The Last of the President's Men

by Bob Woodward

  “Hello, Maury,” Nixon said when Stans stepped through the door. “Glad you could drop by. Ah, Alex and I were just going over some scheduling problems, and . . . ah . . . oh, you know Alex, don’t you?”

  Stans had brought about ten of his top people.

  “This is quite a gang you’ve got here, Maury. Who’s minding the store?”

  Everyone laughed.

  “You stay right here,” the president said to Butterfield, signaling the importance of their business, as he extended his hand to Maury’s gang.

  Butterfield was amused. “The president was an actor,” he wrote in his account of the Stans meeting. “I stepped back several paces to be out of the way and stood there, pen in one hand, pad in the other . . . arms folded across my chest. To have heard the president, and seen him, one would have thought I’d been his closest aide for 20 years. I knew he’d fooled Maury’s staff, if not Maury himself, and I wondered what the reaction would be if I blurted out the fact that the president had spoken his first words to me only the day before . . . and it was in a fit of exasperation.”

  The president dispensed cuff links to all the gang, complimented Maury on the “fine team,” but said he hoped it would be the last time all of them were out of the building.

  Oops, thought Butterfield, a modified rerun of the earlier joke. He took it as his cue to move back to Nixon’s desk, where he looked at Stans and waved his pad in a suggested farewell gesture that it was time to depart. The gang filed out.

  “You know,” Nixon said to Butterfield, “anytime you can get rid of a dozen people in as many minutes, you’ve had a successful meeting. We ought to remember that. We should make it a rule.”

  Next, Housing Secretary George Romney was bringing a few of his team. “We’ve got to time it to handshakes only. And God knows that’s not going to be easy with Romney.”

  Back at Haldeman’s desk, Butterfield ordered coffee from the White House mess but was thinking champagne would have been more appropriate. It was the first time Nixon had called him Alex, and the president had made him an accomplice in the effort to expedite the routine and ceremonial. He felt relief. He had been admitted of sorts, perhaps only provisionally, to the Club, a rite of passage. It had been an emotionally exhausting month. He went downstairs to the men’s room, washing his hands and face. He felt the muscles in his body relax, probably for the first time in weeks. Nixon had him tied in knots. What a strange bird, he thought, shy and introverted but tough and strong-willed, and in the company of intimates profane. Almost allergic to new people. Jesus H. Christ, Butterfield thought. He had never dreamed, never thought it possible that a politician could be so stressed and tongue-tied. Worse was the realization that he knew he had been the cause in part. Who wouldn’t have lost a lot of enthusiasm? At least he had been spoken to now. But the dressing-down—the ranting—in front of Laird still was inexcusable.

  Butterfield wrote in the draft of his book: “I had never, in 21 years in the Air Force, been witness to such behavior. He was an ignorant boor, a bumpkin, as far as I was concerned and I readied myself to jump ship.”

  Ah, but that was then. This morning, he had seen in Nixon what he read as nothing less than the signs of regret. Their indirectness, he believed, suggested their sincerity.

  • • •

  With Haldeman back from California, Butterfield turned to the endless paper flow and orders from Nixon. He sent out these orders in memos to others in the president’s name, signed, “Alexander P. Butterfield, Deputy Assistant to the President.” On February 22, 1969, his memo to Attorney General John Mitchell and the postmaster general said the president wanted two reports “on your joint effort to stop the mailing of obscene materials to juveniles.” Another just to the postmaster general said “The President has directed that the religious inscription—‘In the beginning God . . .’—be restored to the Apollo 8 stamp.”

  With Butterfield and Haldeman’s wives still in Australia and Los Angeles respectively, the two men had dinner in the White House mess several times a week, often with Kissinger, a real bachelor. Butterfield liked Kissinger though the national security adviser tended at times to take himself too seriously. But most of the time he sounded good, crafting and talking in elegant paragraphs. He also had a razor-sharp wit, evident as he conducted informal, dinner seminars on foreign policy.

  Butterfield also got to know Daniel Patrick Moynihan, the Democrat and Harvard professor on leave to be Nixon’s top urban affairs adviser. In the first months, Butterfield found that a calm typically descended over the White House about seven in the evening. Some of his most enjoyable moments later in the day were spent in Moynihan’s cozy office, only 40 feet from his own, having a stiff drink.

  Moynihan frequently would go swimming and then, with uncombed wet hair and red-stocking feet, pad by Butterfield’s office looking for his drinking buddy. “Hi, Alex, ready!”

  Once at Haldeman’s 7:45 a.m. senior staff meeting, Moynihan grew so frustrated at the wandering discussion that he raised his clenched fist, brought it down hard on the table, and shouted, “Fuck!” There was immediate silence. Butterfield watched everyone turn to Rose Woods, the only woman at the meeting, in horror and embarrassment.

  Haldeman began to trust Butterfield more, and the president soon assigned Butterfield the responsibility of working out a strategy and game plan to win congressional approval for the modified Anti-Ballistic Missile (ABM) system. It was the president’s major initiative that first summer, and soon Butterfield was churning out memos and directives to cabinet members and key Republicans in Congress. It was an unusual delegation of responsibility to the new man.

  • • •

  On March 18, 1969, Rose Woods and several longtime Nixon staffers arranged a 45th birthday celebration for Paul Keyes, a comedy writer and Nixon friend who had helped on the 1968 campaign. Keyes had been a writer and producer of the television comedy variety show Laugh-In. He had arranged for Nixon to appear on the show and deliver the line that was the trademark of the show, “Sock It To Me.” Nixon’s appearance drew lots of attention, seemed to humanize him, and a number of political commentators later said it got him elected.

  Keyes had met Nixon in the 1960s when he was a producer for The Jack Paar Tonight Show. His version of his encounter with Nixon before the show went like this: “Hi, Mr. Vice President. I’m Paul Keyes. I just talked to Jack, and he said he won’t raise the matter of the fucking fags in the State Department if you won’t.” Keyes then perfectly mimicked Nixon’s distress: “What?! What?! What is that?!”

  A bond of sorts had formed after that, and Keyes was frequently on the Nixon payroll as a joke writer. This week he was in Washington helping the White House speechwriters.

  Near the end of the day, Butterfield was in the Oval Office when Haldeman mentioned that the small celebration for Keyes’s birthday was being held later in the Fish Room. Haldeman knew of Nixon’s fondness for Keyes, who had very conservative politics.

  Mr. President, Haldeman said, why don’t you step across the hall and say hello and happy birthday to Paul?

  The president seemed to give it some thought but remained noncommittal, so Haldeman dropped it. The president decided these matters and it was fruitless to press.

  Later in the day Haldeman suggested to Butterfield, “Come on. Let’s go over and see how the party is going.” He first propped open his office door and did the same to the rear door to the Fish Room, which was directly opposite his own. That way he could make a rare appearance at a White House social event and also hear if the president buzzed. The two open doors suggested, and symbolized, the short leash.

  Butterfield noticed some nice decorations in the Fish Room. It was festive. A bar cart had been wheeled up from the staff mess, and a Navy steward was bartending. Several trays of hors d’oeuvres rested on a table to one side. Butterfield was introduced to Keyes and chatted with Rose Woods, Pat Buchanan, a key Nixon speechwriter and strategist, and several others before retreating with his drink to
the back of the room with Haldeman.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the president,” shouted an aide as Nixon followed him. Nixon walked in and stopped. A hush fell over the room and continued unnaturally.

  7

  * * *

  “Gee, Mr. President,” Keyes said, breaking the silence, “you must be losing your touch. They all applauded when I came in.”

  A good line for TV was followed by a second silence. Tick, tick, tick.

  “Shit,” Haldeman muttered under his breath. Butterfield wondered why someone like Rose or Haldeman or Buchanan, no shrinking staffer, didn’t try to rescue the moment—or the president—with something such as applause or a boo for Keyes. Why not offer him a glass of wine or explain that Paul had been there all week? But the silence continued. No one chanced breaking it, even Keyes, who was about five feet from Nixon. There was not even a handshake.

  The president was perspiring, Butterfield noticed. Now there was a persistent stillness. Butterfield nervously cleared his throat. The noise sounded like a cannon shot.

  Nixon stepped back slowly and pointed at Keyes, who was wearing a solid green blazer. “Ah, ah, ah . . . uh,” he muttered.

  Then Nixon pointed down at the carpet, a worn, faded maroon. He spoke in a deep but barely audible voice. “Green coat . . . red rug . . . Christmas colors.” He then wheeled around and strode out of the room to the Oval Office.

  That was it. Butterfield would remember those six words verbatim 45 years later—“Green coat . . . red rug . . . Christmas colors.”

  The buzzer in Haldeman’s office sounded almost immediately. Three long blasts. It was as if Nixon was sending his anger, distress or embarrassment—who could know which—in some primitive Morse code. The furious summons seemed louder and more intense than normal.

  “Oh, boy,” Haldeman exclaimed. He heaved a sigh of resignation and headed out. “Don’t leave, Alex. I’ll talk to you when I come out.”

  A pall had fallen. Rose and Keyes seemed especially stricken. It was impossible for any of them to feign indifference or overlook such an excruciating display. Butterfield did not know the words to describe it. Could the minutes be likened to a self-immolation? Sometimes you saw things you wish you had not seen.

  Butterfield ordered another drink, chugged it down, and went back to Haldeman’s office to wait. In the first months, he was finding some things to admire in Nixon—the work ethic, snatches of empathy, the determined, focused effort so evident in nearly everything he did. The humanity barely emerged, and Nixon was quickly becoming the oddest man he’d ever known.

  He had noticed how rapidly and easily Nixon’s moods rubbed off on, even infected, Haldeman, who did not lighten up. Butterfield thought a more relaxed approach might serve the president.

  When Haldeman came back through the Oval Office door he wore his businesslike expression. He was still giving Butterfield lessons in how to deal with Nixon.

  Butterfield thought of a film and the song “Six Lessons from Madame La Zonga.” The first lines seemed to apply: “Have you ever been embarrassed?”

  Haldeman sat down glumly. Do you know what the president said?

  “He had to be upset with himself,” Butterfield replied. “He was exactly as he was the day you introduced me . . . except for that painful reference to ‘Christmas colors.’ Was there some significance to that?”

  “No, no,” Haldeman said. “He just got tied up when he walked in and everyone stopped talking. It’s probably my fault for not preparing a briefing paper. If he’s given some information—just a line or two, a couple of talking points—he’s fine.”

  Talking points for a small, private birthday party?

  “But,” Haldeman continued, “he didn’t mention anything about himself. Do you know what he raised hell about?”

  “No.”

  “He didn’t like the liquor cart there in the Fish Room. He told me he doesn’t want to see cocktails served anywhere in the West Wing except in the staff mess.”

  “And that was it?”

  “Yep,” Haldeman replied. “That was it.”

  • • •

  The president had scheduled his sixth press conference on June 19, and it would be live on national television. He had cleared his calendar and holed up to pore over his briefing books. He did not like to conduct a practice run with staff peppering him with possible questions, as many presidents do.

  In preparing the briefing books, Butterfield had asked the speechwriters to divide the questions into the “clean,” the basically straightforward inquiries, and the “dirty,” the hostile questions that were antagonistic or included possible traps.

  Nixon’s seclusion gave Butterfield some free time to return home to pick up something he needed. As he was coming back down MacArthur Boulevard, his beeper went off. He was among a handful of aides assigned one. Normally the beep meant Higby was relaying some instruction from Haldeman.

  Butterfield spotted a service station ahead on the left and pulled over. He jogged across the street. The only public phone was on the wall in the service station garage. The shop was filled with all kinds of loud noises, including someone banging on a tire with a rubber hammer. The background noise would not be a problem, Butterfield figured, because he would be able to find out what Higby wanted, so he dialed the White House switchboard.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Butterfield. One moment . . . the president’s calling.”

  Damnit. Butterfield took out his pen but he had nothing to write on. He had to prepare for the encounter, and later half joked, “If I’d had my stuff with me, I’d have gargled and brushed my teeth.”

  Almost instantly the distinctive low muffled voice filled his ear.

  “Siff funafunwas pss’t negro souse ponopotion.” Click!

  “WHAT . . . SIR?” But the president was gone, apparently back to the briefing books. It was so fast with no hello, no good-bye. Butterfield stepped outside, leaned against a tree, shut his eyes and played back the muttered sounds as best he could conjure them. He was frantic. And in the hyper-charged world and spooky drama of the White House, part of him felt his life was at stake. One of the words—the only halfway clear one—was “negro,” Butterfield was pretty sure. “Ponopotion”? What the hell was that? “Ponopotion, Ponopotion,” he played it over again and again in his own mind, slowing it up, “Pon–o–po–tion,” speeding it up, “ponpotion” to dig out the meaning. “Negro” for sure and then this new concoction—“PONOPOTION.” He felt he was growing brain dead. What was “pss’t? It wasn’t a word, it was just a sound.

  The Haldeman rule was to serve the president—answer his needs, his questions. Cushion his way. If it meant reading between the lines, deciphering his handwriting, or untangling the grunts and half words, then do it. Haldeman and Butterfield were the pipeline from Nixon’s mind, and words, to the executive functions of the presidency. Competence meant getting it right, not asking the president to repeat himself. That would have been the easy way, but it was just not done. Butterfield was astonished that this man, so forceful and usually articulate, even eloquent, could mash his words so often. It was as if he were locked in his own deeply personal world, thinking, planning and churning. The staff were the relay stations, and they better get with this strange program.

  Butterfield went back to the garage and called his secretary. “Please call the Library of Congress or Bob Brown’s office, or both—yes, call them both—and find out what percent of the U.S. population is Negro.” Bob Brown was a black special assistant who handled community relations.

  It was a guess.

  Yes, “ponopotion” was likely “population” and “pss’t” or whatever it was could be “percent.” All perhaps.

  Back at the White House, Butterfield was met by his secretary. “Bob Brown says that Negroes comprise 11 percent of the U.S. population.”

  In his office, Butterfield retreated to his memory bank, closing his eyes, and actually holding his head in his hands. Maybe he could squeeze Nixon’s words out of his
brain. He wanted to calm himself, return to that moment in the garage. But pure retrieval was now impossible because his guess got in the way. Logically it seemed it was the kind of thing the president might want to know.

  Butterfield took a sheet of White House stationery and wrote: “There are 22,354,000 U.S. blacks in America, which is 11.1% of our 200 million (plus) population. (This comes from three reliable sources.)”

  He added the second point for clarity. A one-number answer might seem barren. He took the note over to the residence, where the president was holed up and had it sent up.

  He reported to Haldeman what had happened. That evening the two sat in Haldeman’s office and watched the press conference on TV.

  At one point, Nixon referred to “the 11 million law-abiding Negro citizens in this country.”

  Oh Jesus, the “11” was the percentage. Butterfield felt sick. By supplying the extra information, he had made the gaffe possible—prime time to the world—that the black population was suddenly half of what it really was.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Haldeman said. “You really didn’t do anything wrong. The president made the error and we can have Ziegler straighten it out.”

  Butterfield, relieved that Haldeman was in a forgiving mood, said he would get a note to Ziegler right away.

  “Mistakes like that are nothing new,” Haldeman added, “especially when statistics are involved. Besides most people won’t have a clue.” But then he insisted that Butterfield see both Ziegler and Herb Klein personally to get it corrected. “Don’t depend on a note.”

  Butterfield went to see Ziegler. When he returned to Haldeman’s office Kissinger was there, complaining with much emotion that the president had gone too far promising troop withdrawals from Vietnam.

  Later that night Butterfield bumped into Bob Brown.

  “Hey, Alex. Does the president know something I don’t know?” Brown said with a smile. “Man, we lost half the brothers!”