by Jo Haldeman
Senator Sam Ervin, chairman of the Committee, complains that he can’t cross-examine a piece of paper and threatens to arrest anyone who refuses to testify. When Bob’s mother hears this, she calls in alarm. I do my best to reassure her that her son will not be going to jail.
Distance magnifies the stories that our families hear and read about, and I try to convince them that our lives are normal. I used to write them long weekly letters, but lately I’ve been calling Mom and Non every morning. The sound of my voice buoys them up.
Mother loves to hear about the family. Non is more interested in Watergate and insists that we cancel our subscription to The Washington Post. I confirm that Martha Mitchell really did tell the press that the president’s denial of a meeting with her husband was a “God blessed lie.”
“No, Non, she’s not crazy, just a little kooky.”
When I run into the other White House wives, I notice that we are more guarded in our conversation than we used to be. Watergate is a touchy subject, which we avoid. I feel for Susie Chapin and Patty Colson, whose husbands have resigned. It’s awkward to be with Jeanne Ehrlichman and Gail Magruder, who, like me, have husbands who are frequently mentioned in the news. Dolores Higby is the only one to confide in me. She calls John Dean a “snake,” which she says is “just a hunch.” She keeps coming up with theories about the break-in, and her current one is that Dean knows more than he’s divulging. Given the current situation, I’m hesitant to approach Lucy Winchester about the docent program for the White House wives, and I decide to put it on hold.
I wish I better understood what is happening, and I occasionally try to raise the subject of Watergate with Bob. The best time to approach him is at breakfast, when he’s focused on the latest news reports. I find ways to ask questions, but as soon as I get the Haldeman look, I back off. To my friends, I’m sure that I appear calm and confident, but each new development makes me feel less secure.
◆
On Friday, March 23, Bob’s White House calendar shows 1,401 days remaining in the Nixon administration. It’s a warm, sunny morning, and Bob’s packed suitcase sits next to the front door. Wearing his blue blazer instead of a suit, he is dressed informally for the presidential trip to Florida.
“I bet you’re glad to get out of here,” I say.
“I am,” he says. “I hate all the leaks and rumors. If I had my druthers, I’d have the White House staff go before the grand jury and tell everything we know.”
Not long after Bob departs, a new Watergate story breaks. Judge Sirica releases a letter from James McCord, the former security consultant at the CRP who was found guilty at the break-in trial. In the letter, McCord writes that political pressure was applied to the defendants, who were told to plead guilty and remain silent. McCord denies that the break-in was a CIA operation and claims that perjury occurred during the trial. He also states that there are others, not yet identified, who were involved in the Watergate operation. The press calls the letter a “bombshell.”
“McCord really stirred things up today.” Calling from Key Biscayne later, Bob sounds exhausted. “And on top of that, the Los Angeles Times is reporting that Dean and Magruder knew about the bugging in advance of the break-in.”
“Really?” I ask. “Do you think they did?”
“I haven’t the foggiest notion.”
Bob usually isn’t at a loss, and I’m concerned. “How are you doing?”
“Okay, I guess. But this stuff never stops coming. Somehow the White House has got to get on top of it. Right now, it’s ‘subject A’ for the president. He hauled me in for a five-hour meeting as soon as we got here. I’m beat.”
Over the next several days, Watergate progresses. Jeb Magruder resigns, the federal grand jury reconvenes to hear new Watergate charges, and Martha Mitchell tells The New York Times that someone is trying to make her husband “the goat.”
◆
On March 30, I return home from spending a week visiting Susan in Minnesota and my sister’s family in Colorado. I am disappointed to find that I just missed Bob. He has left a note, saying that he stopped by to repack before flying to California.
It’s a relief when NBC opens its evening newscast tonight with a report on farm prices, not on Watergate. A film clip of reporters gathered in front of a brick townhouse follows, and my attention is diverted by an exchange with Ann about her homework. Not until John Chancellor says, “Associated Press reports that James McCord told the Senate Watergate Committee today that H. R. Haldeman must have been aware of plans to bug the Democrats,” do I take note. The brick townhouse on the television screen in front of me is our home.
The front door opens, and Bob steps out. Carl Stern reports, “McCord apparently has no proof that people like Haldeman, Mitchell, and Dean are involved.” Bob makes his way through a batch of reporters to the curb, where a White House car is waiting.
I can hardly wait to talk to him, and the minutes drag until he calls an hour later. “Well, McCord’s done it again,” he says. “Beats me what he’s talking about, but he sure had the press fired up when I left the house today.”
“I know. I just saw you on TV with all those reporters.”
“Yeah. I couldn’t even bring my suitcase with me. If I had, it would have started a whole new round of speculation by the press as to where I was going.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not. Terry O’Donnell picked it up later.”
After Bob hangs up, I watch a repeat of the scene on the eleven o’clock news. When we moved to Georgetown a month ago, I thought Watergate was starting to fade. Instead, it’s been one revelation after another.
Chip, chip, chip.
◆
At the end of the month, the North Vietnamese release the last of the American POWs. After eight years, their prison, the “Hanoi Hilton,” is empty. Comet Kohoutek, with its long plasma tail, is discovered and nicknamed the “comet of the century.” Bill Walton leads UCLA to its seventh straight NCAA basketball title. In support of the American Indian Movement, Marlon Brando turns down the Oscar for best actor in The Godfather.
It Was the Best of Times, It Was the
Worst of Times
April 1973
On Sunday, April 1, I awake to a glorious day. The cherry tree in the patio is on the verge of bursting into full bloom, and from our bedroom window all I can see are masses of tiny pink buds. Once again, I wish Bob were here to experience this moment with me. However, he’s been gone more than he’s been in town, and the two of us have yet to enjoy a relaxed time in our new home.
As on most Sundays, I watch the weekly broadcast of Face the Nation this morning. Lowell Weicker is being interviewed by a panel of journalists. He is one of seven members on the Senate Watergate Committee, and I’m anxious to hear what he has to say. It doesn’t take long to find that I don’t like him. Not only is he pompous, but he has strong, negative, preconceived ideas about Nixon.
When the Senator self-righteously proclaims, “H. R. Haldeman directed a master plot of sabotage and espionage in the White House,” I’m angry. His statement is totally irresponsible, and I lose all respect for him.
Bob is upset when he calls the next day. “That nut Weicker had no proof when he made those charges, and he’s not man enough to admit that he was wrong. Senator Ervin called and personally apologized. He said that there’s no evidence whatsoever linking me to the bugging.”
“I don’t see how Weicker could say something like that,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
“It’s typical…just Weicker being Weicker…doing his usual political grandstanding…pure histrionics.”
“So what happens now?”
“Actually, it gives me a good chance to go public. I could release a statement that would cover every conceivable thing I might be accused of and then follow it up with a tough interview. Like…” Bob stops to think
. “Like, I could go on television and have Dan Rather ask me a lot of hardball questions.”
“Are you serious?”
“It’d be better than just sitting around having people take potshots at me. The only problem is I’m not sure if this is the best timing.” Bob is clearly frustrated. “The grand jury is meeting, and the Senate Watergate hearings are coming up.”
Over time, Weicker’s charges fade, and Bob drops the idea of releasing a statement and doing an interview. In the Pentagon Papers trial, Daniel Ellsberg finally testifies, three months after the opening statements were given.
On Wednesday, April 11, with 1,380 days remaining in the Nixon presidency, a leak from the grand jury brings Watergate a step closer. Reportedly both Dwight Chapin and Gordon Strachan testified in closed hearings that Bob had agreed with their proposal to approach Donald Segretti about being in charge of “dirty tricks.” When I ask Bob about the story, he shrugs and says that he has no memory of Segretti’s name being mentioned; consequently, he has no recollection of authorizing him for the job.
“I approve countless actions on the recommendations of others,” Bob explains, “and I can’t possibly keep track of all the memos I sign.”
◆
Seated at my small desk in my dressing room/office, I read the Christian Science daily Bible Lesson. Outside, a light spring rain dampens the street and sidewalk. These moments of quiet study sustain me. As I put my books away, I pause to study the framed photo of Bob on the desk. Gripping the tiller of his Sunfish, he is looking over his shoulder at the camera. The blue and yellow sail hangs listlessly behind him. Studying the smiling, tan figure in the faded red trunks, I’m reminded of our sail five years ago when the wonder and excitement of a future in Washington consumed us both. Bob had been so confident of his managerial abilities—so hopeful of serving the one man he felt would make an outstanding president.
With all that he faces, his confidence has never faltered, nor has his loyalty to Nixon. Knowing Bob, I’m not surprised.
◆
On Sunday, April 15, for the first time since we moved two months ago, Bob enjoys a relaxed day at home. I love living in Georgetown, and I’m anxious to share its amenities with him. After attending services at the Georgetown Christian Science Church, we take a long walk in Montrose Park, which is only three blocks from our townhouse. When we return, we settle in the living room with the Sunday papers. With her dog, Dottie, at her feet, Ann is curled up reading A Tale of Two Cities.
It doesn’t take Bob long to discover an article mentioning him. This time, The Sunday Star has a whole page on Haldeman in its first section. Titled “Nixon’s ‘No Man,’” it features a large cartoon figure of Bob guarding the door to the Oval Office. He’s dressed in a Prussian-style uniform. His chest is covered with medals, and there are fancy epaulets on his shoulders. I start to read.
The mystery man of the Nixon administration is Harry Robbins Haldeman… Bob Haldeman is the White House centurion… He is the unchallenged boss of a White House and executive office staff that, by Civil Service Commission reckoning, numbers more than 6,000 persons—everyone from Henry A. Kissinger to the lowliest GS-3 file clerk…
One of the few intellectuals around Mr. Nixon is quoted as saying that ‘Haldeman is extraordinarily quick to assimilate information and incredibly well organized. Haldeman has a capacity that I’ve never seen matched to think ahead and to be ahead of people. If I had to name the most interesting man in this administration, I would name Haldeman. He is the intense application of a unique talent on behalf of a president.’
It is axiomatic in American politics that the opposition tries to damage the president by attacking his key assistants. Haldeman’s role as Mr. Nixon’s hatchet man has made him a prime target.
“Quite an article,” I comment, handing the paper back to Bob.
“How about the part where it says that my assistants are afraid of me…and that I have a curt and frosty manner?” Bob asks, smiling.
Ann looks up. “You? ‘Curt and frosty,’ Dad?”
Before Bob can acknowledge his daughter’s remark, the White House phone rings. It’s the first time it has rung all day, and Bob takes the call upstairs in his study. When he doesn’t appear again until dinner, I’m hopeful that there will be no more interruptions. However, as we are dishing up pork chops, applesauce, and artichokes, he gets another call. This time, the conversation is brief.
“The president wants to meet with John and me at seven thirty,” Bob says. “Sorry, Jo. This means I’ve gotta eat fast.”
“Not again,” Ann complains. Giving her father her rendition of the Haldeman look, she adds, “You’re never home anymore, Dad.”
With half his dinner still on his plate, Bob excuses himself from the table. Grabbing his jacket, he calls goodbye from the entry below. I hear the front door click open—then, click closed. As Ann and I finish eating, the candles in the two silver candelabras give off a soft, flickering light. She tells me that A Tale of Two Cities is one of her favorite books. Quoting, she begins with the opening lines, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”
The words resonate. It’s as if they were describing my world today.
It’s close to midnight when Bob gets home, and I have already gone to bed. A car door slams, and a few minutes later, I hear footsteps on the stairs. Bob has been gone almost five hours, and I wonder what could have kept him so long at this time of night. The only thing I can think of is Watergate. Please let me be wrong.
Bob slips quietly into the room. Propping myself up on one elbow, I greet him. “Hi. What’s up?”
“It’s Watergate, and for the moment, things don’t look too good.”
Falling back onto my pillow, I feel as if the wind has been knocked out of me. Is Bob saying that there’s more to come? What now? He sits on the bed and removes his shoes while he talks.
“Earlier tonight, the president met with John Dean, who told him that Ehrlichman and I may face some major problems. Dean thinks that we could be charged with obstruction of justice.”
“Why?” I ask. “How?”
“I may be vulnerable because I had leftover campaign money sent to the CRP, and it was used to pay the Watergate defendants.”
“But you said that you had nothing to do with that money once it was turned over to the CRP.”
“I didn’t, but I guess there’s more out there than I realized. I’m not a lawyer. John Dean is, and tonight he really laid it on the line.” Bob twists his fraternity ring around and around on his finger as he talks. “Dean thinks John and I should take leaves of absence while we deal with this.” He pauses to look at me for my reaction. “But you’ve got to remember, Jo, no matter what we do, there’s every reason to believe that all of this can be worked out.”
A leave of absence? I can’t imagine Bob’s taking a leave of absence, especially when Nixon’s second term is just getting started. Doesn’t a leave imply guilt? Does this mean that Bob has to clear his name for something he didn’t do? How long would a leave last? Would it be with or without pay? Would we have to move? Move? Not again…we’ve lived in Georgetown for only two months.
When Bob climbs into bed, neither of us says anything. It’s as if speaking would only bring on more heartache. I finally fall asleep, only to be awakened by the ring of the White House phone. It’s almost 1:00 a.m., Monday morning. I hate that phone.
“Yes, Mr. President,” Bob answers. Nixon does most of the talking, and Bob hangs up. Shrugging helplessly, he turns to me. “The president thinks that Ehrlichman and I should get a lawyer.”
I’m taken aback. It is the best of times. It is the worst of times…
A Super-Major Watergate Day
Spring comes to Georgetown overnight. Everywhere I look there are tulips, azaleas, dogwood, lilac, forsythia, and cherry blossoms. The tree in our patio is covered with pink flowers. The weath
er is warm, and Wisconsin Avenue is jammed with tourists, students, and hippies. A strong aroma of incense, mixed with the scent of food and car fumes, fills the air.
In the news, the Supreme Court upholds the right of a school teacher to remain speechless during the Pledge of Allegiance. At the Pentagon Papers trial, Daniel Ellsberg claims that rather than “stealing” classified documents from the Pentagon, he “transferred them to a different branch of the government…” The World Trade Center opens in New York City. Israel celebrates its twenty-fifth anniversary, and Americans bound for the celebration sail under heavy security aboard the Queen Elizabeth II. In Washington, the Watergate Complex is now included in all city tours.
On Tuesday, April 17, I attend the state arrival of Prime Minister Giulio Andreotti of Italy on the South Lawn. I’m deeply moved by the pomp and ceremony of the occasion, but something is gnawing at me. I keep thinking about Bob and all that must be going on behind the scenes in the West Wing.
At a press conference, Nixon announces that White House personnel will appear before the Senate Watergate Committee, with the right to assert executive privilege. However, current and former senior administration officials will not be granted immunity.
When Bob comes home tonight, I sense that something is up. It’s late, and he seems to be distracted. We help ourselves to leftover pork chops and cold artichokes and carry our plates, along with tall glasses of iced tea, into the dining room.
After pausing for a moment of silence, Bob speaks. “Today was a major Watergate day. Ehrlichman and I were in and out of the Oval Office all day.”
I wait for an explanation, but it’s clear that Bob doesn’t want to go into any details right now. We finish dinner and do the dishes. As we’re turning off the lights and going upstairs to get ready for bed, he finally blurts out, “Actually, today was a super-major Watergate day.”
