The Wars of Watergate

by Stanley I. Kutler

  Nixon realized that Gray presented an immediate problem; his hearings had shaken the Administration’s previously impenetrable calm. The President thought it might be best to delay the Gray hearings until after the Senate inquiry. In all probability, Gray then would be further damaged, thus giving the President an opportunity to withdraw the nomination. Clearly, Nixon by now had given up on Gray.

  The Ervin Committee dominated the President’s thoughts at the March 13 meeting. He asked Dean to summarize the potentially damaging witnesses. Dean thought that particularly vulnerable were Hugh Sloan, the CREEP treasurer, who had passed money to Liddy, and Herbert Kalmbach, Nixon’s lawyer, who had provided hush money to the burglars. Nixon protested that Kalmbach, as his lawyer, merely handled some San Clemente property matters and his income tax—“he isn’t a lawyer in the sense that most people have a lawyer.”

  At this point, Haldeman left the room; Dean, after all, had no surprising information for the Chief of Staff. The President and his Counsel then considered the Ervin Committee’s likeliest targets. Nixon thought Mitchell and Haldeman to be the leading candidates; Dean added Ehrlichman to the list. The President particularly focused on the actions and knowledge of Haldeman’s aides, knowing full well that whatever they knew or did in one way or another could be traced to Haldeman. But Dean said that the same people could be linked to Mitchell. The President seemed exasperated. “What a stupid thing. Pointless. That was the stupid thing.” He then blurted: “[T]o think that Mitchell and Bob would allow, would have allowed this kind of operation.…” Mitchell and Bob, the President said; in time, he would have to disentangle the two. Mitchell was his former Attorney General, his former campaign manager, his former partner; Haldeman was here and now: he was too close. “The hang-out road’s going to have to be rejected,” Nixon concluded. Dean warned of a domino effect if people started to talk. “So there are dangers, Mr. President. I’d be less than candid if I didn’t tell you the—there are. There’s a reason for us … no—not everyone going up and testifying.”16

  Four days later, on March 17, the President returned to his recurrent theme that he needed a report from Dean on the Administration’s investigation of Watergate, a report that would enable the President to go public, appear to be totally forthcoming, and affirm that the White House had no involvement in Watergate. Dean, however, was concerned over precisely that involvement, especially his own. He informed the President that he had been present when Mitchell, Magruder, and Liddy had discussed political-intelligence plans. Nixon saw no problem. His aides legally and necessarily had to discuss such operations because of the potential violence of the forthcoming political campaign. “We had to have intelligence … about what they were gonna do,” he said. Indeed, given the necessity of such activity, the Administration could turn it to political advantage, the President perversely thought, since it had not used the FBI. “You can use them against demonstrations. But for political character [sic],” he solemnly stated, “the Bureau is never used.”

  When Dean told Nixon that Colson and Strachan (acting for Haldeman) had demanded more political intelligence, the President again seemed unperturbed. After all, he had repeatedly urged his aides to know the enemy and steal a march whenever they could. Again, Nixon acknowledged the vulnerability of Mitchell and Haldeman. But he always focused on the roles of others in planning or having knowledge of the break-in. On the surface, Nixon did not recognize that the deep involvement of the White House in the cover-up immediately following the break-in was the real problem. Or did he? Did he not realize that the task now was to cover up the cover-up—to “save the plan,” as he often said? If that was to happen, sacrificial lambs would have to be prepared.

  As the conversation concluded, Dean told the President about Ehrlichman’s role in the break-in of the office of Daniel Ellsberg’s psychiatrist. The President appeared stunned, even mystified, claiming that it was the first he had heard of the matter. “What in the world, what in the name of God was Ehrlichman having something [unintelligible] in the Ellsberg?” Nixon asked. Whatever the answer, the “hang-out road” now had to be even further circumscribed. Another key aide was vulnerable; another “horror” might be revealed. Furthermore, Dean told the President, the CIA had developed pictures Hunt had taken of Liddy in the doctor’s office. Was the CIA, not exactly a reliable Nixon friend, wholly knowledgeable about that break-in? Perhaps not, but the Agency knew that Hunt had some illegal involvement. Here the President lost some of his aplomb, some of his sense of command. “It’s irrelevant,” he told Dean. Ervin had no business in the Ellsberg matter. Ervin had his “rules of relevancy”; “now what the hell has this got to do with it[?]”—meaning the Watergate break-in. More and more had to be contained, had to be covered up.17

  It all proved too much for John Dean, who could cope no longer; the dominoes he had imagined had begun to totter. He had to let it all hang out. When Dean appeared in the Oval Office shortly after 10:00 A.M. on the morning of March 21, determined to share the growing problem with the President, Nixon tried to put him off until one o’clock that afternoon. Dean would not budge; he remained with the President for nearly two hours, and Haldeman joined them for approximately the last fifteen minutes. Immediately, Dean blurted out that the White House defenses had crumbled, and the “plan” had failed. Whatever the pending business, the President chose to listen to Dean, knowing that Dean was wavering in his commitment to the “plan.”

  Dean’s recitation began with Haldeman’s instruction that he establish “a perfectly legitimate campaign intelligence operation” at CREEP. John Caulfield first developed a plan, but Mitchell and Ehrlichman agreed with Dean that it was not suitable. Dean then suggested that they commission Gordon Liddy for the task. Liddy proposed several hare-brained and expensive schemes, which again were rejected, but he then enlisted Hunt as an ally. The two visited Colson who, in turn, pressed Magruder for action. Meanwhile Haldeman, through his aide, Gordon Strachan, similarly pressured Magruder for campaign intelligence. Magruder responded by turning to Mitchell and urging the campaign to authorize Liddy’s plan to wiretap the Democratic National Committee. Mitchell agreed, and the fruits of the taps went to Strachan, who gave them to Haldeman.

  Dean informed the President that Magruder ordered Liddy to make a second foray into the Watergate offices—and added that “no one over here knew that. I know, uh, as God is my maker, I had no knowledge that they were going to do this.” The President, rather passive to this point, quickly began to question Dean on the extent of the Counsel’s awareness of White House involvement. What about Bob Haldeman? the President asked. Dean carefully hedged, saying he did not believe the Chief of Staff “specifically” realized the source of the intelligence, although he charged that Strachan did. Haldeman knew of CREEP’s “capacity” for illegal operations, but he “wasn’t giving it specific direction.”

  Dean then turned to the events following the break-in, laughingly reminding the President that he was “under perfectly clear instructions not to really investigate this, that this was something that just could have been disastrous on the election if it had [sic],… and I worked on a theory of containment.” However much Dean realized that his handiwork now was being undone, he spoke with pride of how well he had served the President. He described how he had monitored and even restrained FBI moves and noted his ability to secure grand-jury transcripts. John Dean had his own intelligence operation, which gave him a constant advantage. But there were blacker roles for him. Liddy had informed him that the Watergate defendants needed money for “living expenses.” Herbert Kalmbach was enlisted to raise money, and he distributed it to the defendants through a committee and Hunt’s lawyer. All that, Dean told the President, was “the most troublesome” thing, for it involved Haldeman, Ehrlichman, Mitchell, and also Dean himself in obstruction of justice. Again, Nixon was most concerned about Haldeman’s involvement. Dean told him that Haldeman had authorized the use of a $350,000 cash reserve in his safe to pay the defendants. Th
e President was not surprised, for he knew this from Haldeman himself. Dean carefully refrained from mentioning any presidential complicity in the obstruction of justice.

  But the crunch had come, Dean told Nixon. The demands for living expenses had escalated into outright blackmail. Howard Hunt—that “romantic adventurer,” as former CIA Director William Colby characterized him—had demanded $122,000 and threatened to destroy Ehrlichman if he did not get the money. According to Dean, Hunt passed the word that “I will bring John Ehrlichman down to his knees and put him in jail. Uh, I have enough seamy things for he [sic] and Krogh, uh, that they’ll never survive it.” The President asked Dean whether Hunt had referred to the Ellsberg break-in. Yes, Dean replied, Ellsberg “and apparently some other things.” Nixon said he did not know of other things, although for at least four days, and probably more, he had certainly had knowledge of the break-in of Ellsberg’s psychiatrist’s office.

  Dean focused on several key problems, particularly the vulnerability of the White House to continuing blackmail from the Watergate defendants, and officials’ actions that compounded obstruction of justice. John Mitchell, he said, was “one of the ones with the most to lose.” Meanwhile, Mitchell and his aide Fred LaRue were still trying to raise money from Nixon’s longtime supporter, Thomas Pappas. The President already knew that. Money, however, seemed to be no problem. How much do you need, he asked Dean? A million dollars over the next two years, the Counsel replied. “We could get that,” the President said. “[I]f you need the money, I mean, uh, you could get the money.… [Y]ou could get a million dollars. And you could get it in cash. I, I know where it could be gotten.… I mean it’s not easy, but it could be done.”

  Throughout the discussion Dean talked of numerous problems and persons. Nixon apparently had little concern for sacrificing such pawns as Magruder, LaRue, Krogh, and Strachan. But Hunt concerned him deeply. Hunt was the “major guy to keep under control,” he told Dean; Hunt knew much “about a lot of things.” Dean added that Hunt could “sink” Colson; and Colson was too close to the President. “You’ve got to keep the cap on the bottle … in order to have any options,” Nixon added. And then, rather wistfully, he remarked: “Either that or let it all blow right now.” As if on cue, Dean interjected: “that, you know, that’s the, the question.” In other words, would the President resort to radical surgery, would he blow the cover-up and settle the affair once and for all?

  It was not to be. Nixon backed away and asked Dean to tell him more about the problems of other principals. Dean tried to get back to “the question.” He was concerned that the White House would now try to maintain the cover-up with blackmail money and perjury; then, “if this thing ever blows,” Dean warned the President, “it’d be extremely damaging to you.” Apparently Nixon did not appreciate the whole range of consequences, however, for he seemed to think that only “the whole concept of Administration justice” would be damaged. Whatever concerns he had for the “presidency” remained muted at this point. But Dean got him back on track, urging that he sit down with Haldeman, Ehrlichman, and Mitchell “to figure out how this thing can be carved away from you, so it does not damage you or the Presidency.” Again, Nixon dodged the point, coming back to ask about Colson’s role while reassuring Dean that he himself had no involvement in the plans for the break-in.

  Dean reminded Nixon again of “soft spots” in the White House position and declared that he had no confidence “we can ride through this.” He warned Nixon that aides were “pulling in,” hiring counsel, and figuring “ ‘how do I protect my ass[?]’.” Finally, Dean confessed that the Gray hearings had broken his own cover, and he no longer had the “facility” to handle things.

  What was to be done? the President pleaded. Complete disclosure? “Isn’t that the best plan?” Nixon asked. It was Dean’s turn to dodge, for “complete disclosure” threatened him because of his role in the obstruction of justice. Dean wanted the President to ask for another grand jury, order the prosecutors to immunize witnesses, and sacrifice a few individuals. The lawyer-President seemed to have difficulty comprehending the point: “I don’t see it. I can’t see it,” he said. He thought Dean simply had served as a proper President’s Counsel; in any event, he seemed to think the matter could be handled easily enough. Suddenly, the President sounded satisfied with his prospects. “Sometimes it’s well to give them … something, and then they don’t want the bigger fish then.” And just as quickly, he realized that blackmail money still would have to be paid—“it would seem to me that would be worthwhile,” Nixon said. He speculated about clemency for the convicted burglars but dismissed the idea as politically untenable.

  Both men sensed with sadness the inextricable web they had woven. Dean spoke of the “burden” on the second Administration. “It’s something that is not going to go away, sir.” Nixon agreed, but thought people might “get tired of it.” No, anything would “spark it back into life,” Dean said, and then pushed the President to consider action that would cut losses, “minimize the further growth of this thing,” and stop the need to pay blackmail money. But after Dean raised the possibility of indictments for Haldeman (because of the break-in connection) and Ehrlichman (because of the Ellsberg case), Nixon sensed the greater danger to himself. It would be better, he said, “to fight it out, and not let people testify.” Still, he knew there were “mine fields down the road.” It was time, the President and Dean decided, for all of the key principals to meet to discuss future strategy—Haldeman, Ehrlichman, Mitchell, Dean, and the President.

  Haldeman appeared near the end of the meeting. He and the President agreed that Colson—who alone rivaled Haldeman in access to Nixon’s political confidences—could not be trusted to keep silent. Magruder was another weak link. Haldeman seemed worried and doubtful about maintaining the cover-up. But the President firmly believed that matters could be satisfactorily settled. Again, he said it would require a million dollars “to take care of the jackasses that are in jail.” That could be arranged with no problems. Clemency, he knew, was another matter, and Hunt’s patience was on the line, for Colson apparently had promised Hunt he would be out of jail by Christmas. Meanwhile, the President thought Dean had no choice but to pay Hunt. There was another course, however. Let Hunt and the others talk, the President said; “that would be the, the clean way,” he added. Then he would order another grand jury, where the principals would testify but selectively employ “I don’t recall” answers and the Fifth Amendment. The President liked to spin out hypotheticals: “How about a special prosecutor?” he asked.

  The unmistakable pessimism that began the meeting resumed its grip at the end. The President, who usually summed up discussions, understood the matter very well. If Hunt talked, Ehrlichman, Colson, Mitchell, and others would fall. If the cover-up continued and eventually broke, “it’ll look like the President”—Dean finished the point: “… is covering up.” The risks were high, very high. Amazingly, the President believed that Dean could still take care of things. Dean, after all, had come up with the right plan before the election. He handled “it” just right; he “contained it.” Now, the President said, Dean had to come up with another plan, one that would last four years. The Administration could not be “eaten away” for the remainder of its term. “We can’t do it,” he said with finality. Watergate was not a major concern, Nixon believed, but sadly, even prophetically, he added, “it will be. It’s bound to be.”18

  The morning meeting adjourned with agreement on further talks among those at the center of the circled wagons: the President, Haldeman, Ehrlichman, and Dean. The four resumed the discussion at 5:20 on the same afternoon. Ehrlichman offered another circle metaphor: “you go round and round and you come up with all questions and no answers. Backed up where you were at when you started.” Altogether, a sense of siege pervaded the discussion, heavily freighted with confusion and disarray among the principals. The President himself vacillated between tactics of delay (a presidential panel to investigate the matter),
continued efforts at containment (payoffs, perjury)—or, he added (borrowing from General Ulysses S. Grant), they could “keep fighting it out on this ground if it takes all summer.”

  Dean remained anxious that everyone testify to the grand jury under immunity, assuming that in this fashion the facts would come out and those involved would suffer little damage. Ehrlichman apparently suspected that the “enemies” would want blood, as close to the top as possible—meaning his own. He opposed anything that might bring indictments for White House personnel. Ehrlichman proposed that the White House prepare several internal reports summarizing what the President knew about the scandal, turn them over to the Ervin Committee, and rely on Howard Baker to keep the investigation limited to a few specific issues. If any additional information appeared, the President could maintain he had been misinformed.

  But Ehrlichman knew that the immediate problem involved Hunt. He favored continuing the pattern of containment and blackmail and ultimately giving Hunt a pardon. Nixon tentatively agreed, yet wondered whether Hunt might get clemency from the court if he talked. Dean warned the President that that was a real possibility; he outlined exactly the scenario that James McCord, not Howard Hunt, had initiated the day before. Dean then contemptuously sneered at those (Colson, Kalmbach, Chapin) who had hired criminal lawyers “to protect their own behinds …; self-protection is setting in.” Ten days later, Dean himself called a prominent criminal lawyer, disingenuously telling Haldeman that he needed someone to “figure out what everybody else’s criminal liabilities are.”19