The idea of a Dean Report took on a magical promise, for it would be the way in which the White House would say that John Dean had revealed everything. Nixon in particular envisioned the report as the ultimate defense barrier. His immediate aides concurred, perhaps more in wish than in thought. But Dean knew better:
PRESIDENT: You think, you think we want to, want to go this route now? And the—let it hang out, so to speak?
DEAN: Well, it’s, it isn’t really that—
HALDEMAN: It’s a limited hang out.
DEAN: It’s a limited hang out.
EHRLICHMAN: It’s a modified limited hang out.
PRESIDENT: Well, it’s only the questions of the thing hanging out publicly or privately.
DEAN: What it’s doing, Mr. President, is getting you up above and away from it. And that’s the most important thing.
PRESIDENT: Oh, I know. But I suggested that the other day and we all came down on, uh, remember we came down on, uh, on the negative on it. Now what’s changed our mind?
DEAN: The lack of alternatives, or a body. (Laughter)
EHRLICHMAN: We, we went down every alley. (Laughter)….
The President thought the Dean Report indispensable, and “if it opens doors, it opens up doors, you know.” When Ehrlichman sarcastically said that Mitchell was “sorry” he had sent the burglars in, the President joined in the little joke, and Mitchell responded, “[Y]ou are very welcome, sir.” The resultant laughter sounded nervous, even hollow.
Deferentially, almost, the President thanked Mitchell and Dean for carrying a heavy load. Dean was singled out for a special presidential commendation. After all, he “put the fires out” and “almost got the damn thing nailed down” till past the election. Nixon wavered between confidence and cheerleading. More would come out, but “we will survive it,” he assured everyone. “That’s the way you’ve got to look at it.” But he quickly added, “get the God damn thing over with.” He reviewed the “game plan”: hold the line on executive privilege, and make the Dean Report the framework for any outside investigations.
The President concluded the session by drawing his own historical lessons from the Sherman Adams episode in the Eisenhower Administration and from the Alger Hiss affair. Adams, who had been Eisenhower’s Chief of Staff, had improperly accepted a gift from a friend and subsequently intervened in his behalf with a federal agency. Eisenhower commissioned Nixon to fire Adams, a chore Nixon later described with distaste, contending that Adams had not done anything to merit dismissal. (In truth, Nixon had urged Eisenhower to act decisively and dismiss Adams.)
The Adams and Hiss affairs ran like threads throughout the President’s conversations in his moments of greatest adversity. But he skewed facts, and the lessons gleaned always seemed curious, even twisted. Nixon talked forcefully of the need that a president loyally support subordinates who make honest mistakes, strongly implying that he would stand by his men. As for Hiss, Nixon repeatedly argued that if he only had admitted his association with Whittaker Chambers and had not covered it up, thereby perjuring himself, and if Truman had cooperated and not stonewalled congressional investigators, nothing would have happened. Thus Richard Nixon interpreting history and applying its lessons: “I don’t give a shit what happens,” he defiantly told his men. “I want you all to stonewall it, let them plead the Fifth Amendment, cover-up or anything else, if it’ll save the plan. That’s the whole point.”
Did Nixon then suddenly remember that Oval Office conversations were taped? Perhaps, for he quickly shifted gears. He preferred, he said, to “do it the other way.” Tell it all now—before leaks, charges, and innuendoes made things worse. The guilty must step forward. But he was not yet prepared to push “the other way.” Indeed, in the next breath, the President reverted to his conspiratorial ways. Work on Howard Baker, he urged. Mitchell complained that it was difficult to establish a liaison with Baker, for the Senator believed that his phone was tapped. Nixon was incredulous. Who would tap Baker? he asked, apparently secure in the belief that he had not done the like himself. He immediately answered his own question: Ervin. Perhaps Nixon believed that, but the talk really was trivial. The President’s final order could not be clearer: “Again,” he said, “you really have to protect the Presidency, too.”25 Not for the last time did Nixon bind the interest of the “Presidency” to that of the “President.”
Three days after Judge Sirica read McCord’s confessional letter in open court, the New York Times revealed that the former CIA agent had implicated White House and CREEP officials in the Watergate break-in and that there were hints and promises of further disclosures that would expand the stories of official wrongdoing. McCord had spoken to Sirica, to the federal prosecutors, and to Sam Dash, the recently appointed Counsel to the Ervin Committee. “Scot free—a hero,” the President remarked bitterly. Bob Woodward, a Washington Post reporter, visited the President’s Assistant Press Secretary on March 27, charging that Watergate involved a wider conspiracy than hitherto believed. He asked for an interview with the President to discuss the facts.26
That day, nearly a week after Dean’s lengthy session with the President, the inner defense circle had been altered. Now, as Nixon considered his most crucial decisions, his Counsel was no longer present. Dean had been sent to Camp David to compose a report, but he knew that such a document would implicate everyone, from the President down. No Dean Report was written.27 In Dean’s absence, the President, Haldeman, Ehrlichman, and Ziegler decided that John Mitchell would serve the presidency and the President as he had never imagined.
Richard Nixon later mourned that he was not a “good butcher” (William Gladstone’s first requirement for a Prime Minister); but, in retrospect, his work indeed resembled the deft cuttings of a skilled surgeon; Nixon knew precisely whom to cut and how. At the outset, he told his aides he did not want the staff dividing and accusing one another. “The point is [,] what’s done is done. We do the very best we can, and cut our losses,” he stated. Haldeman reported that Magruder was claiming that the entire intelligence operation had originated in the White House with Haldeman and Dean. Both Haldeman and Ehrlichman emphasized to the President that Dean had no such involvement and that Haldeman had pressed only for better intelligence, without providing specific instructions. Magruder already had lied to the grand jury and now seemed very eager to clear himself. But everyone knew that Magruder inexorably led to Mitchell.
Mitchell could solve everything. Haldeman reported a CREEP lawyer as saying that “Mitchell could cut this whole thing off, if he would just step forward and cut it off.” For the moment, the President let the remark pass, but he knew that it was the only solution, and that securing Mitchell’s cooperation would be difficult. He was sure Mitchell would never admit perjury or his role in the origins of the break-in and the cover-up, even if the prosecutors gave him immunity. Haldeman thought that Mitchell would be offered immunity only if the prosecutors believed he could lead them to the President. Mitchell was higher than anyone else the prosecutors had pursued. Indeed, he was “the big Enchilada,” as Ehrlichman added.
The President suggested inviting Mitchell and Magruder for a talk. Perhaps Magruder could be persuaded to take sole responsibility. Nixon again resorted to his Hiss-Chambers touchstone experience. Hiss had been destroyed because he had lied; but Chambers, too, Nixon said, was destroyed because he had been an informer. What did that have to do with anything? It certainly did not offer Magruder any promising options; either way, if Nixon’s history lesson was relevant, he would be destroyed. Still, they devised a script for Magruder to follow, whereby he would appear before the grand jury, gain immunity, and admit he had lied earlier of his own volition. John Dean, in fact, had coached Magruder in preparation for his perjured testimony.
But Nixon, Haldeman, and Ehrlichman realized the importance of protecting the President’s Counsel. Magruder was only a “little fish” in the public eye; the President’s inner circle knew they had to serve up a “big fish.” They believed
that the U.S. Attorney would grant Magruder immunity in order to get to Mitchell. Haldeman sounded gleeful: “The interesting thing … would be to watch Mitchell’s face at the time I, I recommend to Magruder that he go down and ask for immunity and confess.” Haldeman displayed boldness and confidence, and why not: Mitchell was the expendable, vulnerable one, not himself. Ehrlichman, perhaps a bit shrewder than Haldeman (and also more vulnerable and expendable), was not so certain that “the thing will hold together.” That was after he made sure that the President was protecting him on the Ellsberg matter with a “national security tent over the whole operation.” “I sure will,” the President promised.28
Haldeman summoned John Dean from Camp David the next day. Dean had no report. Haldeman later said that this was because the document would have made “a tighter and tighter noose around John’s neck”—a rather disingenuous remark for one who controlled Dean with a short leash. Dean sensed some important changes in his master. Haldeman wanted him to see Mitchell and Magruder to coordinate his story with theirs. Dean claimed that both men still wanted him to protect their stories, even after Mitchell admitted his complicity in the formulation of the break-in plans. Dean remained a useful go-between for the Oval Office and those outside. The day after the key March 22 meeting, Nixon told Ehrlichman that Dean had “done [a] superb job,” given his heavy load.29 Whatever his motivation—to save his skin, to save the President, to acknowledge the futility of more lying—John Dean knew that he could no longer contain the scandal. His circle had closed and he needed his own wagons. Dean hired a criminal lawyer.
Richard Nixon himself was running perilously close to the time when he must talk—or it might be too late. Barry Goldwater pleaded with the President—“a valued friend and leader”—to be forthcoming. It was time, he told Nixon on March 29, “probably past time, that you either make public disclosures yourself relative to the Watergate or allow some of your men to make statements themselves to clear up what I know to be lies and misstatements.” Goldwater warned Nixon that prominent Republicans throughout the nation were uneasy and restless.30 If Goldwater believed that the President and his men had lied, then indeed the President was in trouble. But Nixon preferred his own options: stonewalling, modified limited hang outs, sacrificial lambs. He remained confident that he could get his house in order as April approached. But truly, for him it became the “cruelest month.”
XII
“WE HAVE TO PRICK THE GODDAM BOIL AND TAKE THE HEAT.”
CUTTING LOOSE: APRIL 1973
April found the embattled President and his staff confronted with mounting criticism and ever-more-formidable inquiries. On April 1, Senator Lowell Weicker of the Select Committee demanded that Haldeman explain his ties to the President’s re-election committee. Three days later, Weicker admitted that he had no evidence of criminal involvement on Haldeman’s part, but the implication had been planted. Der treue Gordon Liddy received an additional jail term for contempt of court because he refused to answer the Ervin Committee’s questions, but news leaked that James McCord had had a great deal to say to Senate investigators, including particulars about the roles of John Mitchell, John Dean, Jeb Magruder, and Charles Colson in the Watergate incident. Weicker warned reporters that they had uncovered only a small fraction of what McCord had revealed and that they would miss significant stories if they focused exclusively on the Watergate break-in. Sam Ervin, meanwhile, made it clear that he would challenge the President’s extravagant claims of executive privilege in order to gain the testimony of key White House aides. The trickle of Watergate news in March swelled into a rampaging stream.
Richard Nixon and his advisers faced inward. Critics—from both parties—dominated congressional commentary; the Senate investigation widened in scope; a Republican judge, noted for his admiration of Nixon, charged that the White House had covered up criminal activities; the Department of Justice and the U.S. Attorney’s office carefully cultivated distance from the President; and that ever-familiar “enemy,” the media, seemed determined to make prophecy out of Spiro Agnew’s well-remembered criticism. Nixon’s patterns of compartmentalization no longer were adequate; instead, he had to turn exclusively to his most intimate and loyal retainers—and decide how to use them in his own struggle for survival.
Haldeman was worried about his future. He and the President had nothing but contempt for Jeb Magruder, contempt and a dread that Margruder was weak and would drag others down. They feared that Magruder would break under pressure from the prosecutors. Nixon had asked John Ehrlichman to maintain watch over John Dean, who, in turn, was supposed to keep an eye on Magruder. Dean himself had had lawyers in touch with the prosecutors since April 5. Trust within the circle was cracking.
At the beginning of April, the President and his aides talked about Dean, describing him as “personally innocent.” But on April 4, Nixon and Ehrlichman considered the possibility that if Dean testified, he might implicate Haldeman. “Splash,” Ehrlichman noted in his minutes.1
Dean told Ehrlichman that Earl Silbert and the U.S. Attorney’s office knew Magruder had perjured himself in earlier testimony to the prosecutors. Nixon and Ehrlichman obviously had prepared for this eventuality. Ehrlichman had suggested that Magruder simply tell Silbert he had “refreshed” his memory. On April 8 the President urged Ehrlichman to push Magruder in that direction. But events had overtaken plans. Dean had learned—undoubtedly from his lawyer—that the prosecutors had larger concerns: what higher authorities had initiated and approved the Watergate break-in? Dean’s advice was “to let it flow”; Nixon and Ehrlichman agreed. Nixon tried to be confident about the security of the White House, telling Ehrlichman that if Magruder “pull[ed] the plug,” he would do so on Mitchell, not Haldeman.2
Two days later Magruder and his lawyer began extended discussions with Silbert leading to a confession and a plea bargain. The deal was struck on April 14, but a day earlier, Haldeman delegated his top aide, Larry Higby—popularly known as “Haldeman’s Haldeman”—to sound out Magruder. Magruder told Higby that the U.S. Attorney’s office would get all the facts, but Haldeman, he assured Higby, would have “no problem.” Mitchell, Dean, and Liddy had problems, but not Haldeman, Magruder insisted. Magruder seemed terribly anxious not to incur Haldeman’s wrath, perhaps believing that he and the President might yet provide absolution. Higby drew the lines: “I’ve been on the periphery of this God damned thing and it—to my knowledge you never did talk to Haldeman about any of this kind of bullshit.” Magruder frantically agreed—only afterward, he said, did he speak to Haldeman. Higby pressed hard. Did Liddy ever relay any instructions from Haldeman? Any indication that Haldeman “had ever seen anything?” The President? “Shit [,] no,” Magruder exclaimed, and hastily added that he would not say anything “that will … implicate the President of the United States in anything.” Higby repeated the line of questioning several times, probing again and again for any sign of weakness.3
Just in case Magruder changed his mind, Higby—and Haldeman—had his promise on tape.
Magruder kept his word. His discussions with the prosecutors confined Watergate matters to Mitchell and the CREEP operation, keeping the White House free from involvement. Magruder’s testimony provided the President and his top aides with a new opportunity to contain the inquiry and ward off any further assaults on their position. The very day that Magruder finished his negotiations with Silbert, Nixon, Haldeman, and Ehrlichman devised a convoluted plan to convince Mitchell to assume responsibility for the whole affair.
Passing strange that on that same day Ehrlichman gave the President a “report” paralleling Magruder’s story, and minimizing the activity of the White House in the initiation of the break-in or its subsequent cover-up. Ehrlichman’s version focused on John Mitchell and his zealous aides—Magruder, Liddy, and various CREEP officials and lawyers—who had “misinterpreted” White House requests (from Haldeman and Colson) for intelligence, planned and executed the break-in, and then sought to cover up their activit
ies. Except for Mitchell’s request to Dean that the White House help raise money for the defendants, the report flatly stated, no Administration personnel had knowledge “of any specific acts of obstruction of justice or sought to procure any person’s testimonial silence.”
Nixon must have been bemused, for he, of course, had long known of the attempts to keep Hunt mollified. Ehrlichman’s report minimized Dean’s role—although he well knew that Dean had played a large part in rehearsing Magruder’s earlier perjured testimony. He acknowledged that Dean was ready to testify but he was confident he would confine his remarks to Mitchell and Magruder. But Ehrlichman had misplaced his confidence. John Dean’s conversations with the prosecutors broke the bounds shaped by Magruder’s testimony and by those which Ehrlichman hoped to establish.4
The talks of April 14 began with a morning meeting of more than two and one-half hours between the President, Haldeman, and Ehrlichman. The tape recordings of the conversations at times appear disjointed. The transcripts have been cannibalized for a juicy tidbit here, a titillating curse there. Interpreting the transcripts as showing hesitation or uncertainty in the Oval Office would be an error, however. The transcripts reflect a consistent line of discussion. Certainly, participants occasionally sounded unsure of matters, but that only mirrored the compartmentalization that Nixon generally had imposed on his dealings with aides. The President himself always seemed to know the correct answers, and throughout he established and maintained the drift and tone of the conversations. In his most perilous moments, Richard Nixon remained the man on top.5
Nixon was determined to solidify his defensive position, a strategy that involved getting John Mitchell “out front.” Ehrlichman and Haldeman suggested language that the President could use to steer Mitchell on the proper course. This was not unusual; providing words—“talking papers,” in White Housese—always had been a part of their job. They knew what they needed; they also understood the President’s needs—and wants. Ehrlichman and Nixon projected a dialogue for Ehrlichman to use when he confronted Mitchell:
The Wars of Watergate Page 43
