In the Shadow of the White House

by Jo Haldeman

  ◆

  My mother and father stay with us for three days before leaving with Susan on their trip to England. The townhouse has limited space, but we manage to fit everyone in. With Peter in Minneapolis, my father can stay in his room. Although the fluorescent light in Peter’s hothouse remains on all night, Dad takes it in stride. As a member of the Bel-Air Men’s Garden Club, he appreciates his grandson’s interest in horticulture.

  This is not the case when Susan sees the hothouse. Pulling me aside, she asks, “Do you know what Peter’s growing?”

  “Wax begonias,” I tell her.

  “I think you’re wrong, Mom. I’m almost positive it’s marijuana.”

  My first reaction is to laugh, but when I tell Bob, he’s horrified.

  “Marijuana!” he exclaims. “Good Lord, Jo, the last thing I need right now is to have someone discover that there’s marijuana growing in my house!”

  Bob removes one of the plants and places it in a wax paper sandwich bag. The next day, he gives it to Larry to have it checked out by the White House.

  Over the next few days, Bob meets with the grand jury. “It’s crazy,” he says, sounding frustrated. “The prosecutors have access to all of their files whenever they want, and I’m supposed to answer every question by memory. It’s like the Inquisition.”

  After waiting three days, Bob is informed that the “wax begonia” plant is marijuana. Bob wants to flush all of the plants down the toilet, but there are too many of them. He has enough on his mind, so I assure him that I will dispose of them.

  The timing is ideal. The trash is scheduled to be picked up the following morning, and I dump the plants in one of the containers before wheeling it out to the curb.

  At breakfast, Bob is mortified when he hears my solution.

  “I don’t believe it, Jo,” he says, giving me the Haldeman look. “You got rid of the marijuana in the trash? With all those reporters right there? Where do you think they’re going to throw their paper cups and soft drink cans? In the trash—along with their cigarette butts and half-eaten donuts. All it takes is one reporter to discover the marijuana, and I’m finished.”

  I dash over to the kitchen window and peer down at the street. Bob is right. Reporters are all over the place, and in front of them are the trash containers. Will they lift the lids and discover the marijuana? My palms are sweaty, and I’m glued to the window. I don’t leave my post until the trash truck has come and gone. At last, I can breathe.

  ◆

  “Good grief. Now what?” Bob asks, holding up a section of The Sunday Star with his picture on the front page. It shows him leaving our house, carrying his briefcase.

  At the other end of our dining room table, I’m caught taking a bite of bran muffin. I can’t imagine what this latest round of publicity is about. Bob scoots the paper in my direction, and the headline jumps out at me, “For This Haldeman Briefcase.” I start to read the article aloud:

  “‘The briefcase in which Bob Haldeman, the powerful boss of the White House and human door to President Nixon…carried his papers will be auctioned off May nineteenth at the National Cathedral School for Girls…’”

  “I thought we donated tickets for the presidential box at the Kennedy Center,” Bob interrupts.

  “We did, but I also gave the school a lot of stuff when we moved. I guess your old briefcase was in the pile of giveaways.” Taking a swallow of coffee, I continue. “The article states that the briefcase not only bore the initials H. R. H. in gold, but the inside dividers had labels ‘guaranteed to stimulate the imagination’ such as ‘Current,’ ‘File,’ ‘Hot,’ and ‘Destroy.’”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Bob exclaims. “I never labeled my files like that.”

  “It does say that the school scratched off your initials and removed the labels.” Reading further, I laugh. “Oh my gosh, it says that the school might have raised hundreds of dollars on your briefcase if the initials had been left on it.”

  “Just what I need,” Bob mutters, standing to clear his dishes.

  Poor Bob, it never seems to end.

  The Ervin Show

  Three months after its creation, the Senate Select Committee on Presidential Campaign Activities—also referred to as the Watergate Committee or the Ervin Committee—releases a tentative list of thirteen witnesses. My heart falls when I see that Bob is one of them. The hearings will be held three mornings a week, starting at 10:00 a.m. The three major networks will split live coverage of the event, and at night, PBS will show taped highlights. Bob and I plan to spend every moment we can watching them. When Non arrives for a brief visit before leaving on a tour of Russia, she becomes completely absorbed in the proceedings and wants to cancel her trip. Assuring her that it will be three weeks before he and John will be called to testify, Bob finally convinces her to go.

  On Thursday, May 17, the “show” begins. The “stage” is an ornate caucus room in the Russell Senate Office Building. Seated at a long table, seven senators, four Democrats and three Republicans, are the “stars.” Staff members sit behind them, along with the chief counsel, the chief minority counsel, and their assistants.

  The “superstar” is Chairman Samuel J. Ervin of North Carolina. His gavel is a beautifully carved wooden mallet from a North Carolina Cherokee Indian, which he uses freely to maintain order. When he speaks, his sagging jowls and overly active eyebrows command attention. In a slow, Southern drawl, he declares that he’s determined to uncover all the facts.

  “No one will be spared…whatever his station in life may be,” the seventy-six-year-old Democrat declares. “Those men who broke into the Democratic offices at the Watergate were in effect breaking into the home of every citizen of the United States.”

  That night, I drop Bob off at the EOB to go through his files in preparation for his future testimony. Impounded by the FBI, his papers are stored in a small, hot, stuffy room on the fifth floor. Bob has access to them by appointment and under the constant supervision of a camera and a Secret Service agent, who keeps a record of every document Bob reviews. While in the room, Bob is not permitted to take notes—or copy or remove any of his papers. He has to try to commit what he reads to memory, then step out in the hallway and reconstruct it on a notepad as best he can. He spends much of his time going in and out.

  After taking Ann to a friend’s house for a sleepover, I drive to the EOB to get Bob. I have no idea when he’ll appear, but I don’t mind waiting. The night air is warm, and the full moon casts long shadows across the EOB’s towering gingerbread façade. Finally, Bob comes out. It’s after midnight. Pausing at the top of the stairs, he clutches his briefcase in his right hand and walks slowly down the granite steps. His shoulders are slightly humped, and his brow is furrowed.

  “Tough night?” I ask, as he slips into the passenger seat.

  “Yeah,” he says. “The heat was so unbearable in that room I even felt sorry for the Secret Service guy who was there with me.” Bob stretches. “Sorry to be so late. I couldn’t leave until I had everything the lawyers wanted.”

  I start the car and head up Executive Avenue, the short road that runs between the EOB and the White House. Yawning, Bob continues, “Actually, it was pretty interesting. I made two stacks of papers. One was half an inch high, and the other was over a foot. The small stack was Watergate-related stuff. The other stack was everything else from the past four and a half years.” He gives a little laugh. “It’s obvious that I didn’t spend a lot of time worrying about Watergate when I was in the White House.”

  With the windows down, a rush of warm air fills the car. The night is gentle, smoothing away the rough edges of the past couple of days.

  “Did you know that the full moon and warm weather bring out the kooks and criminals?” Bob asks, interrupting my thoughts.

  “No,” I say. What in the world made him think of that?

  “The Secret Service guy
told me,” Bob explains. “Another thing I realized tonight is that the combined staffs of both the Ervin Committee and the prosecutor’s office is one hundred seventy-two people, and they are all working against me… One hundred seventy-two to one aren’t very good odds.”

  “You’re right,” I agree, sadly. As I turn onto Pennsylvania Avenue, a cloud passes over the moon, briefly diminishing its brilliant glow.

  ◆

  Over the next couple weeks, the Senate Watergate hearing continues. Like everyone else, Bob and I are glued to the TV. The first witnesses to testify are the policemen and detectives who responded to calls to investigate a burglary at the Democratic Headquarters in the Watergate Complex early in the morning on Saturday, June 17, 1972. Next, the committee hears testimony from three of the seven people involved in the burglary. Rubber gloves, walkie-talkies, electronic surveillance equipment, and duct tape are tools of their trade, along with clandestine drop-offs and code words. A bus conductor’s change dispenser was used in making calls from a pay phone booth located near the Blue Fountain Inn on Route 355. Three secret meetings took place at the “second overlook of the George Washington Parkway on the Virginia side.” Money was transported in a hotel laundry bag.

  The more we see of the hearing, the more ludicrous it seems. Someone describes it as “part morality play and part comedy.” The witnesses are odd characters, whose stories unfold like a Keystone Cops movie. It’s “The Ervin Show,” and I can’t imagine Bob’s having a part in it.

  Ron Ziegler tells the press that the president rarely watches television and isn’t following the hearings. Nixon gets most of his information from news summaries, and furthermore, he’s too busy planning for the Soviet Summit. Ron makes it clear that the president and Henry Kissinger are also absorbed in the ongoing struggle to keep the Vietnam Peace Agreement on track.

  Polls show that 77 percent of Americans believe the president should not resign. Archibald Cox takes a leave of absence from Harvard Law School to become the Watergate special prosecutor. Former attorney general John Mitchell and former secretary of the treasury Maurice Stans are indicted in the Vesco case, which entailed alleged bribery in the form of campaign contributions. John Dean declares that he will not be made a “scapegoat,” and the Pentagon Papers trial ends in a mistrial after eighty-nine days. The judge states that government misconduct made a fair trial impossible and cites FBI wiretaps, as well as the break-in at Ellsberg’s psychiatrist’s office. All charges against Daniel Ellsberg are dismissed, and the courtroom erupts in loud cheering and clapping.

  On May 22, the president releases a four-thousand-word statement, which he hopes will clear up his part in Watergate. In it, he denies having any prior knowledge of the break-in, as well as any awareness of, or participation in, the cover-up. He explains that he directed Bob Haldeman and John Ehrlichman to ensure that the Watergate investigation wouldn’t expose either an unrelated CIA operation or a separate White House Special Investigative Unit.

  On Thursday, May 24, it pours rain all day. As I drive along E street and pass the White House, I catch a glimpse of workmen sloshing around in the mud erecting a large tent on the South Lawn. Tonight, President and Mrs. Nixon are hosting a black-tie gala in honor of the prisoners of war. Bob Hope, John Wayne, and Sammy Davis Jr. will provide the entertainment for the 1,300 guests, including 500 POWs. As the largest event to ever take place at the White House, it is being billed as “the most dazzling party in White House social annals.”

  This is one party Bob would love to attend. The prisoners of war are his true heroes, and he admires their patriotism, loyalty, and pride. Instead of being present at the White House, however, he spends his evening at home. Exhausted after a full day of giving depositions, he removes his blazer and tie and slips into a worn, navy blue cardigan with two moth holes in the right sleeve. Joining me in the kitchen, he shows me a note he received from the president. Nixon’s scrawl fills the small piece of White House stationery, and I feel for Bob as I read the heartrending words.

  Dear Bob,

  As I sit here preparing remarks for the POWs I realize this day would never have come without your steadfast support and also John’s. The nation, the POWs, and I shall always be in your debt.

  RN

  P.S. We shall come out ok in the end.

  “You wouldn’t believe how much of a hassle it was for the president to get this to me,” Bob says. “He had Manolo hand-deliver it to Larry, who said that Manolo had tears in his eyes. He was pretty emotional about the whole thing.”

  Under Siege

  Bob follows the Senate hearings as much as he can, but he has many demands on his time. These include interviews with the grand jury, the special prosecutor, and the Ervin Committee staff, as well as the US attorney’s office and two other congressional committees. To prepare himself, he’s either reviewing things with his lawyers or on the fifth floor of the EOB, going through his files. Hanging over him is the thought that if he fails to remember things correctly, he faces the possibility of perjuring himself.

  When our realtor shows our house, I prefer not to be around. With little enthusiasm, I do what’s necessary to get ready to leave. I pack up winter clothes that we won’t need in California, get estimates from moving companies, and write out instructions and phone numbers for the prospective renter. When a Los Angeles broker calls to say that she has the perfect house for us in Hancock Park, I tell her that I’m not interested right now.

  I’m not happy about leaving Washington.

  June 1973

  The chip, chip, chip of Watergate continues. Both The New York Times and The Washington Post report that John Dean has alleged that the president knew about the cover-up. Dean also claims that at a meeting last March, Nixon asked how much the Watergate burglars would have to be paid to ensure their silence. Dean had replied, “About a million dollars,” and the president had responded that “it would be no problem.”

  I shudder when Newsweek states that the grand jury is going to indict Haldeman, Ehrlichman, Mitchell, and Magruder. Another article in the magazine, titled “Family Fallout: Painful Days,” talks about the effect of Watergate on the families.

  They never mixed with outsiders much, even in the best of times. The men who followed Richard Nixon to Washington generally kept to themselves—shunning personal publicity, socializing occasionally with one another, spending most of their free time quietly at home with their wives and children. Now, in the shadow of Watergate, these quintessentially Nixonian families are suffering through a painful period of notoriety and stress. And it seems a condition for which they were left largely unprepared by their previously sheltered existence.

  “It’s so tragic,” says one Nixon campaign veteran who knows many of them. “These were a bunch of young family men on their way up. They had everything going for them, and now their lives have been wrecked.”

  Some old friends seem to avoid the shadowed Nixon men and their families like the plague. “We wouldn’t think of going to see them,” says one former employee of the CRP. “If you ever knew anybody these days a link is attempted. There is so much paranoia and guilt by association.”

  It’s hard to see our close-knit Nixon team breaking up as the stain of Watergate spreads. Fearing that even a simple phone call might be misinterpreted, our lawyers advise us not to talk to one another. Any one of us could be accused of participating in a conspiracy or a cover-up. As this distancing grows, I think a lot about the effect that Watergate is having on the people I know. I wish that I could communicate with Nancy Ziegler, Gail Magruder, Susie Chapin, Dolores Higby, and of course, Jeanne.

  I feel compelled to write a letter of support to these women. I want to reassure them that the Nixon team continues in spirit and that no one should feel abandoned. Not knowing what to do with the letter, I place it in the back of my desk drawer. A week later, I show it to Bob and ask him if I should send it to the Washington Post, as an o
pen letter to the wives of Watergate. Bob agrees with the idea, but first he wants to run it by his lawyers for their approval.

  Both John Wilson and his partner Frank Strickler strongly advise me not to send the letter. It could have legal repercussions for Bob later. Frustrated, I empathize with Gail Magruder when I watch the Watergate hearing. She is almost in tears as her husband, Jeb, struggles to answer tough questions about his knowledge of the Watergate break-in.

  “Don’t even think about talking to Gail,” Bob says, anticipating what I’m going to say.

  “All I want to do is to take her a plant,” I tell him.

  “Are you crazy? The press is all over the place.”

  When I entreat him one more time, Bob hesitates, and then reluctantly gives in. With no reporters in sight, my five-minute drop-off goes without a hitch. However, I feel like a criminal as I sneak up and deposit a small violet plant at the Magruders’ front door.

  I don’t like living like this. It’s not natural. My world seems to be turning upside down, and I don’t like it.

  ◆

  On June 9, Secretariat wins the Belmont Stakes by a whopping thirty-one lengths. The large chestnut colt becomes the first Triple Crown champion in twenty-five years. The Supreme Court turns the issue of obscenity over to the states, and in Tokyo erotic prints by Picasso are censored before being exhibited.

  In Washington, there’s a two-week break in the televised Senate hearings. During this time, the weather turns hot and humid. The reporters in front of our home shed their coats and roll up their shirtsleeves. Instead of playing Frisbee, they sit on campstools in the shade. When our newspaper sails across our back fence and lands on top of the tulips, I don’t care. The flowers have long since wilted. A canopy of green has replaced the cherry blossoms, and the pugs stretch out in the shade on the cool slate below.