After being "outed" by an Arkansas State Trooper in the early nineties, I cautiously agreed to one interview. You probably never read it since it broke in London's Sunday Telegraph. The article is a little long.... but it explains to what extend I was repeatedly harrassed by Liberals. Months later, the british journalist who interviewed me--Ambrose Evans-Pritchard-- nearly lost his life in Mena, Arkansas where he was investigating suspicious activities connected to the Clintons. Politics...even in Arkansas...can be deadly.
The threats that followed my fling with Bill Clinton
By Ambrose Evans-Pritchard
Former Arkansas beauty queen Sally Perdue tells Ambrose Evans-Pritchard of an alleged attempt to buy her silence.
"SALLY MILLER PERDUE sits back in her chair and tells in her slow, soft, Southern accent of the night Bill Clinton dropped by: "He saw my Steinway grand piano and went straight over to it and asked me to play."
She was a former Miss Arkansas, the host of a local radio talk show. He was the Arkansas's Governor. It was 1983. Soon Bill Clinton was bringing his saxophone over and they would play Fifties rock numbers together. It was a lot of fun. Then, claims Miss Perdue, they became lovers. "He had this little boy quality that I found very attractive."
Miss Perdue's testimony is important, for when two Arkansas state troopers went public a month ago, accusing Bill Clinton of misusing his staff at the Governor's Mansion to facilitate extra-marital affairs, a crucial ingredient was missing from the scandal. No woman could be found to corroborate the allegations or to support the general claim that state resources and personnel had been used in such a way.
But Miss Perdue's account not only backs the troopers; it goes further. Her story of what happened to her when her name surfaced during Bill Clinton's presidential campaign in 1992 raises questions about the methods used by Democratic operatives to prevent the story of Clinton's past from coming out in the press.
In a series of interviews with The Sunday Telegraph, Miss Perdue, who now works in St Louis, Missouri, in a home for Adults with Disabilities, described her alleged sexual liaison with Mr. Clinton in 1983 as a mistake that brought her nothing but grief. "I was going through a second divorce at the time; I was vulnerable," she said.
She claimed the affair lasted from August to December 1983 and that state troopers brought Mr. Clinton to her condominium at Andover Square about 12 times, usually in nondescript police vehicles. "They'd pull up in a wooded area about 30ft from the house and wait there," she claimed. "When Bill was ready to come out, he would signal by using my patio light…just flicking it on and off."
On one occasion, she claims, Mr. Clinton was dropped at her front door in his official Lincoln, a move she considered astonishingly reckless for the Governor. It also threatened to expose her to public opprobrium. At the time, she was hosting a radio talk show in Little Rock for three hours every morning. "I had just as much reason to hide the whole thing as he had."
The alleged involvement of the state troopers is a key issue. A Republican senator from Texas, Kay Bailey Hutchison, is currently under criminal indictment for allegedly using her staff to carry out personal errands and could face up to 10 years in prison. Nothing she is accused of compares in scope and gravity with the recent allegations against President Clinton.
But more serious, and much more sinister, are Miss Perdue's alleged experiences during the 1992 presidential campaign after she tried to air details of her alleged affair. She tells how she sat through a three-and-a-half-hour meeting at the Cheshire Inn in Clayton, Missouri, on August 19, 1992, with a man claiming to represent the Democratic Party. His name was Ron Tucker. She described him as a short, squat "good-ole-boy" in his fifties.
"He said that there were people in high places who were anxious about me and they wanted me to know that keeping my mouth shut would be worthwhile . . . If I was a good little girl, and didn't kill the messenger, I'd be set for life: a federal job, nothing fancy but a regular paycheck, level 11 or 12 (about $60,000 a year). I'd never have to worry again.
"But if I didn't take the offer, then they knew that I went jogging by myself and he couldn't guarantee what would happen to my pretty little legs. Things just wouldn't be so much fun for me anymore. Life would get hard."
A WORK colleague of Sally’s named Denison Diel, had positioned himself at the Cheshire Inn Bar, within listening range of Ron Tucker and Sally, and heard all the alleged conversation. He wrote a report which he then submitted to the FBI. A copy has been furnished to The Sunday Telegraph. An FBI official in St Louis refused to comment on what he described as an "ongoing investigation".
Ron Tucker lives in a dilapidated wooden house in Marion, Illinois, two hours' drive east of St Louis. Before he had a stroke last summer he worked as a salesman for Marion Mining Bolt Corporation and was known in the area as a small-time operative for the Democratic Party.
Tucker is not eager to discuss the subject of Miss Perdue. "That woman is childish. You people are foolish. I don't know a thing about the Clinton thing," he shouted, and slammed down the telephone.
But his former employer at Marion Mining, John Newcomb, says he overheard him talking about the subject in September 1992 on the telephone at work and confronted him about the matter.
"Ron Tucker told me that somebody from the Democratic Party in St Louis had asked him through a friend to get to this woman and get her to shut up," claims Newcomb.
Miss Perdue did not take up the offer of a job. Then the warnings appeared to come true. She lost her job at the admissions office of Lindenwood College, St. Charles, Missouri, where she was also studying for a degree in communications.
A Missouri lawyer, Paul Ground, told The Sunday Telegraph a college official had admitted to him that she had been fired because of outside pressure. The college president, Dennis Spellman, refused to answer queries on the matter.
Then, she says, the threatening mail and telephone calls started. She produced one of the letters, written in a strangely twisted hand. "I'll pray you have a head-on collision and end up in a coma . . . Marilyn Monroe got snuffed. It could happen."
She found two unspent shotgun cartridges on the driver's seat of her Jeep. Later the back window of the vehicle was shattered, possibly by gunfire. Both incidents were reported to the police.
These apparent attempts to silence Miss Perdue fit a pattern of alleged dirty tricks that appear to have been undertaken by somebody to cover up for Mr. Clinton.
It is possible, of course, that Miss Perdue is motivated by political animus in coming forward with her charges. She once had links to the Republican Party and in 1984 ran as a Republican candidate for mayor of her home town, Pine Bluff, the second largest city in Arkansas.
Indeed, she says it was this dabbling in politics that brought her affair with Mr. Clinton to an abrupt end. "He ridiculed me and said I didn’t have a chance against the big boys. Then he warned me that we'd be enemies if I became a Republican. That was the last time he ever came to my house."
But in several hours of interview she revealed no inconsistencies in her account of the alleged affair. There was a set pattern. After drinking a few Budweiser beers, she claims, Mr. Clinton would start playing the clown.
"When I see him now, President of the United States, meeting world leaders, I can't believe it . . . I still have this picture of him wearing my black nightgown, playing the sax badly; this guy, tiptoeing across the park and getting caught on the fence. How do you expect me to take him seriously?"
Sally Miller Perdue described Bill Clinton as a "showman"’, a brilliant actor who craved approval and needed the constant affection of women. Very often, the subject of Hillary Clinton would come up. "As far as I could tell, the marriage was a business partnership."
PS...Today, I'm much-wiser about the "mistakes" I make. These days, I keep my life as simple as possible. I wish any and all connections to the Clintons had ended in 1994 but...Hillary decided to use her POWER, POSITION, AND MONEY against me for the purpose of revenge.
In my book, "THE BEAUTYQUEEN" , I detail Hillary's ability to get me fired from various jobs...both in America and in China. I also describe the endless harrassment I've experienced from her since the nineties.
Never under-estimate a woman who is miserably ugly, specifically... inside.
My brother, Jerry, had one child, a daughter named Margo. From childhood I included Margo in swim classes, charm/modeling classes, voice lessons, and volunteer efforts but--- nothing inspired Margo more than boys and marriage. I’ve lost count of her many marriages--- there were four, maybe five--- but, regardless of how many...it was the first one that proved most memorable.
During high school, Margo had a boyfriend down the highway from Pine Bluff, in a wide-place-in-the-road-kind-of community called Grady. Margo and her boyfriend were both young, barely seventeen, when they announced their upcoming marriage. Still in high school, the bridegroom-to-be was a farmer’s son with no job and with no future prospects. As old-timers would say, “He’s just a kid, still wet behind the ears.”
In Margo’s honor, I hosted a Bridesmaids Luncheon at the Pine Bluff Country Club (using a friend’s membership) for her bridesmaids and other female family members. By now, I was living in Little Rock so I arranged the luncheon on a Saturday, when I didn’t work. I don’t remember the exact year, probably in the mid-seventies, and it was hot. Everyone was decked-out in sheer fabrics, pastel colors, and drinking frosted lemonade while complaining about the heat. When the mother of the groom arrived--- everyone stopped talking and stared. The serious-looking woman was wearing a black wool dress with long sleeves, black heels, carrying an over-sized black bag and a large piece of heavy plastic--what contractors call Visqueen. She apologized for being late and asked which seat would be hers once the luncheon began.
Trying not to look surprised, I pointed out the place card with her name and asked if sitting between the mother of the bride and the bride's grandmother would be all right? Without a word, she unfolded the piece of heavy plastic and carefully spread it over her assigned seat. Without any explanation---surely she felt the stares and questioning looks---she began chatting with several women close by. In a few minutes the chef announced it was time to serve lunch and everyone took their seats. Again, carefully smoothly the plastic on the chair, the groom’s mother was the last to be seated.
It was impossible for Margo’s grandmother, Mary Alice, to go unnoticed at any gathering. She was a very naïve yet blunt-talking woman with a unique voice pattern…..I sometimes described it as a Southern Baptist Twang, set-to-music. She always greeted people with “Hi, girl! How ya’all do-in?”
Sure, it was a routine greeting, but every word of the greeting was broken into at least three syllables and every syllable represented a different note on the musical scale. Mary Alice’s greetings managed to cover at least two octaves.
The meal had barely begun when Mary Alice turned to the groom’s mother and blurted out: “Girl, why are you wearing a black winter dress at a summer party? And, why in Heaven’s name did you bring that big piece of plastic to sit on?”
Everyone stopped talking; the quiet was deafening. The groom’s mother, unsmiling, and speaking in almost a loud whisper said: “I don’t want to offend anyone here or shock anyone but since you’ve asked me those questions I am obliged to answer. I’m having my monthly---you know, the curse--- and sometimes the blood just gushes out and goes everywhere and runs down my legs and in my shoes so I wear all black cause that way, the blood won’t show up on black so bad and….I bring my own plastic to sit on so I don’t bleed all over people’s upholstery or on their carpets. I try to be prepared by keeping a couple of damp dish towels in my bag to wipe the blood off my legs and shoes and off the floor and all the other places blood goes.”
Everyone stared down at their plates for a few seconds more, waiting. Then, as if on-cue, the ladies lifted their heads, picked up their forks, and began eating.
What can one possibly say---when everything that should or shouldn’t have been said---has indeed, already been said?!?!
When all the good keeps turning to bad…then it’s time to stop being so nice; stop being a push-over. When the writing-on-the-wall suddenly appears on the ceiling and the floor…there are no options but Stand Tall, Accept Fate, and Move Forward.
Interesting how those you thought would love you forever--would always be ready with a lifeline--- so quickly turned their backs and…walked away.
Some days are HELL. Just knowing your all-alone simply means you have to find your own lifeline and….hold-on-tight. You have no choice but stay prepared, stay strong, and never accept the role of “victim”. It's up to you to be your own “support system” and your own... very-best friend.
Yes, it hurts to be abandoned by those you loved so dearly but….you must accept what you can't change. In my case, I never imagined I would face the end of life…alone. But, looking back, it's clear that I faced most every-day-of-my-life--alone. And now, the time has come to live for the moment…not for the years.
I must never "give-in" to tears...or sadness...or bemoan the fact... I'm alone. I know that time, like money, is scarce. Emotions are a luxury I can't afford.
I have no choice but increase my strength training so I can be better-prepared for the days ahead.
In truth.... I can-only face tomorrow.... when I know God is beside me...today.
If you aren’t interested in Miss Arkansas Pageant Trivia, you can skip this post but… If you’re still reading…allow me to share a few personal facts—facts that make me proud to have won the 1958 Miss Arkansas title.
Officially, I was the first Miss Arkansas selected under the Miss America Pageant Committee’s official guidelines. Historically-speaking, I was also the first Miss Arkansas crowned at Oaklawn Race Track in Hot Springs. In fact, I was probably the FIRST beauty queen ever crowned—like a horse—on a race track!
In 1958, the city of Hot Springs didn’t have an auditorium large enough to accommodate pageant crowds so creative minds developed a plan to utilize the race track’s expansive grounds, parking, and grand-stand seating. Quite appropriately, the pageant’s professional stage and ramp were built at the race track’s finish line. Dressing rooms were located beneath the large stage and equipped with make-up tables, mirrors, clothes racks, makeshift bathrooms, circulating fans, everything but air conditioning.
I won both competitions—talent and swimsuit—in my weeklong quest to be Miss Arkansas, another “first.” The night I won the talent competition the famed Metropolitan Opera star, Marjorie Lawrence, was in the audience. (Soon after winning the title, I accepted Ms. Lawrence’s invitation to study voice at her Hot Springs Ranch called Harmony Hills.)
Two nights later, it was time to compete in the swimsuit competition. With the little girl in me using the power of pretend/playtime, I confidently modeled my swimsuit in front of the judges and the audience. Completing my final pivot—I left the stage, relieved to have the swimsuit competition over.
Backstage, my competitors waited around in their swimsuits, each hoping to be the night’s swimsuit winner but-- confident that the night’s swimsuit winner wasn’t me-- I began changing into my gown for the finale. A chaperone was zipping my gown when the pageant’s master of ceremonies began the closing ceremony and everyone heard the name SALLY MILLER. What?!?!? Someone grabbed my arm and began removing my gown while someone else handed me the swimsuit, screaming “Hurry, get upstairs, they’re waiting for you!”
Hands reached out to smooth my hair, help with a high-heel, blot my makeup, and push me back on stage. When the spotlights found me, I automatically smiled, despite my confusion. The reigning Miss America placed a trophy in my arms and I heard the exploding applause but it was only when the current Miss Arkansas began attaching a banner to my swimsuit that I realized--Yes! I am tonight’s winner in swimsuit competition!
Later, my daddy remarked “Those spotlights were your best friends. When you stood in front of the judges, the shadows hit you in all the right places."
One day after winning the Miss Arkansas title, I enjoyed a few minutes alone with my father. Still emotional from the night before, he said “Times like these you want to freeze the moment, stay young forever; you wish time would simply stand still and never move beyond the good feelings.”
I never wanted to be Miss Arkansas for more than one year but I wanted the good feelings and my Daddy to last forever.
Life can be a heartless teacher. After endless hurts, disappointments, and the loss of my Father, I learned that good feelings and good people never last.
As a special education teacher at Annandale High School, Annandale, Virginia, I taught several self-contained classes. At the beginning of the new school year, I was ill- prepared for the uniquely-special student listed as Catherine Elliott on my third period attendance sheet.
That first day, when I called the roll, there were the usual responses of “here”, “yah”, “okay”, and suddenly--- when I called-out the classic, traditional name--Catherine---I heard a firm, authoritative reply: “Just as I expected, you have it wrong. My name is not Catherine--its Cat, spelled C-A-T!
From that day forward, I knew that Cat was never to be called Catherine. I also knew that third period- every day- I should expect the unexpected.
Later, I examined Cat’s Individualized Education Plan (IEP) to understand her background and identify her specific disability. I read that, at the age of three years, Cat was diagnosed as a child with autism and mild retardation. She had two older brothers, one with an emotional disability (ED) and the other with a learning disability (LD).
Cat’s mother (Beth) had been married four times and, at our first meeting, Beth announced she had recently divorced husband #4 and was now living with a new boyfriend. Elaborating in greater detail than I needed to hear, Beth declared that her new boyfriend would probably be husband #5.
She lost no time saying she did not have the time or patience to help Cat with homework. So, if Cat had missing homework, assignments, or special projects, I should contact Cat’s stepmother, a former teacher, who could manage Cat’s educational assignments.
Although Beth, Cat’s Mother, seemed charming, was stylishly attractive, and held an administrative position at a well-known DC university, she refused to accept her daughter’s issues. Beth made it abundantly clear she expected Cat to outgrow both her special education “label” and her Autism. She was convinced that Cat would “blossom” once she received professional instruction in a general education setting. Cat’s mother believed that, as a parent, she devoted more-than-enough time to Cat and she expected the same from Cat’s teachers.
Cat excelled in her studies and carefully followed the class rules. She also monitored other students to make certain they followed the class rules too. Without fail, if Cat saw someone breaking a rule, she not only announced it to the entire class, she confronted the offender. Naturally, this tattle-tale style didn’t endear Cat to her classmates but, following the rules was more important to Cat than winning a popularity contest.
After noting that several students in the class had obvious physical disabilities, I introduced a social skills lesson on “being different”. The video accompanying the lesson discussed unusual behaviors-- including Autism Spectrum and Tourette’s syndrome. Following the video, I encouraged the class to discuss family members, friends, neighbors….anyone who demonstrated some or all of the characteristics discussed in the video.
The class enjoyed the video and most shared in the ongoing discussion. Everyone in class, including Cat, gained valuable information that day. Cat talked about her older brother’s experience in a juvenile detention center and how angry he became when anyone asked what crime he'd committed to put him in a detention center.
It was apparent that most of the class became Cat’s instant admirers after she shared news that her brother had spent “time” in a detention center. I was shocked when one student asked for her autograph, believing Cat’s brother might someday be a famous criminal.
It’s difficult to pinpoint the exact moment the classroom accepted Cat but, shortly after the “being different” lesson, Cat began playing a more-prominent role with her classmates. Cat had definitely found a way to “fit in” with others.
One of the biggest attractions at Annandale High School... before each school year officially ended… was the annual talent show. One week before the Big Show, Cat announced to the class that she was performing in the talent show and invited everyone to come hear her sing. I knew Cat was counting on me to be in the audience and I wouldn’t have missed it for-the-world.
Looking back, it’s surprising how much I under-estimated Cat’s talent. Sure, I knew Cat loved The Beatles; I knew Cat had an amazingly-strong determination. But no one, including me, had any idea that Cat could “sell a song” like a professional.
When Cat Elliot finished performing her fabulous rendition of John Lennon’s IMAGINE…. The audience, consisting of students, teachers, parents, and guests…all jumped out of their seats to applaud Cat with overwhelming approval; their applause lasted for almost four minutes.
Cat behaved like a seasoned entertainer as she bowed, blew kisses, smiled, waved, left the stage—and returned three times--- to acknowledge the thundering applause. At last, the houselights came on, the curtain dropped, and the show was over.
For several years after leaving Annandale High School, I stayed “in touch” with many of my students, including Cat Elliot. No, Cat never outgrew Autism but she continued to perform, to attract audiences, and…to inspire applause.