In the Shadow of the White House

by Jo Haldeman

  Not taking calls? I can’t believe it. At this heart-wrenching moment, I want to cry out, “You owe this to my husband, Mr. President. Forget your little jokes about my drinking problem. For the past five years, Bob has put you before everything else in his life. His dedication and loyalty have never wavered…not even now. Talk to him, Mr. President. Talk to him.”

  Bob goes up to his study, and I call the families. I’d give anything to avoid these conversations, but I mask my emotions and play-act at being rock solid and positive. I give Non an evasive answer when she asks if Bob has talked to the president.

  At 10:00 p.m., the White House phone rings just as I’m coming upstairs. Bob answers it in his study, “Yes, Mr. President.” I’m glued to my spot on the landing and feel compelled to listen.

  “Well, the resignations are behind you now,” Bob says matter-of-factly. “I know it’s tough, but it’s time to move on.”

  How can Bob be so calm?

  “I’m sorry that Cap’s the only cabinet officer you’ve heard from. I think it’s because the White House operators are telling people that you aren’t taking calls.” Pause. “No, sir, I can’t do that. I know that I’ve always checked on the reaction to your speeches in the past, but tonight that’s not possible.”

  Another pause. “I’m sorry, sir. All my connections to the White House have been severed. You’ll have to get someone else to follow up.”

  I’m shocked. I feel like bursting into the room and asking Bob why he doesn’t get mad. I am amazed that even now his respect for the presidency supersedes everything else, and he refuses to be critical of Nixon’s insensitive request.

  I move into our bedroom as soon as Bob starts to dictate his daily journal. Tonight, April 30, 1973, will be his final entry after four years, three months, and ten days. I’m sure he’s relieved. He never liked the added chore of recording the events of his day, but he stood by his commitment to do it.

  Emotionally drained, both Bob and I fall asleep shortly after going to bed. At midnight, the White House phone rings, and Bob gropes in the dark for the receiver. It’s the president again, still upset at the reaction he received to his speech. The conversation is brief, and Bob’s last words are, “Yes, sir, I’ll keep the faith.”

  I don’t want to hear this. I bury my face in the pillow and let out a muffled groan. For the life of me, I can’t comprehend how the president can be so oblivious to Bob’s feelings. This is the end for Bob, and yet all Nixon tells him is to “keep the faith.” The remarkable thing is, Bob gets it. He understands his president and accepts him unconditionally.

  An Outsider

  May 1973

  On Tuesday, May 1, Bob is without a job. The alarm goes off at 6:45 a.m., just as it always does. Our bedroom is already filled with sunlight, and the air is warm and fragrant. I open the window as wide as it will go. Outside, tiny green leaves are starting to replace the blossoms on the craggy boughs of the cherry tree. In the patio below, The Washington Post lies in the tulip bed. I can hear the reporters assembling out in front.

  “I hate this humidity,” Bob mumbles, and I instantly regret doing anything that might make his morning more difficult than it already is. I close the window and turn on the air conditioner.

  Bob plans to go into the White House later today to remove his personal things from his office, but first he spends time alone in his study reading the Christian Science Bible Lesson. Until he moved to Washington, this had been part of his daily morning routine.

  Without a car and driver, Bob asks me to take him to the White House. I have to back out of the garage slowly to avoid the reporters, who crowd around his side of the Thunderbird. He smiles as he repeats, “No comment.” I study him while we are waiting for the signal to change at Pennsylvania Avenue. With his American flag pin in his lapel, he grips his briefcase on his lap and stares straight ahead. For some reason, I envision him as a resolute little boy, clutching his lunchbox on the first day of school.

  Oh, Bob. You remind me of the day of your swearing-in. With your raised right hand and hopeful expression, I saw you then as a naïve, trusting Boy Scout. Does anyone else ever see you this way?

  When I return home, the reporters have left, and the house feels different. I turn off the air conditioner and open the windows. Although the air is hot and humid, I’m cold. I go up to Bob’s study. It’s comforting to be in this well-organized, functional room. Everything is in its place. A White House memo pad sits on the desk with a black Pentel pen next to it. Bob’s religious books are neatly piled on the end table by his big chair. His favorite quote from Nixon’s first inaugural address hangs on the wall in its gold frame.

  “Until he has been part of a cause larger than himself, no man is truly whole.”

  If Bob’s cause is the Nixon presidency, does his resignation affect his sense of accomplishment? Does he consider himself “truly whole” now? If not, will he ever?

  Throughout the day, Watergate continues to capture most of the news. The Senate passes a resolution calling on the president to appoint a special outside prosecutor. Ron Ziegler apologizes to The Washington Post for criticizing its stories on Watergate. There’s a startling new disclosure in the Pentagon Papers trial. It is reported that John Ehrlichman was told about the break-in at Ellsberg’s psychiatrist’s office immediately after it took place. Pressured to explain why he didn’t do anything about it, John becomes the center of a lot of media attention.

  In the afternoon, Susan arrives home for a short visit. I wish it could be under happier circumstances, but she seems to be taking things in stride. In five days, she will leave for a three-week tour of England with my mother and father, who are taking her on the trip as an early college graduation gift.

  With Hank in California and Peter still in Minneapolis, I miss our two sons at dinner tonight. I wish our whole family could be together, but that rarely happens these days. Before eating, we bow our heads for a moment of silence.

  “How’d things go at the White House today, Dad?” Susan asks, as soon as we start to eat.

  “Not great,” Bob responds. “When John and I got to our offices, there were FBI agents posted at our doors.”

  “The FBI?” Ann asks. “Why?”

  Liberally salting his pot roast, carrots, and potatoes, Bob explains. “The president was advised to put guards on all of our files. He wants to avoid any possible charge of destruction of evidence. When I started to enter my office, the agent stationed outside wouldn’t even let me take my briefcase in with me. He said that it could be used to smuggle something out.”

  “You?” I exclaim. “Smuggle things out of your own office?”

  “Yeah. Len Garment—the new White House counsel—had to come and check me out before I could leave. He had me read out loud some of the papers I was taking with me to prove that they were personal. One was a list of Bible quotes.”

  “That must have been awkward,” I comment.

  “I guess it had to be done,” Bob says. “But it was really embarrassing for the poor FBI guy.”

  “Did you see the president?” Susan asks.

  “Yeah. He passed by my office on his way to a meeting in the Cabinet Room. Although he had ordered the guards, it upset him when he actually saw the FBI agent at my door. He sort of pushed the guy against the wall. But then he came back later and apologized.”

  Bob tells us that all of his notes and memos are to be removed from his office and kept under lock and key in a storage space across the street in the EOB. From now on, he will need the FBI’s permission to access them. This will make it extremely difficult for him to prepare for his upcoming sessions with the grand jury, as well as several congressional committees and the US attorneys.

  I’m saddened to hear how quickly things have disintegrated. Tonight on the CBS Evening News, Roger Mudd states in his commentary that the only winners in Watergate so far are the thirty-six lawyers. I
t’s obvious “that great, gummy fungus” Newsweek called Watergate is still refusing to “curl up and die.”

  ◆

  The next morning, May 2, I get up early. It’s Bob’s second day out of office, and the reality of what this means is beginning to sink in. From now on, he will be answering to his lawyers, instead of the president. He’ll be concentrating on his legal defense, rather than participating in Nixon’s vision of the future—reorganizing the executive branch, strengthening the ties between the United States and China, limiting nuclear arms, reforming welfare, creating an environmental protection agency, and producing the bicentennial.

  Instead of planning for the future, Bob will be delving into the past. He will have to familiarize himself with all of his former actions. This will entail reconstructing hundreds of hours of discussions and meetings, and he will have to search through pages and pages of notes, calendars, schedules, phone logs, and memos.

  Questions flood my mind. My first concern is financial. What will we do for income? When will Bob be able to work? Who will hire him? Will we have to move?

  Then, my questions become more mundane. What will Bob do around the house all day? How will his being home affect our relationship? Will he expect me to get his lunch? Who answers the phone? Who gets the car?

  I should know better than to waste my time worrying. Bob is also awake early, and as usual, he has it all figured out. He plans to get up at 6:45 a.m. every day, and after breakfast, he’ll devote an hour to the study of Christian Science. When he’s home for lunch, he wants to eat by himself and would like me to stock up on cottage cheese, Dole canned pineapple slices, and Ry-Krisp crackers. We will share the phone, as well as the Thunderbird.

  Although he won’t be able to get a job until Watergate is behind him, Bob tells me that we have no immediate financial concerns. He expects to be gone a lot. He will be testifying at congressional hearings and the grand jury, as well as conferring with his lawyers. To prepare for these meetings, he will work both at home and the EOB, where he will go through his files.

  With a full day of appointments today, Bob takes the car, and I stay home with Susan. In the news, John Connally calls Watergate a “silly, stupid, illegal act” and announces that he’s switching to the Republican Party. U.S. News and World Report has a big spread on John McCain’s first person account of his ordeal as a POW in North Vietnam for over five years. And there’s speculation on who will replace Bob as Nixon’s chief of staff.

  “No one’s replacing me,” Bob tells us at dinner. “The president plans to act as his own chief of staff.”

  “How can he possibly do that?” I question.

  “He can’t…but he won’t admit it,” Bob says.

  In the middle of dessert, Bob receives a call from the president, who wants to meet with him right away. Quickly changing into his dark green blazer, gray slacks, and a Repp tie, Bob grabs the car keys from the kitchen counter and says goodbye to Susan, Ann, and me.

  “I thought you couldn’t go back to the White House, Dad,” Ann calls after him.

  “You’re right. I don’t have an office, and I can’t just walk into the White House like I used to,” Bob replies from the doorway. “But tonight, they’ll give me a special clearance.”

  It hurts to hear this exchange between Bob and our younger daughter. How quickly things can change. Two days ago, he was managing the entire White House staff. Now he has to be specially cleared.

  Bob doesn’t return until almost 10:00 p.m. Before joining me in the living room, he heads for the kitchen, where he scoops up a heaping tablespoon of coffee ice cream.

  “Well, I finally convinced the president that he had to get Al Haig as his chief of staff,” he says, licking the ice cream around the edge of the spoon to form a rounded mound. “Al’s the only one who can do the job. Plus, he has a good working relationship with Henry.”

  “I’ll bet that’s a relief,” I say, but my heart isn’t in it. I’m glad that Bob feels comfortable about his replacement, but it’s not easy for me to accept someone else as the president’s chief of staff. That’s Bob’s job.

  The phone rings, and I’m pleasantly surprised to hear Jeanne Ehrlichman’s voice. The last time we talked was a week before our husbands resigned, and I’m anxious to find out how she and her family are coping.

  “It’s all so unfair,” Jeanne begins. There’s no lilt to her voice, which isn’t like her. “John doesn’t think he deserves any of this, and it’s really been hard on the rest of us. Don’t you find that’s true with Bob?”

  How do I answer? Bob has never expressed any resentment. “The resignation was difficult for him to accept, but now he’s trying to move on. I just wish I knew where all of this will lead us. I feel like I’m in limbo.” John’s bitterness makes me appreciate how positive Bob has been.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’ve stopped following Watergate,” Jeanne says.

  “How can you do that? Watergate’s the only news there is.”

  “I’ve stopped watching TV, and I don’t read the papers. The latest reporting on the break-in at Ellsberg’s psychiatrist’s office was the last straw for me.” Jeanne’s voice cracks. “John was furious when he first heard about the break-in. We were vacationing at Cape Cod, and I remember him yelling over the phone at Hunt and Liddy. He demanded to know what made them do such a thing. There must have been seventy-five other ways to discredit Ellsberg.’”

  “Oh, Jeannie, I’m so sorry.”

  “I blame those two guys,” Jeanne says. “That break-in was Hunt and Liddy’s idea, and it was stupid. Just plain stupid. If it had never happened, I think John could have survived.”

  Jeanne is so distraught, I hardly recognize her. She has always been so upbeat. I’m glad she didn’t see the editorial in The Washington Post this morning, which questioned why Ehrlichman didn’t turn Hunt and Liddy over to the authorities as soon as he was told about their break-in.

  John Chancellor’s commentary on NBC tonight is even worse. I cringe when he states that out of over two million federal employees, Haldeman and Ehrlichman are by far the most unpopular and that “there was dancing in the halls of Congress” when their resignations were announced.

  It’s not easy to hear something like this, but my reaction is different from Jeanne’s. I’d rather know what’s being said than be oblivious to it.

  Wax Begonias

  Bob and I agree that summer is as good a time as any to cut our ties to Washington. We can spend July and August in Newport and use that time to make the transition back to Los Angeles. Hopefully, during those months, I’ll be able to find a house and get Peter and Ann enrolled in schools. Logistically, this makes sense, but the thought of it is daunting. We have lived in Georgetown for only two months, and Bob and I have shared only one normal day in our townhouse. I don’t want to sell it, and I really don’t want to face another move.

  Reluctantly, I call our realtor to list our home. She is surprised to hear from me, but she has a client who might be interested in a short-term lease. The newly-appointed Secretary of the Army Howard “Bo” Callaway and his wife want to rent in Georgetown while they look at homes. The thought of renting rather than selling is appealing. It would give me more time, and I wouldn’t have to cut all my ties to Georgetown.

  Barbara wants to show the house as soon as possible, but she has one condition. No reporters. She tells me that she is intimidated by them and refuses to come if they are around.

  “Whenever Bob’s at home, the press will be here,” I tell her. “When he’s gone, you’re safe.” I don’t mention the guy on the motorcycle who gives a Nazi salute and shouts, “Heil, Haldeman,” every time he rides past the house.

  I thought the press would go away after Bob resigned, but that’s not the case. The Haldeman name and photos of the family repeatedly appear in newspapers and magazines. On Sunday, May 6, we are followed to church by a slew
of reporters and photographers. Connie Chung of CBS even attends the service, where she sits in the balcony and takes notes.

  In a story about Bob’s and John’s resignations in The Daily Bruin, Hank is quoted as saying that his father was active on the UCLA campus in “a managerial way.” The story says that as a student, Bob was described as, “Happy Harry, the guy with the horrible haircut, who was the main cog in UCLA’s greatest Homecoming Week.”

  In an interview with The Minneapolis Star, Susan is quoted as saying, “It hurts to know that people will recognize the Haldeman name, and no matter what happens, Watergate will linger in their minds.” Characters in the Doonesbury comic strip poke fun at Bob’s career in advertising, and The Washington Evening Star pointlessly prints a photo of me stepping out of our front door. The caption reads, “Mrs. Joanne Haldeman, wife of H. R. Haldeman, picks up her paper from the doorstep.” Newsweek has a photo of Ann leaving for school. Her hair is wet from her shower, and her wrist is wrapped after a fall from a horse. When Winzola McLendon asks to interview Jeanne and me for the August issue of McCall’s Magazine, the two of us turn her down.

  Bob and John are on the cover of the May 7 issue of Newsweek. Wearing dark glasses, the two of them look like hoods. The black-and-white photo contrasts with a jarring red background, and large white letters across the top proclaim, “The White House in Turmoil.”

  Anyone associated with Watergate is fair game for the press, and many stories are based on nothing more than rumors and leaks. Confidential testimony is frequently divulged by the FBI and Justice Department, as well as the congressional committees. The lawyer-author Louis Nizer writes, “I fear McCarthyism in reverse. People are being perhaps destroyed by headlines, where there are as yet no proven facts before a jury in a trial… This is a time to be cautious…”

  Investigative journalism takes on a life of its own, and The Washington Post is awarded the Pulitzer Prize for its Watergate reporting. Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein are the nation’s newest heroes.