to fame in 1994 as the person who drove a stake through the heart of Hillarycare, with a detailed (and, as it turned out, false) takedown of the plan published in this very magazine. Fifteen years later, she has reemerged for an encore, penning op-eds and making the TV and radio rounds to issue apocalyptic warnings about the horrors lurking in the fine print of Obamacare. Pick an inflammatory, misleading rumor that has sprung up in this debate, and chances are McCaughey had a hand in springing it. She has, for instance, warned that a provision buried in the stimulus bill will soon have computers dictating doctors' treatment of patients based on government protocols. More notably, she sounded the (false) alarm that the White House aims to ration care based on patients' value to society--an idea that swiftly morphed into the "death panel" hysteria and then quickly became entangled in McCaughey's equally outrageous claim that the proposed reforms would force seniors into regular chats with their doctors about how to end their lives. That such claims are untrue in no way dims McCaughey's zeal. Confronted with conflicting information, she plows ahead with her unique interpretation of reality, leaving critics on both the left and the right nonplussed. One's only options, they say, are to ignore her and hope that she fades away-- or to go negative in the hope of discrediting her.

So it is that Aaron finds himself standing in the Crystal Ballroom of the Doubletree Hotel in Arlington, Virginia, running through PowerPoint slides that detail--quote by excruciating quote--McCaughey's reputation as among the most irresponsible, dishonest, and destructive players on the public stage. He starts with Politifact.com's categorization of her commentary as "Pants on Fire," followed by New York Times articles debunking her assertions, followed by complaints from economist Gail Wilensky (adviser to John McCain's presidential campaign and head of Medicare financing under the first President Bush) that "these charges of death panels, euthanasia and withholding care from the disabled give rational, knowledgeable, thoughtful conservatives a bad name." Next comes a denunciation of McCaughey's "fraudulent scare tactics" by John Paris, professor of bioethics at Boston College; AARP executive vice president John Rother's protest that her statements are "rife with gross--even cruel--distortions"; a scolding editorial by The Washington Post about McCaughey's characterization of White House health policy adviser Ezekiel "Zeke" Emanuel as "Dr. Death"; and, to wrap it all up, Stuart Butler, vice president of domestic policy at the conservative Heritage Foundation, expressing dismay that the "personal attacks on good people like Zeke are outrageous. There are real policy issues that should be debated vigorously, but slandering a good person's name is beyond the pale." At one point, the debate moderator felt moved to reach over and give McCaughey's hand a comforting pat. She dipped her chin and stuck out her bottom lip in good-humored appreciation.

What kind of person drives normally staid wonks, including her own ideological teammates, to such stinging public reproof? Part of it is obviously the nature of her commentary. But beyond that, there is something about McCaughey herself that drives her critics wild--and has throughout much of her career. Friends posit it's her disconcerting blend of brains, beauty, and confidence. Detractors chalk it up to her rank dishonesty, narcissism, and lack of shame. Whatever the cause, the passion McCaughey inflames is familiar. Looking over the sweep of McCaughey's life, from her swift political rise (and fall) to her humble roots, from her straight-talking persona, fierce will, and blinding confidence to her gift for self-dramatization, head-turning looks, and embrace of the gender card, one sees precursors of a more recent conservative phenom. Replace the East Coast researcher's political-outsider, stats-wielding, pointy-head shtick with a political-outsider, gun-toting, populist one, and a striking parallel emerges: Betsy McCaughey is, in essence, the blue-state Sarah Palin.

Blonde, wide-eyed, and smiley, McCaughey doesn't look much like a formidable political brawler. A well-tended 60, she still has a penchant for short, high-slit skirts, revealing blouses, and spike heels--all on display at her afternoon debate with Aaron--which give the impression less of poised-to-kill tiger than on-the-prowl cougar. Prone to sitting with her mouth slightly open, as though she can't take in quite enough air through her pert nose, and every now and again flashing a grin that seems more involuntary tic than deliberate response to anything occurring around her, McCaughey radiates aggressive optimism mixed with spaciness and just a dash of vulnerability.

But McCaughey is no powder puff. She clawed her way up from a troubled, blue-collar background that makes Palin look like a spoiled debutante by comparison. Born Elizabeth Helen Peterken in Pittsburgh, Betsy spent most of her youth in Westport, Connecticut, along with her twin brother, William. Her mother was an alcoholic who died of liver disease at age 42 (a year after Betsy graduated from college), and her father was a maintenance worker in a factory that made nail clippers. Over the years, McCaughey (who opted to respond to my inquiries via e-mail) has been vague about her early life, making occasional reference to some not-so-pleasant memories. She says her lean upbringing helped her understand what it's like to struggle for basic needs like health care (which her family could not afford, she points out). Longtime friend Brondi Borer says it also instilled in her a fearlessness and a fierce work ethic. "The way she got everything she got was by working hard and being smart and having to be better than [those around her]," Borer says. "Nothing came easily to her when she was growing up." A competitive and conscientious student, McCaughey won a scholarship to a boarding school in Massachusetts for her last two years of high school, followed by a scholarship to Vassar. From there, she went on to earn a Ph.D. in history from Columbia. But McCaughey was well aware that a fine education wasn't her only shot at a better lifestyle. She once quipped to the Albany Times Union that, while at Vassar, she only dated Yalies. In 1972, she married one, Thomas McCaughey, an aspiring investment banker with whom she had three daughters. For the next 20 years, as her husband conquered Wall Street, Betsy dabbled in a number of careers (writing books, lecturing at her alma maters, guest curating at a local museum--at one point, she even toyed with becoming a TV reporter). But, in 1992, she and Thomas split, and Betsy found herself cast out of her comfortable role as Park Avenue wife.