by Bob Woodward
“Rex,” Butterfield said from the phone in the Oval Office to chief usher Rex Scouten, “is Derek Bok, the president of Harvard, on the White House grounds?”
“Yes he is,” Scouten answered. “Right now he’s with the first lady and about 80 others.” Pat Nixon was honorary chairwoman of the Committee for the Preservation of the White House, which sets policy relating to the museum functions of the executive mansion.
Butterfield felt relieved, repeating what Scouten had said, figuring that would solve the problem.
“I don’t give a damn,” Nixon said, adding, “He’s on our Enemies List.” As if to say, have you forgotten? “What the hell do we have these lists for?”
Butterfield knew of such an Enemies List with dozens of names, but also of an Opponents List and a Freeze List. He was unsure which took precedence.
“Why do we have these lists if we don’t pay any attention to them?” Nixon was furious, as if some electric charge had gone off in him. “I don’t ever want that son of a bitch back here on the White House grounds.” He put it on Butterfield. “I want you to make damn sure he doesn’t show up here again. And you get those Enemies Lists, make sure everybody knows who’s on them.” Update them. “Redo them, make sure they’re correct and we adhere to them.”
“Yes, sir.”
Butterfield recalled, “I knew he meant business. Derek Bok represented to Nixon the whole, not just Ivy League, but the whole Northeastern part of the United States. If you were from there, went to an Ivy League school, you had it given to you. You were a privileged son of a bitch.
“And as he got older, instead of mellowing, the neuroses intensified and he lumped them all together.”
• • •
One day Butterfield walked into the Oval Office to retrieve something from the president’s desk. Haldeman, staff assistant Steve Bull and he were the only ones who could go in unannounced. Nixon didn’t seem to mind. The days of hiding behind columns and slinking around were long gone. Butterfield was a full member of the inner circle.
Nixon and Don Kendall, the CEO of PepsiCo, and a big supporter and campaign contributor, were sitting by the fireplace. Kendall was there to talk about the Soviet Union, where PepsiCo had substantial operations. He wanted to give his advice about how to handle the Soviets. Nixon knew how he wanted to deal with them and had made it clear from comments Butterfield had heard that Kendall’s advice would be meaningless. “I don’t need this son of a bitch to tell me about the Soviet Union or how to deal with them,” he had said. So it was one of Nixon’s stroking sessions, intended to make someone feel important and useful to the president, particularly for reelection fundraising.
As Butterfield fiddled with papers on the desk, he later told me, he would long remember what Nixon was saying, and it wasn’t about the Soviet Union. This was before the tapes were installed. The president was talking about New York City, where he had gone to practice law after he had lost the California governor’s race in 1962.
“I’d been in Congress and in the Senate and vice president for eight goddamn years,” Nixon said, “during which time Ike was in and out of the hospital.” This was when he had filled in for Ike at National Security Council and cabinet meetings, he noted.
“I moved the family to New York City,” when he had joined the law firm of Mudge Rose. “Do you think one of those goddamn fat-cat New York bastards ever invited me to one of his country clubs or his private town club or any of that? Not one goddamn time!”
Butterfield reflected, “Nixon was known, I think, by a lot of people as being a bit odd. But that was it. Kind of an odd duck, but in a nice way, often. But I saw a guy there who, with the resentments and the depth of those resentments, and the hatreds. There was a lot of hatred. And I think he had to be an unhappy man, basically an unhappy man. That’s why he liked being alone. He was happiest when he was alone.”
Being alone was central to the Nixon personality and lifestyle. Nixon craved this privacy. Only known to the few around the Oval Office were the naps. Butterfield recalled, “At about 1 p.m. he disappeared and went into this little cubbyhole room, long and narrow, not more than about six feet wide, right off the Oval Office.
“There is a little hot plate and a little refrigerator. And you go back in, and there’s a desk and a cot and a small bathroom. So he disappeared in there to eat his small curd cottage cheese, that’s what he always had for lunch. Then he took a little nap. And that was never published that he took a nap.” Butterfield said Nixon took off his jacket but normally left his necktie, shirt and trousers on when he lay down. “He slept for about an hour, got up and shaved. He had the heavy beard, so he always took the electric razor, then about ten of three got a cup of coffee and he came out and started a second day, clean shaven.” He would work until 7 or 7:30 p.m.
“And that’s when he left the Oval Office to either go back to the residence, but more often—more than 50 percent of the time—he went across the street to his EOB office. Like a man’s library.” It was a big office, and Nixon would relax, have a glass of wine or a Scotch, but usually a glass of red wine served by his personal butler. “Manolo Sanchez would fix him a nice dinner, and he’d sit there with his yellow pad. He wouldn’t even take his jacket off until around 10:30 at night. And then he’d go home. Lonely existence, but I do believe he liked it.”
Another time Nixon asked Butterfield, “Are these goddamn cabinet members that we invite to the various social functions at the White House, do they get around and talk to people?” There were usually a handful of cabinet members at state dinners, receptions or the Sunday worship service. “That should be one of their duties,” Nixon said.
“Honestly, Mr. President,” Butterfield replied, “no, they don’t get around that much and I don’t think they see making conversation with other guests is one of their duties.”
“Well,” Nixon said, “who does? Who’s the best?”
“Oh, clearly the best is George Bush . . . I’ve heard him many times and I’ve watched him. ‘Hi, I’m George Bush, our United Nations representative.’ And he would chat with people.”
“Oh, yeah, Bush. He would be good at that.” Nixon then went into a thoughtful repose and added, “God knows I could never do that.”
10
* * *
In December 1969, Nixon told Haldeman and Butterfield he wanted a new office arrangement. Haldeman was to move out of his large office adjoining the Oval Office and into a larger West Wing first-floor office in the southwest corner. Vice President Spiro Agnew, currently using that office, would have to be content with the office he had in the Executive Office Building. It was a pretty visible exile.
Bob, Nixon said, I want you to be able to think more, plan more, follow up on things more efficiently, be the assistant president. You get caught up in a lot of trivia here around the Oval Office, the day-to-day traffic.
Alex, the president said, you will move into Bob’s office and handle the smaller matters, and the official schedule and official day. Though Nixon termed some of this work “trivia,” Butterfield took the move as an endorsement of his efficiency and a sign of trust.
One result was that Butterfield did not get invited to all the meetings in Haldeman’s new office that he used to attend. Butterfield was not happy about that, and was particularly upset he was not invited to one of Haldeman’s political meetings for all senior Californians in the administration.
Butterfield’s focus was now exclusively on the president, though Haldeman clearly remained the top Nixon aide. He said that Haldeman and he gradually grew more distant once the move was made.
But as in real estate, West Wing power was connected to location, location, location. The direct access to the Oval Office and more control of paper flow and Nixon’s day gave Butterfield more influence. He shadowed Nixon’s life as no one else, plugged into nearly every aspect.
Though Nixon spent hours planning, thinking ahead and plotting, he could make instant decisions. And Butterfield was now posi
tioned to be summoned to cater to his every impulse. He was also, along with Haldeman, someone who could authoritatively say no to unwanted intrusions from cabinet officers and others Nixon did not want to see.
According to a tape of a conversation between Nixon and Haldeman more than a year later, the switch in offices was a success.
“This thing is beginning to work out now?” the president inquired. “Alex is the perfect buffer.”
“Yeah,” Haldeman replied.
“Just let him do it.”
• • •
Butterfield did become the principal intermediary between the president and his wife. He met with the first lady one or two mornings a week. He liked her. He believed she liked him.
“She never seemed especially cheerful,” he recalled, “but she never did seem morose or down in her spirits. I felt sorry for her being married to this guy. I could see what she was going through.”
He tried to get the first lady’s views on the table. Before an upcoming state dinner, she told Butterfield, “I would so much like to have the Air Force Strolling Strings.” The group of 20 airman musicians is a string ensemble that plays subdued show tunes and classical favorites while strolling around the audience. It was one of her favorites. “See if you can’t talk to Dick.”
When Butterfield had a chance he placed the Strolling Strings option before Nixon. It would be a little variety, something softer, more romantic than the jazz player Pete Fountain from New Orleans, the Dixieland stuff Nixon wanted. “Mrs. Nixon has a point here, Mr. President,” he said with a smile.
“No,” Nixon said with finality. “I don’t want the Goddamned Strolling Strings.” But several times later she prevailed and the Strings played at state dinners.
Why didn’t the president discuss these things with his wife? Butterfield wondered. Better not to ask.
When the president saw a nice article about Pat in the daily news summary he said, “Send Pat a copy of that,” or “Let Pat see that,” or “Tell Pat that.”
The president and his wife did not stay together when they visited Key Biscayne. She had her own house on a cul-de-sac. “A lot of people didn’t know that. On that same cul-de-sac the Secret Service had their place, the president had his, Bebe Rebozo, his longtime best friend, had his, Mrs. Nixon had hers. The pity of it. That’s sad to me to even think of it. Because I cared so much for her. I really cared for her. There were times during our talks when I just wanted to put my arms around her.”
• • •
One time as the Christmas season approached, Butterfield accompanied the president and the first lady in the helicopter. He was sitting across from them. The president was with his yellow pad.
“Dick,” Mrs. Nixon said, “the girls and I were talking about going up to New York next week. Why don’t you come along? It would be such fun, the whole family up there. And it’s Christmas, and you know how New York is at Christmas. Why don’t we all make a trip to New York City for the holidays?”
He didn’t look up.
Get the girls and all go up, do some shopping, maybe see a play or musical, she continued.
He continued to write, not even looking at her.
We haven’t done this for such a long time, she continued. It would be such fun. Fun, you know.
Nothing.
You son of a bitch, Butterfield thought. How can you treat her like that? Are you so inward? So self-absorbed? It was cruel, embarrassing for everyone but Nixon, who kept his head buried in his yellow pad. Butterfield wished he had the courage to grab the pad out of the president’s hands, fling it down, and insist that Nixon answer his wife, even if it was just to say no.
“I heard every word she said,” Butterfield recalled. Nixon’s silence was inexcusable, hostile. “It hurt me. I shouldn’t have let it affect me that much. I couldn’t help but hear it, so I just sat there. And she knew that—had to embarrass her. She knew I heard. He never did answer. I wanted to reach over and—of course, I would never do it—and say, ‘Answer her, God damn it! Answer her!’ ”
The helicopter flight continued in silence, interrupted only by the occasional shift in the tilt of the rotor blades—thwack, thwack, thwack—and the scratching of pen on yellow paper.
Butterfield concluded that Pat was what he called a “borderline abused” wife.
• • •
In late 1970, Butterfield’s wife, Charlotte, and their daughter, Susan, were in a serious automobile accident. Susan had just gotten her driver’s license and was driving with her mother on the freeway close to their house. A drunk driver came down the wrong side of the road and collided with their car. Charlotte went through the windshield on the passenger’s side. Susan, who was shorter, got the steering wheel in her face and it knocked out a number of her front teeth. Both ended up in the hospital.
On November 21, 1970, Pat Nixon sent Butterfield a letter: “Dear Alex, . . . you are very much in our thoughts and prayers. This is a difficult time for all of you and we hope you will remember that we are among your many concerned friends who stand by to offer our encouragement and understanding. . . . Sincerely, Pat.”
The Nixons sent flowers. Nixon ordered Butterfield to accompany Charlotte and Susan for a two-week rest and recuperation vacation in Puerto Rico. When Susan, who was the more seriously injured, was released from the hospital, the president insisted that Butterfield bring her by the White House.
“You see those teeth right there,” Nixon said to Susan when they met privately in the Oval Office as he pointed to and tapped his own front teeth. “They’re not mine.”
Butterfield had not known that Nixon’s front teeth were not real. He was stunned by the way this usually awkward man gracefully empathized and put his daughter at ease, respecting and identifying with her condition.
“I loved Nixon for that,” Butterfield recalled, shaking his head.
• • •
“Tricia and her date this afternoon evidently gave the Secret Service the slip,” Butterfield reported to Nixon one weekend afternoon. The couple was out in a car being followed by Service agents assigned to her detail. “They turned down a road well ahead of them that led to a little airport.” The agents think the date took Tricia up in an airplane. The Service was now doing all the checks at the airport and elsewhere. “They’ve got a plane in the air. They’re terribly upset about it as you can imagine. They’re doing everything right now they can do, and I’ll keep you advised.” They knew little about the young man. If they were airborne the situation was potentially dire.
“All right,” Nixon said. “Yes, you keep me advised. I’m not to be disturbed by anyone else or any other business.”
Butterfield had never seen Nixon so worried. His face seemed to fold inward.
There was no word all afternoon. Nixon was in agony but had to go into a state dinner. Butterfield could see he was beside himself. The Secret Service soon reported to Butterfield that Tricia was safely back in the residence. He quickly scribbled a note for the president, who was about to be seated at the dinner.
“Mr. President, Tricia is back in the residence seemingly unaware of the concern she caused this afternoon. Alex.”
He put the note on Nixon’s dinner plate so he would see it when he sat down.
Nixon never said a word about the incident to Butterfield, who did not tell anyone, not even Pat Nixon or Haldeman. For Butterfield, however, the tense incident was important, representing what he called a “silent bonding” between two fathers.
11
* * *
“I’m fed up with these goddamned idiots who put their faces in mine after dinner and want to chitchat,” Nixon told Butterfield about 90 minutes before the beginning of a state dinner in the spring of 1970. The president was leaning back in his chair, his feet on the desk and his legs crossed.
“Sit down, Alex,” he said excitedly. “I’m getting sick and tired of all these bastards coming up and talking to me during that 30-minute coffee period after these state dinners.”
The only chance guests had to talk to the president was the 30 minutes after the formal dinner when guests mingled in the Red, Blue and Green Rooms for coffee and cordials.
Nixon took out a typed list of the 108 expected guests and motioned for Butterfield to look. The president had put a check mark before five names and then read them aloud. Included were Arnold Palmer, the golf champion, and Clare Boothe Luce, a devout Republican, longtime Nixon friend, former congresswoman and ambassador. “Those are the only people I want to see during the coffee break,” Nixon ordered. “Only those five! Not another goddamn soul. No one else. No congressmen. No senators. No nothing. Just those five people. You work it out, Alex.”
Yes, sir. Butterfield realized his status with the president was more or less always on the line. This was going to be particularly tricky. The senior military aide and Butterfield normally stood near Nixon and introduced him to various guests as they mingled and roamed.
Now Nixon wanted not just protection from the “idiots” and the “bastards.” He wanted an impenetrable shield. Each state dinner had its share of such people, dozens of guests, obligatory invitees, social hangers-on, foreign officials with their heads of state. Each would love to grab a moment with the president, and some were more determined than others. Attending a state dinner was a big deal. The guest list appeared in The Washington Post the next morning and it was scoured to see who had attended and who had not. But nothing compared to the chance to report to friends and colleagues the next day, “As the president told me last night . . .” Or “As I told the president . . .”
Time was short before that night’s dinner, so before going down to shower and change into his formal wear, Butterfield called Lucy Winchester, the social secretary.
“Send me five of your most capable social aides,” he said. These were generally attractive, young junior military officers assigned to the White House or elsewhere in Washington. When the five arrived all decked out in the formal uniform of their service, Butterfield explained.
