Krogh told Judge Gerhard Gesell of the D.C. District Court that he had intended to invoke “national security” as the basis for his defense. In earlier motions, his attorneys had argued that Krogh had merely been protecting official secrets “classified by the highest security office in the government of the United States, the President himself.” But Krogh, an earnest, devout man, had a change of heart. “I now feel,” he stated, “that the sincerity of my motivation cannot justify what was done and that I cannot in conscience assert national security as a defense.” Whatever his motivations, he added, they could not surmount “the transcendent importance of the rule of law.” No Nixon “enemy” struck so hard at the Administration’s behavior and its rationalizations as that “superior property,” Egil Krogh: “I simply feel that what was done in the Ellsberg operation was in violation of what I perceive to be a fundamental idea in the character of this country—the paramount importance of the rights of the individual—I don’t want to be associated with that violation any longer by attempting to defend it.” John Ehrlichman had unsuccessfully—and unwisely—defended that same violation in his testy exchange with Herman Talmadge during the Senate Select Committee hearings three months earlier. Richard Nixon’s persistent comparisons of his subordinates’ deeds to the wrongs of Daniel Ellsberg made it doubtful whether he understood the distinction.2
The same day Krogh appeared in court, the President signed a bill extending the Watergate grand jury until June 4, 1974, with a provision for an additional six months if requested. The bill was humiliating; more, it was dangerous. Krogh’s painful, yet eloquent, admission pointedly revealed that the Nixon Administration had abused power; the question now was whether the President himself had been complicit.
For the tenth time in its history, the United States was without a vice president. At other times the office had simply remained vacant and, as variously provided by law, different officials, including the Secretary of State, the President pro tempore of the Senate, and the Speaker of the House of Representatives, had formed in varying order the line of succession to the presidency. Following Lyndon Johnson’s assumption of the presidency after John F. Kennedy’s assassination, Congress moved to alter the system and passed the Twenty-fifth Amendment in July 1965. The amendment was ratified in February 1967. It attempted to deal with the thorny problem of determining presidential disability in addition to ordering the succession. It provided that the president nominate a vice president in the event of a vacancy, who then would take office following a favorable majority vote in both houses.3 The Constitution had served for 180 years without such a provision, but now events would dictate its use twice in one year.
Less than a year after Richard Nixon had been re-elected by a landslide, his maneuvers to select a Vice President exposed his diminished authority. The Democratic-controlled Congress had been the President’s nemesis since he had assumed office in 1969. He had ignored it, spurned it, and fought it—at all times, he believed, for personal political advantage. Battling Congress undoubtedly had value on the hustings, but reality and the political system required cooperation. The Democratic congressional dominance alone dictated the need for compromise. But after five years of studied contempt, Nixon could have no realistic expectation that Congress would extend him a free hand in the selection of the Vice President. The Constitution gave Congress an equal voice; that provision in the current context of political reality in effect gave Congress a veto.
Lord Bryce, the shrewd British observer of American institutions in the late nineteenth century, was fascinated by why the “best men” did not become presidents. Given a choice between a “brilliant man and a safe man,” the latter, he noted, was preferred. The eminent men naturally made more enemies and gave their enemies “more assailable points” than obscure men. They were, Bryce remarked, therefore far less desirable candidates. Considering the undistinguished models of nineteenth-century presidents whom Bryce viewed, he concluded that “the only thing remarkable about them is that being so commonplace they should have climbed so high.”
Gerald Ford confirmed Bryce’s theory; in his own words, he stood out as the “ ‘safest’ choice.” Ford also correctly believed that Nixon preferred John B. Connally, Lyndon Johnson’s protégé, an ex-Democrat, and his own former Secretary of the Treasury. Although Nixon did not drop Agnew in 1972, as he and his advisers had considered, the White House maintained an interest in grooming Connally for the election of 1976. Haldeman met Connally in early January 1973, and his “talking paper” on the meeting contained the notation: “When is he going to move? It’s important to develop another horse [before] … time will run out. It would be helpful to know what his plans are.” Nixon warmly admired the Texan. He also had to realize that while Connally provoked sharp reactions, both from Democrats who despised his trace-jumping and from Republicans who remained skeptical about his commitment, such controversy could divert attention from Watergate.
Speaker Carl Albert warned Nixon that Connally would never be confirmed. The President himself indicated to Connally that he was his first choice, but after several days both men realized that the nomination was too controversial to have any real chance for success. Dwight Chapin (then facing a criminal indictment) passed word that Ford would be “sensational,” because he was a team player with strong ties to the party and Congress. But Chapin, too, preferred Connally, although he knew that “the fight would have been rough.”4
The President asked Republican members of Congress for suggestions. Nixon later said that Ford was their first choice, but congressional responses showed very strong support for Nelson Rockefeller and William Rogers. Connally and Ronald Reagan attracted scattered but significant support as well, as did Barry Goldwater. Many of the responses indicated that Ford would have the least difficulty in being confirmed. Liberal Republican Paul McCloskey (CA) endorsed Ford and Rockefeller, among others. He then added that he had omitted Elliot Richardson only because he thought it more important that Richardson restore “professional integrity” to the Department of Justice. As his first choices, Ford himself listed Connally, former Congressman Melvin Laird, Rockefeller, and Reagan. Ford undoubtedly realized that either the President or Congress had profound objections to all these men; the Republican leader, however, was a master in covering all bases.5
Laird, currently a White House aide, who had been a minor player in congressional maneuvers during his lengthy tenure as a representative from Wisconsin, actively promoted Ford’s candidacy. He had been disenchanted with the White House since he had joined the staff in May, but he stayed on, because he thought he could serve his friends and also play “an important role in the use of the Twenty-fifth Amendment,” once he realized that Agnew had to go.
Laird asked Ford to make himself available. Ford, always a bit wary of Laird’s machinations, agreed when he realized that Laird also spoke for others. Ford insisted that he would not promote himself. Laird told the President he would leave the White House if Connally’s name went forward. He urged leading Democrats, including Senate Majority Leader Mike Mansfield, to oppose Connally and favor Ford. Laird thought the Texan was simply “too controversial” to be confirmed; at bottom, however, he preferred Ford and disliked Connally. Not surprisingly, Nixon summoned Ford. The Congressman said he had no ambitions to serve beyond January 1977 and no expectations to be the party’s presidential nominee in 1976. Nixon, he reported, was pleased, because, he told Ford, he preferred Connally in 1976, a point he also made to Kissinger. Reportedly, the President mocked Ford to Nelson Rockefeller: “Can you imagine Jerry Ford sitting in this chair?” He sent one of the pens he used to sign Ford’s nomination to Fred Buzhardt, with a note: “Here is the damn pen I signed Jerry Ford’s nomination with.”6
With his penchant for surprises, the President trotted out Ford in a nationally televised White House ceremony on the evening of November 12. Mrs. Ford told Nixon she did not know whether congratulations or condolences were in order. “Oh, well,” the President replied,
“the pay is better.” Whatever the President’s personal feelings, the event exuded goodwill. Spiro Agnew, for the moment, was the national villain. Five years later, he complained that Nixon had not consulted him on the choice of a successor. Worse yet, he lamented that at Ford’s swearing-in ceremony, “my name was not even mentioned once. It was like the Soviet Union where the deposed leaders become nonpersons. It was just as though the previous five years had simply ceased to exist.”7 As the years passed, Agnew would prove to have no monopoly on inability or unwillingness to understand what he had done wrong.
Nixon’s pique and displeasure might well have reflected an objective dissatisfaction with the qualities of his nominee or a frustration with his inability to have his real preference. Perhaps too, the dissatisfaction betrayed his sense of danger and concern. The President’s low opinion of Ford and his vexation at the need to nominate him further betrayed Nixon’s weakness. Agnew’s resignation may have removed an obstacle for those seeking to replace Richard Nixon; by nominating Ford, the President handed his enemies a real alternative. For himself, that alternative unquestionably was dangerous. Ford’s presence as Vice President spurred Time’s call for the President’s resignation. The unprecedented editorial described Ford as an “unmistakable improvement over the grievously wounded Nixon.” It viewed Ford as free from corruption, with a “solid if unimaginative” domestic-policy record, a man of the center, liked and respected in Congress, and though he was without experience in foreign affairs, he could be relied on to have Kissinger continue Nixon’s basically sound policies.8 The nation had Lord Bryce’s “safe man.”
If Gerald Ford had any sure qualification to be Richard Nixon’s Vice President, it was loyalty, even blind loyalty, some thought. A friendly aide and biographer realized the potential liability of such loyalty, knowing that Ford had been perceived as a “knee-jerk” supporter of Nixon. In Congress, he had done a number of shadowy chores for the Administration, ranging from supporting the impeachment of Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas to seeking a contempt citation against CBS for its refusal to release research material relating to a controversial documentary hostile to the Administration. John Ehrlichman reputedly summed up White House disdain for its messenger boy: “What a jerk Jerry is,” Ehrlichman is supposed to have said. Ford supported the President on 83 percent of House votes. No one designated such loyalty as a qualification for the presidency, and yet the prospect of a Ford presidency was not far from the minds of the congressmen who voted to confirm him.9
Ford’s Michigan colleague, Edward Hutchinson, the ranking minority member of the House Judiciary Committee, accused the Democrats of stalling on the confirmation of the new Vice President, despite their leaders’ favorable disposition toward Ford. Hutchinson’s charge had no basis; if anything, the Democrats were anxious to confirm Ford. But the responsibility of doing so was theirs, and they had to offer both the reality and appearance of a careful scrutiny of Ford’s record. The ever-cautious Peter Rodino decided to allow the Senate to act first, perhaps hoping to defuse the more militant liberals on his Judiciary Committee.
In the House committee, Ford faced three factions: his uncritical supporters, led by Hutchinson; a second group, which fed him questions designed to display his integrity, talents, and political folksiness; and finally, his opponents, openly antagonistic, looking for vulnerabilities. Ford played heavily on the chords of honesty and openness. Yes, he was loyal, he acknowledged, but added: “I am my own man and that [sic] the only pledge by which I bound myself in accepting the President’s trust and his confidence is that by which we are all bound before God and before the Constitution, to do our best for America.” When a Republican member asked him about the financing of his Colorado condominium, Ford delivered a folksy response invoking the fact that he had borrowed money from his children—at interest.
Some congressmen posed questions related to Watergate, but Ford used them to distance himself from events and any possible involvement on his part. When another member reminded him that he had severely criticized President Kennedy for his use of executive privilege after the Bay of Pigs fiasco, Ford retreated and said that some circumstances might dictate the use of the privilege. Generally, Ford managed to disarm his foes. His apparent ease and openness appeared in sharp contrast to the furtive bearing of the President. Whenever flaws appeared in his record—such as his questionable commitment to civil rights for blacks and his subservient role in the Douglas impeachment affair—they were treated as within the bounds of acceptable political behavior. After all, Gerald Ford was not unique in such actions. His critics thus found themselves isolated as excessively partisan and moralistic. Ford moved easily into the center.
John Conyers (D–MI) and Charles Rangel (D–NY) made no secret of their hostility, however. They argued that the House should deal first with impeachment, then move to confirming a Vice President. If Nixon were removed, they contended, the nation would not be saddled with his choice as a successor. Ford calmly responded that the President had the right and duty to nominate a Vice President and to choose someone philosophically compatible with him, given his 1972 electoral mandate. Robert Drinan (D–MA) and Elizabeth Holtzman (D–NY) pressed Ford on his knowledge of the secret Cambodian bombing. Holtzman argued that the President had lied publicly on the issue, and Ford admitted that Nixon had not been “100 per cent truthful.” But, he insisted, all presidents had given false and deceptive statements. Holtzman sharply retorted that there was a difference between keeping a secret and falsifying information. “I think all of us understand that difference very well,” she said.
Eight committee members voted against the nomination on November 26. The next day, the Senate endorsed Ford by a 92–3 count. The House followed with an overwhelming 387–35 favorable vote on December 6, and Ford immediately was sworn in as the nation’s fortieth Vice President.10
A close congressional ally of Ford told him shortly after he became Vice President that he was in a powerful position. Nixon needed him more than Ford needed the President. The friend advised Ford to stay away from the White House, travel a good deal, and not listen to the tapes. Ford apparently did not take the advice to heart at first, for, typically, he gave uncritical loyalty to Nixon. Still, his mere presence constituted danger for the President. The day of Ford’s inauguration, Senator Jacob Javits, a New York Republican, said that Ford had provided “a new situation concerning any call on the President to resign in the interest of the country.… I and others will have to give every thoughtful consideration to that possibility.” Even Ford acknowledged that whatever momentary goodwill Nixon had fostered by nominating him had been neutralized by the Saturday Night Massacre.
Two months after Ford’s confirmation, a Democrat captured his House seat, the first Democrat since 1910 to represent Michigan’s Fifth District. Watergate was the issue, and the result was interpreted as a referendum on the President himself. The Democratic candidate had circulated an appeal: “Our President must stand beyond the shadow of a doubt. Our President must be Gerald Ford.” Nixon told Ford that the inflation issue had defeated the Republican candidate.11 Reality had taken flight.
The vice presidency plagued Richard Nixon in a curious way. His own tenure in that office had catapulted him to fame, but it was an unhappy, frustrating experience, tethered as he was to a President who in truth neither liked nor trusted him. Henry Cabot Lodge, Nixon’s 1960 running mate, preferred afternoon naps to campaign appearances. The candidate who shared the ticket with him in 1968 and 1972 resigned in disgrace. Finally, his last Vice President hovered over the White House in 1974, a conspicuous alternative to the agony of the President and the nation.
As Nixon faced mounting legal and political challenges, he found himself increasingly outmanned, outgunned, and isolated. For months the Justice Department had been useless to him in his Watergate battles. In practice, the department consciously severed itself from the President and his problems. Before the creation of the Special Prosecutor, the departmen
t had been an antagonist, despite the President’s concerted efforts to co-opt its leaders and thwart their investigation. The events of October, beginning with the Agnew negotiations and the dealings with Cox, further demonstrated that the department remained an independent power center. Among the many paradoxes of Watergate was that the President of the United States—the “Most Powerful Leader of the Free World”—could muster only the most meager resources against an array of legal talent commanding the full range of public agencies.
Leonard Garment had joined J. Fred Buzhardt as the President’s Counsel after John Dean had been dismissed in April. Neither man was well versed in criminal or constitutional issues. Alexander Haig asked Solicitor General Robert Bork in July to be the President’s chief defense counsel. According to Bork, Haig characteristically framed his request with emotional appeals to patriotism. “The Republic is going down the drain and only you can save it”—or words to that effect, Bork recalled. Haig told Bork about Agnew’s difficulties, and for some reason raised the 1971 spying activities of the Joint Chiefs of Staff as if they were current matters. Bork considered the proposal for several days and said he would have to listen to the tapes. Haig heatedly told him that “nobody” could hear them, and that the President would burn them and resign to protect the presidency if forced to turn them over. Bork sensed the problems. When he asked what Haig meant by “chief defense counsel,” Haig told him he would have exclusive access to the President. “Until I give some advice that isn’t appreciated, and then I’ll sit there and the phone won’t ring,” Bork observed. “That’s very perceptive of you,” Haig admitted. They finally agreed that the job was not for Bork.12
The Wars of Watergate Page 62
