by Bob Woodward
“Listen carefully,” he said, “we’re going to execute a plan here, the president’s plan and you must not fail me. This plan has to work.”
Each would have a “designated” guest. During the pre-dinner cocktail hour they should track down his or her guest, talk to him or her, notice where they were sitting, and after dinner latch on to them before there were any distractions. They should bring their designated guest or couple to the Green Room (the smaller of the reception rooms where Nixon regularly stationed himself) and catch Butterfield’s eye while keeping the conversation going with the guest and smoothly maneuvering to within 10 feet of the president.
Butterfield and the recently promoted General Don Hughes, the senior military assistant, would be hovering around the president, virtually guarding him, orchestrating the arrivals and departures of the “designated guests.”
“If we’re tied up, don’t move in too fast but move towards me, and I will give you the sign.”
Before dinner, Butterfield briefed General Hughes on the president’s plan. About 9:20 p.m., after the formal dinner, it was showtime. Butterfield intercepted the president and General Hughes and slowed them down as they entered the Green Room. The first approved guest was nearby to be handed off to the president. As the president chatted with the guest, Butterfield spotted another of the military social aides with his guest in tow. He beckoned them over. Butterfield introduced himself and as they talked, he moved them slowly toward the president.
Had the guest had a chance to talk to the president? Butterfield inquired, knowing the guest had not. He then nodded to Hughes, who nodded back, grabbed the arm of the first guest and, with a smile, gently but firmly moved him or her out of the way and over to another group. Butterfield glided in and introduced the next guest to the president.
A couple of times Butterfield had to maneuver to cut off access or even throw a subtle body block against an invader, someone not on the list scrambling to get to the president. It was a rather smooth maneuver, the kind of precision, the seemingly effortless flying Butterfield liked.
Sometimes guests were in mid-sentence but there was no time to fool around, so Hughes took their arm and moved him or her on. “And so, Mr. President . . .” and he was hauled out. At times these exits were pretty rough. Maybe an arm or two got a minor bruise. No one seemed to mind. Each had had their less than five minutes with the president, and who else had? Only four others who didn’t know they had been personally selected by the president.
The next day, Nixon had a brief dinner critique session with Butterfield.
“Did you have any trouble?” he asked.
No.
“Well, that’s the plan from now on.” He seemed elated.
Over the next months and years of state dinners, Butterfield and Hughes gained confidence and skill. It seemed that those who made the list never suspected they had been singled out by the president himself. Nixon always presented his list of about five.
“I want Pat to do this too,” Nixon said before another dinner, suggesting she have a control list of about five people she might want to talk with.
So Butterfield took the proposal to Pat.
“Dick didn’t . . .” she said laughing.
“Well,” Butterfield said, “he thought you might want to consider it.”
She laughed again. “Alex, you can’t be serious?”
He indicated it was the president’s wish.
“That’s out of the question,” the first lady said. “I like to talk to everyone.”
Butterfield felt foolish asking. He had suspected she wouldn’t try to insulate herself that way, and she continued to gut it out in the free-for-all with the state dinner crowd.
The procedure for the president, however, never changed, and he never said another word about it. Before each state dinner he routinely handed Butterfield a typed guest list with five check marks.
Butterfield was supposed to be Nixon’s eyes and ears at these dinners. The next day the president wanted a detailed report when they met for their critique.
But Butterfield couldn’t keep up. The president monitored the dinners like a catering manager. “Did you notice how long it took them to serve the salad?” he inquired after one dinner. “It took ten minutes to serve the salads.”
Gosh, Butterfield thought, he had not been doing his job here. He recalled, “He’s timing the waiters. The president of the United States, the host, sitting up next to the chief of state from someplace, is timing the waiters. So I thought, I may not be up to this observation part of my job.”
• • •
Nixon set up nondenominational worship services at the White House on many Sundays. Billy Graham and other noted religious leaders would conduct them for about 300 specially invited guests.
“The basic purpose will be to use it as a political opportunity,” Haldeman said in a November 13, 1970, memo to Butterfield. “We should invite potential candidates, finance people, new GOP-type leaders . . . and our other friends. . . .
“The president also feels that we should have guest lists developed so that once a church service is decided upon, we can go forth with the invitations with what few alterations might be necessary due to instructions from him.”
Butterfield could see how important the services were as Nixon pored over the guest lists.
Six days later the New York Daily News ran a column noting that the guests seemed to be all Republicans. “The deliberate hand-picking of a congregation on the basis of political party affiliation cannot be considered either good manners or, for that matter, smart presidential politics,” wrote Ted Lewis on November 19.
Four days later Haldeman shot Butterfield another memo that included a clipping of the column. “We should . . . be using these services as an opportunity to be nice to our enemies—and their families—as well as to reward our friends. Please be sure we always include Democrats and others known to be non-supporters of the Administration—but not to outright opponents.”
The next summer Haldeman sent two memos to Butterfield about the White House services within nine days. On August 10, 1971, Haldeman said, “It’s absolutely imperative that it clearly be understood by all concerned that Edward B. Fiske, the Religion Editor of the New York Times, is not to be invited to any White House Church Services again in the future under any circumstances whatsoever.”
Fiske had just written an article saying the services were political and did not include “the poor and oppressed or minorities” but “the powerful in Washington and a healthy sprinkling of the people who put Mr. Nixon in office.”
Then on August 19, 1971, Haldeman reminded Butterfield that the services were by invitation only. “There should be no press pool or any general press admission to these services.
“The New York Times and New York Post must never be invited to these services. No one from either of the papers—at any time.”
Butterfield was shocked at the way Nixon used the popular services to humiliate Arthur Burns, a well-known economist and his counselor at the White House. In his memoir RN, Nixon wrote, “I created a new Cabinet-level position, Counselor to the President, for my old friend and adviser Arthur Burns.” He underscored “my respect for his superior intellect.” Burns, almost a decade older than Nixon, was considered the elder wise man on the staff in contrast to all the young beavers.
Burns was more conservative than Nixon, opposed some of his policies, but nonetheless wrote in his diary that his friendship with Nixon was “one of the three that has counted most in my life.”
Butterfield was out at Rock Creek Park one Saturday afternoon when he was paged by the president through the White House switchboard.
“Tell Arthur he is not welcome at the worship service tomorrow morning,” Nixon ordered. He was on the line only about 15 seconds. No discussion, no explanation, just the order and then the line went dead.
Nixon knew that Burns and his wife had said they really enjoyed the services. Butterfield was astonished that Ni
xon would use a withdrawn invitation so blatantly, but an order was an order.
“Arthur,” he said in a call to Burns, “I hate to tell you this but the word is that you’re not welcome tomorrow.”
He did not know what else to say. Burns knew Butterfield was speaking with the authority of the president and the “word” could only be Nixon’s.
Burns did not go to the service. Nixon, who continued to have some policy differences with Burns, did the same thing at least twice more, a last-minute Saturday call to Butterfield to cancel Burns’s invitation.
A February 22, 1971, memo from Haldeman instructed Butterfield, “For the time being, hold up on Arthur Burns on any social invitations, just keep him off the list for a little while. Check with me in three or four weeks to see if he should be put back on for something or other. In the meantime keep him off of Church, etc.”
• • •
Then there was the Kissinger problem. Nixon repeatedly voiced anger at the national security adviser’s self-importance and self-centeredness.
When traveling on Marine One with the president, the official schedule and strict protocol required that each passenger be aboard the helicopter before the president so when the president arrived, Marine One could lift off immediately.
One time early on Nixon arrived and there was no Kissinger.
“Alex, go get him,” Nixon ordered.
Butterfield left his seat and virtually ran from Marine One to Kissinger’s office.
“Henry, for Christ’s sweet sake,” Butterfield said. “The president’s out there waiting. We’ve got a schedule to make. Lots of people involved here.”
Mimicking Kissinger’s accent, Butterfield recalled the national security adviser saying, “All right, Alex, all right. I’m coming. I’m coming. I’ll be there.”
But Kissinger didn’t quicken his pace as Butterfield escorted him to Marine One. Once onboard, Kissinger took his seat, but Nixon didn’t say a word. Later on Kissinger kept the president waiting on Marine One a couple more times.
Kissinger was frequently late to state dinners, arriving up to eight minutes after everyone, including the president and the head of state guest of honor, was seated and eating. His arrival would create a stir, and Butterfield said, “It was as if he wanted people to think he’d been on the red phone, as if to say, ‘I would’ve been here, but the Soviet Union called.’ ”
In 1970 Nixon finally called Butterfield in and said he wanted all of Kissinger’s tardiness and self-inflated habits to stop.
According to Butterfield’s notes on yellow legal paper, the president said:
“1. Too often says that he absolutely must get in to see the President. Frequently not all as urgent as K intimated, or stated. Like the boy who cried ‘Wolf.’
“2. Enters President’s office without checking. President may have sent for Henry, but Henry must check with Bull’s office before going in. The President could be on the phone—etc.
“3. Late to meetings in the President’s office—meetings in which he is to participate, etc.
“4. Slow to respond when called at odd time of day—unusually slow. Example 1: 20 minutes and 3 phone calls. Example 2: 22 minutes and 7 phone calls.
“5. Imprecise re amount of time he needs. Two minutes develops into 20 minutes. He should state time needed and try harder to follow that lead. Entire day’s schedule is affected.”
Nixon also complained about the briefing papers he received from Kissinger. They were often not timely, did not have an accurate list of participants or address the news or photo plan.
The president also said he did not like Kissinger’s habit of gallivanting around Hollywood and Beverly Hills on weekends with movie stars. He seemed to enjoy being known as the “secret swinger.”
Nixon ordered Butterfield to speak with Kissinger or to work through Haig to stop all these practices. “You do it your way,” the president said.
Butterfield recalled he made several efforts with Kissinger directly or tried to use Haig as an intermediary. “But not much changed,” Butterfield said, and Kissinger’s habits were a continuing source of tension for Nixon.
On February 9, 1971, Haldeman sent a memo to Butterfield: “In seating at State Dinners, the President feels that Henry should not always be put next to the most glamorous woman present. . . . It’s starting to cause unfavorable talk that serves no useful purpose.”
Butterfield scribbled on his copy that he “relayed to Lucy personally.” Lucy Winchester was the social secretary who did the seating arrangements.
12
* * *
“The president wants a taping system installed,” Higby said matter-of-factly on Wednesday, February 10, 1971. “And Bob wants you to take care of it.”
Now at the beginning of the third year of Nixon’s presidency, it was another of the instructions that flowed in a steady stream from Nixon to Haldeman and then often to Butterfield, though increasingly the orders were now coming to him directly from the president. Butterfield was glad to see how proximity brought him close to Nixon, who would just buzz or make a casual request as Butterfield hovered. If working for someone meant trying to alleviate their anxieties, Butterfield was very good. And Nixon had more than his share of anxieties.
Butterfield didn’t think much about this latest order, knowing that Haldeman would soon pass through with details. Haldeman still used his old office as his route to the Oval Office because it was shorter than from his West Wing corner office.
When Haldeman later came dashing through Butterfield’s office to the Oval Office with his yellow pad, Butterfield said, “When you come out, I’d like to talk to you about this taping system thing.”
Okay, Haldeman said. When he emerged, Butterfield had some questions.
“Larry told me what the president wants. What are we talking about here? Just in the Oval?”
“He wants it in the Oval Office,” Haldeman replied. “He wants it on the Oval Office telephones, in the Cabinet Room . . . and the Lincoln Sitting Room telephone. . . . We want a good system, we want something that works.”
At times Haldeman and Butterfield would joke, wondering about the president’s latest crazy idea. Or Nixon would order something and then change his mind. Butterfield thought someone, someday could write a book about the times Nixon changed his mind. These were the kinds of things that went down on their yellow pads and generated hundreds of memos.
Nixon first decreed, for example, that cabinet meetings should be action-oriented, but then ten months later he determined they should be more freewheeling with “no specific agenda” so he could lead “constructive discussion.” The next month he determined that unstructured meetings weren’t working and the agenda should be rigid with no discussion of politics and no “show and tell.”
Though Nixon endlessly explored and sifted his options on most important matters, there was apparently no discussion about the merits or risks of such a taping system. Nixon and Haldeman’s concern was that the memos prepared by senior staff who sat in on meetings were not that good or consistent. And Kissinger was hopelessly delinquent in turning in memos. So a taping system would be more reliable. The president wanted it. They were there to execute.
“Don’t have the military do it,” Haldeman said.
What was wrong with the White House Communications Agency, the military unit that oversaw communications for the White House?
“They’re all dumb bastards,” Haldeman said. “They’d find a way to fuck it up. The president doesn’t want the military to have anything to do with this project.”
The military personnel are transferred in and out, Butterfield noted. “If the recording system is really to be kept secret, I suppose I should go to the Secret Service.”
“Probably,” Haldeman replied. “But that’s your decision. Just keep the military out of it and make sure as few people know about it as possible. Secrecy is key here. The only people on the staff who’ll know about this are you, Higby and me.”
That evening Butterfield called Al Wong, the head of the Secret Service Technical Security Division. He knew Wong well because the technical division regularly swept the Oval Office and other White House offices for electronic eavesdropping devices. They also swept hotel rooms when Nixon traveled and performed other technical chores to keep a bug-free environment around the president. Up until now, anyway. Butterfield dealt with Wong nearly every week.
“The president wants to install a taping system,” Butterfield explained to Wong. “Listening devices in the Oval Office and on his phones.”
“We’ve done this before,” Wong confided and smiled, adding without explanation, “These things don’t always work out as planned.”
“Well,” Butterfield said, “this will be different.” The president wanted all conversations recorded.
Wong took this to mean a voice-activated system so nothing would be missed.
But Butterfield said they wanted a manually activated system in the Cabinet Room so the microphones could be activated and deactivated by a switch. “All your guys are trustworthy,” Butterfield continued. “And that’s a big part of this. When can you get it in?”
“When would you like it in?”
“How long would it take?”
“We can do it in a weekend if the president’s not in town.”
“He won’t be in the next weekend, the one coming up.”
“Then we’ll have it in by Monday.”
“Terrific.”
Installation began Friday evening, February 12, after the president left for Key Biscayne and by Sunday evening the job was done.
“It’s in,” Wong said in a call to Butterfield on Monday. The president had not yet returned from Key Biscayne. “I’ll come over and run you through it.” Wong was soon there in the Oval Office.
“We’ve taken five microphones and drilled up from the bottom of the desk,” Wong told Butterfield. “And the microphones are just barely along the surface. We’ve just put varnish over them.”
