by Jo Haldeman
I’m thrilled. Tagging along behind him, I watch as aides scurry around in back of the podium. When they report to Bob, they call him “sir,” and I can feel the tension each time he issues an order. Tonight, as always, Bob expects nothing short of perfection.
When we return to the box, Hank and Ann finally arrive. Ann appears to be crying, and Hank has his arm around her. He explains that they were delayed by a confrontation. Outside, the protestors are slashing tires and throwing rocks in an attempt to block the entrances to the convention complex. The police used tear gas, and Hank and Ann were caught in the crossfire. Ann’s eyes are burning, but both she and her brother are exhilarated.
The minute the president steps up to the podium to give his acceptance speech, Bob looks at his watch. Giving a nod of approval to a young man on the floor with a walkie-talkie, he nudges me and smiles. “Check it out… Ten thirty… Prime time.”
In his speech, Nixon talks about federal revenue sharing, reorganization of the executive branch, and an all-volunteer army. The cheers are especially loud when he invites disgruntled Democrats to join with the Republicans in a “new American majority,” where the voters of both parties are bound together by common ideals.
With a Nixon/Agnew ticket, the Republicans are on a roll. By the time we arrive back in California, there’s even talk of an election landslide. The Gallup Poll gives the president the largest post-convention point spread in favor of a Republican candidate in history: Nixon, 64 percent—McGovern, 30 percent. In Los Angeles, Non is so charged up she volunteers full time at the Nixon Campaign Headquarters on Wilshire Boulevard. And my mother is elected president of the Bel-Air Republican Women’s Club.
Sunday evening, the Nixons give a celebrity reception at the Western White House in San Clemente. There’s a feeling of confidence and anticipation as Bob and I mingle among the movie stars and political bigwigs. A mariachi band plays by the pool, and the hot pink and orange decorations are enhanced by a fiery sunset over the ocean.
The president’s press conference the following week reflects the upbeat mood of the Republicans. Most of the questions focus on the campaign or Vietnam. “Jugular diplomacy” has paid off, and North Vietnam has returned to Paris for the Peace Talks. When asked if he thinks a special prosecutor ought to be appointed for the Watergate caper, Nixon states that there is hardly a need for one. Investigations are being conducted by the FBI, Senate Banking and Currency Committee, Justice Department, and General Accounting Office. In addition, Counsel to the President John Dean has conducted a complete investigation, concluding that no one in the White House is involved.
Bob considers the break-in an ill-advised political prank, and in California local newspapers give it very little coverage. I’m used to reading The Washington Post, where practically every page has a Watergate-related story. It’s reported that Howard Hunt has been identified as one of two men who were monitoring the break-in from a Howard Johnson’s hotel room. The other man is a former FBI agent named G. Gordon Liddy, currently the general counsel for the Finance Committee of the CRP.
September 1972
Dragging summer out as long as we can, the children and I don’t head back to Washington until the day before school starts. Peter is going into the tenth grade at Sidwell Friends, and Ann will be in the eighth grade at National Cathedral. As a senior at the University of Minnesota, Susan is considering going to law school next year. Hank is taking the quarter off from UCLA to work for the Young Voters for the President at CRP headquarters. Rather than live at home, he’s renting a house in Chevy Chase, Maryland, with five other boys.
Little Oscar is four months old and is growing by leaps and bounds. Bertha stuffs him with jars of baby food and dresses him “to the nines.” He’s a happy baby, and neither Bob nor I have any complaints.
Once we’re back in our normal routine, I’m actually anticipating looking at houses in Georgetown. In early September, I contact a real estate broker, who immediately takes me in tow. On two occasions, Bob joins us. Peter and Ann are eager to make the move. Susan is ambivalent, but Hank is opposed.
“We’re a suburban family, Mom,” he says. “We’ve always had space…a lawn…trees. I can’t picture us living in a townhouse on a busy street. Georgetown’s ‘grungy.’ You won’t be happy there.”
Along with my weekly commitment at the City Hall Complaint Center, I now volunteer on Tuesday mornings at the CRP, instead of Juvenile Hall. My task of collating and stapling state campaign notebooks is menial work, but it gives me a chance to see Hank, who works in the same building. With hair more than halfway down to his waist, he joins me for an occasional lunch at Chez Françoise.
On Tuesday, September 5, Arab terrorists attack the Israeli team at the summer Olympics in Munich, West Germany. Live television coverage of the tragedy brings the event into everyone’s living room, and I’m sickened as I watch it unfold. Eleven Israeli hostages are killed, and Israel retaliates by bombing Palestinian guerrilla bases in Lebanon and Syria. Senator Mike Mansfield calls for the Olympics to be abolished for good.
The American swimmer Mark Spitz wins a record seven Olympic gold medals, and the World Chess Championship is won by Bobby Fischer in Iceland. Pope Paul VI abolishes the tonsure, which has symbolized “renunciation of the world” for seminarians since the end of the fifth century. In the United States, the Watergate flap flares up again when the Democrats claim that the Republican finance chairman paid for the break-in and established a political espionage squad. Maurice Stans defends himself by filing a five-million-dollar libel suit against the Democratic campaign chairman, Larry O’Brien.
On September 15, the federal grand jury indicts seven men (the five burglars, plus Howard Hunt and Gordon Liddy, who were monitoring the break-in) on charges of conspiring, breaking and entering, theft, and installing eavesdropping devices at the Democratic National Headquarters. A week later, a district court judge says the Democrats’ damage suit and the Republicans’ counter-suit cannot be tried before the election. All depositions are halted so as not to prejudice the criminal trial of the seven men.
As the campaign heats up, almost everyone is predicting a landslide victory for Nixon. The Republicans have raised an all-time record of $60 million.
“The president’s in the perfect position to avoid actively campaigning,” Bob says. “By using surrogate speakers, he won’t have to respond personally to the political rhetoric that’s being hurled at him by the Democrats. That way, he can remain presidential.”
Sargent Shriver calls Richard Nixon “Tricky Dicky” and claims that he’s a “psychiatric case” and “power mad.” Sounding desperate, George McGovern compares the president to Hitler. Described in the press as the “candidate of amnesty, abortion, and acid,” McGovern states that Nixon’s “jugular diplomacy” in Vietnam descends to a “new level in barbarism.” He ignores the fact that for the first time in almost eight years, a full week has passed in which no American soldier died in battle.
With the polls overwhelmingly in his favor, the president decides to join his surrogates on the campaign trail. By the end of September, Bob has accompanied Nixon on swings through New York City, San Francisco, Los Angeles, and Laredo, Texas.
After a three-year stalemate in the negotiations to end the war, there is a breakthrough in the Paris Peace Talks. Hopefully, this divisive war will be coming to an end soon.
The Post Finally Does It
October 1972
On Tuesday morning, October 10, The Washington Post’s headline reads, “FBI finds Nixon Aides Sabotaged Democrats.” Bob is puzzled. Before eating breakfast, he spreads out the paper on the dining room table and reads the first sentence to me. “‘FBI agents have established that the Watergate bugging incident stemmed from a massive campaign of political spying and sabotage conducted on behalf of President Nixon’s reelection and directed by officials of the White House and the Committee for the Re-Election of the President.
’”
Bob frowns. “What a lot of baloney! ‘Spying and sabotage’ are nothing more than dirty tricks, and they’ve always been a part of political campaigns. The master of dirty tricks is Dick Tuck, a Democrat. He wrote the book on them. But when the Republicans are involved, The Post calls it ‘spying and sabotage.’”
Taking a bite of toast, Bob washes it down with a swallow of orange juice. “It says here that a thirty-one-year-old guy named Donald Segretti worked as an ‘operative of the Nixon reelection organization.’ Supposedly, he hired ‘fifty other operatives to conduct an undercover campaign against the Democrats.’”
“Segretti?” I question.
“I wouldn’t know the guy from Adam,” Bob replies.
For some reason, I feel a strange sense of relief.
◆
Representative Wright Patman, chairman of the House Committee on Banking and Currency, announces that he wants to establish another probe into Watergate. Watergate. The flap over the break-in finally has a name of its own.
Watergate…
◆
For the last four months, Bob has been gone almost every weekend. Calling from the presidential retreat on Saturday afternoon, October 14, he tells me that he’s been with the president most of the day and expects to be free tonight and tomorrow. Would I like to come up? Leaving Peter and Ann at home with Bertha, I take off after dinner and arrive at Camp David by 9:00 p.m.
When Nixon calls early the next morning and asks Bob to come over to Aspen, I’m annoyed. This was supposed to be my time with my husband, and I don’t see why the president can’t wait until at least after breakfast.
Bob shaves and dresses quickly in slacks, button-down shirt, tie, and navy blazer. At the last moment, he layers on a heavy jacket, scarf, and leather gloves. A blast of cold air sweeps into our cabin as soon as he steps out onto the screen porch. The door slams shut, and the radiator in the corner sizzles and clanks in an attempt to keep our tiny living room warm. Standing at the window, I watch as Bob walks down the road. Bracing himself against the wind, he tucks the ends of his scarf into his jacket and quickens his pace.
This is not how I had imagined our day beginning. Pulling a heavy sweater over my head, I brush my hair back into place and collect the Sunday papers from the porch. Bare branches bend and sway with each powerful gust of wind, and clusters of dry, crinkled dogwood leaves swirl around my feet as I walk to breakfast. I hurry. It’s cold, and I’m anxious to see the “new Laurel,” which has replaced the old building.
My favorite steward, Pair, greets me and shows me around. The décor is much nicer than the worn, homey look of the old Laurel. Comfortable chairs and couches, upholstered in a tasteful tan and blue plaid fabric, are grouped around a large brick fireplace, above which the presidential seal is prominently displayed. Stairs lead down to the dining room, which features a wall of windows overlooking the woods.
I’m the only one seated at the long table. Spreading the papers out in front of me, I order my “usual”: banana pancakes, bacon, fried eggs, and hash browns. An article in The Washington Post catches my eye, and I now understand why the president had to see Bob right away.
…President Nixon’s appointments secretary and an ex-White House aide, indicted in the Watergate bugging case, both served as ‘contacts’ in a spying and sabotage operation against the Democrats…
I can’t believe it. The Post has linked Dwight Chapin to Howard Hunt, claiming that the two of them directed Segretti’s campaign of “spying and sabotage.” Dwight has been a close personal friend of Bob’s ever since they both worked at J. Walter Thompson Company. Up until this moment, Watergate has been a jumble of unfamiliar names. The mention of Dwight’s name brings it close to home.
As much as I want to talk to Bob, I have to wait. When he finally joins me at Laurel, he spends his time on the phone talking to Henry Kissinger. Apparently, the peace negotiations have hit a snag, and President Thieu of South Vietnam isn’t going along with the concessions that were agreed upon by the United States and North Vietnam.
In between calls, Bob gives me a weak smile. “Sorry, Jo. I thought we’d have more time together, but things keep popping up.”
At last, it’s just the two of us. In a golf cart headed for the tennis court, I ask Bob about Dwight. His answer is quick and to the point. “As I’ve said before, The Washington Post and The New York Times have double standards. Those two papers will go after the president in any way they can. Tying Dwight to Howard Hunt through Segretti is a cheap shot, and The Post knows it.”
◆
On Thursday, October 19, The Post features another story on Dwight, which appears in the “Style” section. Bob and I are eating breakfast at home when he spots the article. Holding up the paper for me to see, he points to a full page spread by Myra MacPherson. He’s amused. Next to the headline, “Dwight Chapin: Mr. Nice Guy,” there’s a large photo of Dwight. On the opposite page, there’s a smaller picture of Bob, who I assume is being portrayed as “Mr. Bad Guy.” I don’t see the humor in it that Bob does.
“It’s not a big deal, Jo,” Bob says when he sees me frown. “It’s a good story. It’s complimentary to Dwight.”
When he’s through reading, Bob gives the paper a shove in my direction. It slides along the polished surface of the dining room table and stops in front of my mat at the other end.
“Mr. Haldeman, your car’s here,” Bertha shouts from the kitchen. Bob jumps up. On his way out, he pauses at my chair, and we exchange a light kiss.
Picking up the paper, I start to read. “It is impossible to tell the story of Dwight Lee Chapin without talking about Harry Robbins Haldeman.” As soon as I read this first sentence, it confirms my earlier feeling about Bob’s being “the bad guy.” He is quoted as saying, “Every president needs an SOB—and I’m Nixon’s.”
The next paragraph begins, “On the other hand, Haldeman’s ‘Mr. Nice Guy’ is Chapin…who has taken orders from Haldeman for ten years… As one acquaintance said of Chapin—now linked to reports of GOP espionage and sabotage against the Democrats—‘He’s not the guy who sees that Nixon’s coat never touches the floor, but the guy who sees that Haldeman’s coat never touches the floor.’”
There are so many flattering terms used to describe Dwight, I actually start to count them. Fourteen. “Personable, virtuous, pleasant, courteous, thoughtful, bright, self-effacing, charming, good-natured, friendly, loyal…sweet…a gentleman…dedicated. A thirty-one-year-old somebody who’s got to work his heart out for somebody else.”
Bob is the “somebody else” with a “tight crewcut, mechanical smile, and brusque manner.” The “somebody else” who “looks the part he plays—absolute disciplinarian of the movement of people and paper between the president’s office and the rest of government.”
The story doesn’t sit well with me. I sense that Myra MacPherson is making an end run around Dwight to get at Bob. When Bob warned me about the press before we moved to Washington, I scoffed at the idea of his ever being in the public eye. Now I see how naïve I was.
◆
Our realtor tells me that representatives of the Australian Embassy have looked at our house several times and are interested in buying it. They took photos recently, which they sent to their home office in Canberra. The pressure is on for me to find something in Georgetown.
This morning, October 25, Bob is so absorbed in reading The Washington Post that he remains standing, hardly noticing when I bring him his breakfast. Peering over his shoulder, I’m taken aback by the headline. A knot forms in my stomach when I see Bob’s picture and read “Testimony Ties Top Nixon Aide to Secret Fund.”
“Well, The Post has finally done it,” he says, slowly sitting down. “At long last, they’ve looped me into the Watergate flap.”
“How?” I ask, pulling out my chair. Ordinarily, I love breakfast, but suddenly I have no appetite.
&n
bsp; “Supposedly, money was transferred from a secret White House cash fund to the CRP, where it was used for a ‘spying and sabotage campaign.’ Those guys Woodward and Bernstein say that I’m one of five people who are authorized to approve payments.” Bob shakes his head in disbelief. “They even report that the FBI questioned me about it.”
“The FBI? You were questioned by the FBI?”
“No, Jo. That’s the point. The Post couldn’t care less about keeping the facts straight. There was no FBI interview, and I know nothing about any money being used for a dirty tricks campaign. The ‘secret cash fund’—their term—was unrestricted money left over from the ’68 campaign. It was set aside for political polling purposes, and I never paid any attention to it.”
Neither of us eats much, and Bertha’s call from the kitchen signals that breakfast is over. Bob rushes out, leaving half a piece of graham toast on his plate. Later, I cut the article out of the paper and slip it into my growing scrapbook on Washington.
So much has happened recently. Bits and pieces of various news stories whirl around in my head when I climb into bed tonight. It takes forever to fall asleep, and I’m awakened at 3:00 a.m. by the strident ring of the White House phone.
Bob gropes for the receiver, and a gravelly voice on the other end apologizes for calling at this hour. As Henry Kissinger talks, his deep raspy inflections carry over to my side. He’s disturbed that the North Vietnamese have gone public with the Peace Agreement, which South Vietnam has not yet signed.
Bob apologizes for the interruption and turns off the light. Flopping over onto his stomach, he is soon lightly snoring.
I’m wide awake. Staring into the darkness, I start to think about the incredibly important issues that Bob has to deal with on a daily basis. On top of managing the White House, he has to be up to speed on the Vietnam War, the presidential campaign, plans for the reorganization of the executive branch, and the status of “the New Majority,” an across-the-board political alliance. Last, but not least, there’s Watergate. I don’t know how Bob does it.
