A Look Over My Shoulder

by Richard Helms

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  At our luncheon in Tehran, I had no sooner finished subjecting George Ball and Joe Fowler to my opinion of the Church Committee than they returned resolutely to their original thought.

  “We’ve been hearing things about you around town,” Joe said. George nodded agreement and added, “A good lawyer—just to be on the safe side.” By the time we moved along to the dining room, I learned that the rumors concerned the Justice Department investigation of me, which might lead to my indictment for perjury. This was startling news and I readily agreed to find someone to represent me in Washington. At table, I could barely focus on the conversation centered on the waves still roiling in the wake of Nixon’s resignation, and Gerry Ford’s slight prospects in the upcoming presidential election.

  Within a few hours I reached Edward Bennett Williams on the telephone. He had the reputation of being one of the best trial lawyers in Washington. Over the years we had become friends, although my work could scarcely have been more distant from Ed’s high-powered law practice and his prominence in the hierarchy of the Democratic Party. One element in our relationship was our mutual interest in the Washington Redskins football team—Williams a part-owner, and I but an enthusiastic fan. Redskin tickets are more difficult to come by than an invitation for an informal supper with the folks at Buckingham Palace, but Ed always made space available for us.

  Telephone connections between Tehran and Washington were at best squawky, but I managed to present my problem to Ed. Would he consider taking me on as a client? “Of course, Dick. And, I’ll handle it myself from here on.” This lifted my spirits, but I knew the road ahead would be bumpy. It did not occur to me that it would involve my indictment and conviction.

  *In the committee’s final report to the Senate, Church—in a rare statement not fashioned as a sensational sound bite—quietly admitted that his committee had found that CIA was not a “rogue elephant.”

  Chapter 44

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  WELCOME HOME

  Cynthia and I left Tehran in December 1976. After a pleasant New Year’s stop in Morocco, we went on to Washington. The few days involved in “signing out” were a suitable anticlimax to thirty years of government service. The first hurdle in the path to what I had assumed might be an easy transition to private life came in two weeks when the Justice Department issued its report on the “Investigation and Prosecutorial Decisions in Respect to Central Intelligence Mail Opening Activities in the United States.” This concerned a CIA-sponsored project started in 1953 and closed in 1973 involving the opening of selected mail to and from the United States and, primarily, to the USSR. From the outset the project was cleared by the postmaster general. All of the results of this program were immediately shared with the FBI.

  The reasoning behind the project was our knowledge that Soviet intelligence had satisfied itself that no such mail opening existed within the United States and thus might have been lured into inexpensive and speedy communications offered by the open mail. It was not that we expected to find clear text intelligence and operations messages. Rather, we hoped to uncover highly sophisticated secret writing and enciphered communications. Western security services had found that Soviet agents operating under unofficial cover, and without diplomatic immunity, were usually equipped with excellent secret writing devices, and many sent some messages by open mail. Although the net result of the operation was less than we hoped, two agents and various counterintelligence leads were uncovered.

  After discovering that the program had been cleared by the postmaster general, the Department of Justice decided not to undertake any effort to prosecute the individuals involved. The department’s final report says in part: “It would be mistaken to suppose that it was always clearly perceived that the particular mail opening programs of the CIA were obviously illegal. The [Justice] Department believes that this opinion is a serious misperception of our nation’s recent history, of the way the law had evolved, and the factors to which it responded—a substitution of what we now believe is and must be the case for what was.” Another relevant sentence reads: “Although the Department is of the firm view that activities similar in scope and authorization to those conducted by the CIA between 1953 and 1973 would be unlawful if undertaken today, the Department has concluded that a prosecution of the potential defendant would be unlikely to succeed because of the state of the law that prevailed during the course of the mail opening problem.”

  In short, the Department of Justice took into account the security problem which the White House and others knew the country faced during the height of the Cold War.

  Almost coincidentally, the press accounts of the Rockefeller Commission investigation and the Church Committee Senate hearings stirred a hornet’s nest of legal suits against me personally in my former role as director of Central Intelligence. The variety of suits which U.S. citizens and their lawyers can devise when inspired by a glimpse of secret files is staggering. Fortunately for me, many of these suits fell within the responsibility of the Department of Justice. This meant that my defense in those cases would be handled by lawyers approved of and paid by Justice. Other suits were handled by Edward Bennett Williams and some of his highly competent assistants. At one point, I asked Ed what the criteria were for deciding whether the Department of Justice or his office was to handle a specific case. He thought for a moment before saying, “I can answer your question, but life being short, the brief answer is that Department of Justice decides which office is to handle whichever case any which way the Department of Justice chooses.” All of these suits were eventually dismissed, but the nervous energy expended, hours squandered, and the legal costs to the government and my own lawyers were considerable.

  Despite the early warning given me by George Ball and Joe Fowler about the intention of the Justice Department to take me to court, my problems continued to multiply. The Justice Department had, reluctantly I learned, determined to prosecute me on the basis of two separate instances of my testimony in congressional hearings in connection with my appointment as ambassador. The two hearings occurred in February 1973, when the Senate Foreign Relations Committee questioned me on covert action operations in Chile. The second charge against me was based on an open session of Senator Frank Church’s Subcommittee on Multinational Corporations, also in February 1973, when I denied CIA had any contact with the Chilean military establishment during my tenure as DCI. (The details are in Chapter 40, “Trick Questions?,” pp. this page–this page.)

  During the early months of 1977, Ed Williams declined to tell me how the legal case against me was proceeding. Gregory Craig, whom Ed referred to as his sidecar rider (and who was later to serve as President Clinton’s legal advisor during the impeachment fracas), also kept the secret. It was wise of them. Had they done otherwise, it would have been a very bleak several months.

  In September, I learned that DCI Colby had provided the Department of Justice with some sixty documents concerning CIA operations in Chile. These documents had been assembled at Colby’s direction by three mid-ranking CIA officers—as far as I know, none had a law degree. Without exception the documents were classified Secret or Top Secret. In the letter transmitting this material, Colby suggested that I might have committed perjury in testifying before Congress. Also included with this material were the full details of Track II, Nixon’s last-minute instruction for me to instigate a military coup in Chile. I soon learned that Colby had done this without any reference to President Gerald Ford or the national security advisor at the White House—the two officials under whom the director of Central Intelligence serves and to whom he is obligated to report. I might add that Colby also neglected to inform me. On the basis of these documents—which included my scribbled notes on the Track II meeting with Nixon—the Justice Department had little choice but to consider prosecuting me on two separate instances of my testimony.

  When news of my indictment became public, a number of friends and colleagues asked why I had not simply asked that the hearing g
o into executive session so that I could respond openly. Even when answering my former colleagues who were bound to respect the security issues involved, my answer was complex. First, I had been ordered by President Nixon not to discuss the Track II aspect of the Chile operations with anyone but Nixon, Henry Kissinger and his staff, and the Agency personnel who were directly involved in the operation. I was sure that if I asked for the hearing to be moved into a closed session, the press would have been alerted to the likelihood that there were still pertinent data to be uncovered on the Agency’s role in Chile.

  Aside from violating the presidential instruction, I had very quickly to factor in the further possibility that my candid account of what went on in Chile might leak—even from such a sequestered meeting. President Allende was still in office. Any disclosure by me of the details of the Agency’s past activity in Chile would certainly endanger the lives of those who had cooperated with us at the time, as well as those who might still be active in the anti-Allende efforts. I also remembered Senator Fulbright’s earlier promise: “If I catch you trying to upset the Chilean election, I will get up on the Senate floor and blow the operation.” Later, Fulbright underlined his position by stating, “I pay no attention to the assertion that CIA can only testify on operational matters before the Senate Armed Services Committee.”

  Last, I had sworn to protect CIA sources and methods from unauthorized disclosure. To my knowledge only Senator Symington, among those present at the hearing, was officially authorized to have access to this information.

  Like the captains of square-rigged sailing ships, I was caught between wind and tide in a narrow channel with no room to maneuver.

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  There is a certain irony in my relations with Senator Fulbright. A few weeks into my tenure as DCI, the Agency press relations officer suggested that I sign a letter to the St. Louis Globe-Democrat complimenting the newspaper on a recent editorial supporting a Senate vote to continue to restrict the handling of CIA matters to Senator Russell’s Armed Services Committee and its subcommittee on CIA, and not to share them with the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. After a quick glance, I signed the letter and went back to dealing with my more appropriate responsibilities. A few hours later, I learned that the editorial I had so casually praised was entitled “Brickbats for Fulbright,” and in the body of the text was a reference to the senator as being “crafty.” So much for getting off on the right foot in a new job.

  An hour before signing this letter, had anyone asked, I would have said no DCI has any business writing letters commending editorial comments in any newspaper. An hour after signing the letter, I would have said the same thing. To this moment, I have no idea what manner of preoccupation might have caused such a complete lapse in judgment.

  I rushed to apologize to Senator Fulbright. He was understanding and more than courteous in accepting my apology. In the course of making my amends with other concerned senators, I was again impressed by the fact that irrespective of their sometimes intense political differences, senators are all members of the same club. To attack—inadvertently or otherwise—one senator is to attack them all. It is also true that despite the strongest political differences, personal relations within the Senate are almost without exception, polite, tolerant, and, at the least, ostensibly friendly. This attitude also governed my long relationship with Senator Fulbright. Despite our strong difference of opinion on how the Congress should maintain appropriate oversight of CIA, we remained friends.

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  It was not until September 10, 1977, that, on instructions from Assistant Attorney General Benjamin Civiletti, in charge of the Justice Department’s Criminal Division, that Allen Carver, the leading Justice Department lawyer, presented the case against me to Ed Williams, my lawyer. The briefing took two hours. Williams subsequently discussed the case with the attorney general, Judge Griffin Bell.

  Two days later, I met with Williams and Craig at their offices in Farragut Square. After informing me in detail of their discussions with the Justice Department, Ed said that we had a choice of pleading nolo contendere and accepting the attorney general’s offer or going to trial. The offer, which at the time nearly floored me, was that in pleading “nolo” as Ed put it, I would retain my pension and not be subjected to imprisonment. Until that moment I had not considered the possibility of being sent to prison. After further intense discussion, we decided to consult Clark Clifford, the venerable lawyer, public servant, and advisor to several presidents. I had known Clark for years—he had served as chairman of the President’s Foreign Intelligence Advisory Board, and as a counselor on personal matters.

  We met in Clark’s office. Hollywood could not have constructed a movie set more impressive than these offices. Not by accident, the picture window behind Clark’s desk offered a glimpse of the White House.

  It was when Ed Williams brought Clifford up to date that I learned that Colby had declassified and delivered to the Justice Department every piece of paper—no matter how highly classified—on covert action and intelligence collection operations in Chile. I was literally stunned, and scarcely ready for Ed’s statement that we were now at the point of decision. Clark Clifford took a deep breath and asked what I wanted to do. It was a few moments before I said, “Cynthia and I discussed this last night. We agreed that I should go on trial.”

  This surprised Clark. After a pause, he launched into a depressing description of the costs and time that such a move would involve. He closed his remarks with what for me was the clinching argument. “Going before a District of Columbia jury on a matter as complicated and unusual as this case runs the very real risk of getting you convicted.”

  The discussion that followed was enough to convince me that the lawyers were right. I was not prepared to risk both a prison term and the loss of my pension. After thirty years of government service, during which time I had lived on my adequate but less than handsome civil service wages, the pension was vital. All told, it had been a grim afternoon.

  At two-forty-five, Monday, October 31, 1977, I appeared before the Honorable Barrington D. Parker. With me were Edward Bennett Williams and Gregory Craig, “lawyers on behalf of the defendant.” The government was represented by Benjamin R. Civiletti. The purpose of this “action” was thought by both Civiletti and Ed Williams to be my sentencing. Not at all, we learned. After considerable judicial maneuvering and discussion, it was clear that Judge Parker did not agree to my being sentenced on that occasion, what with the courtroom being nearly empty of spectators and the press.

  It was not until November 4, when the venue was crowded with both press and spectators, that Judge Parker was prepared to give me a verbal whipping. He opened his remarks with his observation that I stood “before this court in disgrace and shame.”

  Without any reference to the unusual circumstances surrounding my case, he continued: “You considered yourself bound to protect the Agency whose affairs you had administered and to dishonor your solemn oath to tell the truth before the Committee.” He then noted that to lie when “obligated to testify forthrightly, free of false, inadequate, incomplete, and evasive testimony,” was “to disobey and ignore the laws of our land.” He went on to remind me that “public officials at every level, whatever their position, like any other person, must respect and honor the Constitution and the laws of the United States. There is no exception to or qualification of this principle.”

  My sentence: a $2000 fine and two years in jail, with sentence suspended.

  Feeling, if perhaps not looking, ashen, I followed Ed Williams out of the courtroom and into the gauntlet of press. Ed provided the reporters with a quick comment. “Helms will wear this conviction like a badge of honor.” A reporter picked this up and asked if I agreed. “I do indeed, and I don’t feel disgraced at all. Had I done anything else, I would then have been disgraced.”

  Judge Parker’s legal case against me has had a long life in print. At the Kennedy School of Government at Harvard, it is used as text for discussio
n: “The Two Oaths of Richard Helms.” In the years that followed I was often bemused when lawyers at legal depositions asked me if it were true that I had been convicted of “perjury.” Conviction for perjury is a felony. My failure to testify in public “fully and completely” before a congressional committee was a misdemeanor.

  Later, on the morning of my sentencing, I went to the Kenwood Country Club for one of the regularly scheduled luncheons of CIRA (the Central Intelligence Retiree Association). The news of my conviction had been on the radio, and to my complete surprise, every one of the several hundred guests rose and applauded thunderously. It had been a really rotten day, and I hoped that I managed to mask at least some of my emotion.

  Before the luncheon, someone had fetched two large wicker baskets. Despite my remonstration, the baskets were rapidly circulated and soon filled with checks and cash that exceeded my $2000 fine. I managed later to return some of the checks, and forwarded the overflow of cash to an Agency welfare fund. These were moving, never to be forgotten moments.

  A few days later, I went to Ed Williams’s offices. He brushed my thanks to one side, and frowned as I asked how much I owed him. “You don’t owe me anything, Dick,” he said. “And I really mean it.” Aside from being one of the best lawyers in Washington, he was also known for being among the best compensated.

  A decade later, at a National Geographic reception, Cynthia and I were moving along a receiving line a few steps behind Judge Griffin Bell, President Carter’s attorney general, who had decided how the government would handle my case. He turned, greeted us warmly, and noted that he and former senator Sam Nunn had just come in from Atlanta where they had attended a ceremony honoring the late senator Richard Russell. At one point, Judge Bell said, “If Senator Russell had been alive, you would not have had that legal trouble over testimony before congressional committees.” I allowed, a bit ruefully, that he was correct.