In the Shadow of the White House

by Jo Haldeman

Before leaving Washington, I would like to personally thank the White House operators. Although the White House phone has been my nemesis these past four years, these women are my heroines. Handling an average of fifty thousand calls daily, they are always pleasant and unruffled. Part technician, part diplomat, and part detective, they can tactfully track down anyone, anywhere.

  Bob makes the arrangements for our visit to the sub-basement of the EOB. Here, a handful of operators work the switchboards in eight hour shifts in two small, windowless rooms. When Bob and I introduce ourselves, no one’s face looks familiar, but I recognize each voice. There is an unspoken bond between us, and saying goodbye is a painful process for me.

  Our realtor informs us that the Callaways have decided to rent our home for the summer. Although I’m relieved not to have to move our things out, there is still a lot to do. I begin by making inventory lists of our china, linen, and silver. As soon as we make arrangements to turn over the house on June 15, I read about it in Maxine Cheshire’s column in The Washington Post.

  Others involved in the Watergate probe may wait to see what the future holds before deciding to uproot their families, but former presidential aide H. R. Haldeman and his wife already are making plans to move back to California when school is out… The family has been virtually under siege with reporters and photographers camped on their doorstep.

  Reservations?

  Our departure from Washington will be divided into two phases. First, Peter and Ann will fly to California. The following day, Bob and I will leave for Minnesota, where we will attend Susan’s graduation. While I work on the travel arrangements for the children, I tell them to pack enough clothes to last at least three months. I check on flight schedules, buy tickets, and coordinate the arrival time with Bob’s sister, Betsy, who will meet the plane at LAX. Ann’s parakeet needs a special permit to travel in the cabin, and the pugs require reserved spaces in the baggage section. They must be sedated before the flight, which entails making meatballs out of dog food with pills inside them.

  On Thursday, June 14, Bob spends his final day in a meeting with Sam Dash, chief counsel for the Senate Watergate Committee, while I take Peter and Ann to the airport. Six suitcases, two flight bags, three dog kennels, and a birdcage are lined up on the sidewalk outside our front door. Reporters watch in fascination as we struggle to get everything loaded into a taxi and a borrowed station wagon. At Dulles, it takes two porters with trolleys to transport our belongings to the check-in counter.

  Nothing is easy today. The pugs are leery about taking their meatballs, and an American Airlines representative is suspicious of Peter’s bulging flight bag. When she discovers a plastic bag half-full of water with two goldfish in it, a supervisor is called. Eventually, the airline allows Peter and Ann to board with the two fish and one bird. With the three pugs in the baggage section, I’ve completed “phase one” of our departure from Washington.

  Bob shows up later in the evening, following his five-hour meeting with Sam Dash. He looks haggard, but he still has to pack and review some paperwork. Before going to bed at l:30 a.m., he finds me outside on our patio.

  “It’s the middle of the night, Jo!” he exclaims. “What on earth are you doing?”

  “I want the garden to look nice for the Callaways,” I explain. “I’m replacing the dead tulips under the cherry tree with geraniums.”

  Shaking his head, Bob goes back upstairs. It’s our final night as official residents of Washington, and this crazy scene is not what I ever anticipated. Here I am outside gardening by moonlight, while Bob wanders around barefoot in his pajamas. I picture the Ehrlichmans comfortably ensconced in their home in Virginia, and I’m envious. I know the press has been hard on them recently, but at least they don’t have to pack up and leave right now.

  What little sleep I get is fragmented, and I awake on Friday morning feeling out of sorts. I will miss this town. Birds are twittering in the cherry tree outside, the sun is shining, and warm air is wafting in through the open bedroom window. Happy memories flood my mind, and for a brief moment, Watergate isn’t in the picture.

  At 8:30 a.m., Larry arrives in a borrowed White House station wagon to take Bob and me to National Airport. As Larry loads our suitcases into the back, Bob makes a last minute run through the house. When one of the few remaining reporters asks for a statement, Bob tells him, “Once the truth is known about Watergate, it will be clear that I was not involved in either the bugging or the cover-up.”

  At the end of the block, I turn and look back. The red brick townhouse is like many others in Georgetown, but this one was our home for four brief months, and I loved it. Larry drives slowly, giving Bob and me a chance to say our silent goodbyes to Washington. Before crossing the Fourteenth Street Bridge, we pass the White House, and I watch as Bob’s and Larry’s heads turn in unison to look. Nothing is said, and I can only imagine what each of them must be feeling.

  The terminal is crowded, and there are long lines. Bob and I have not traveled together on a commercial flight in five years. While he looks for a porter to help with our five suitcases and two carry-ons, I wait in line at the Northwest Orient check-in counter. At last, it’s my turn, and the agent requests our tickets.

  Tickets?

  I reach into my purse, and as I’m fumbling around, the agent asks in what name I made the reservations.

  Reservations?

  Not until this very moment does it dawn on me that I have neither reservations nor tickets. I wrote down the flight information, but in the confusion of getting the children off, I never followed through. Bob and the porter arrive with the suitcases just as the agent informs me that the plane is full. There’s a waiting list, and there is no way we can get on this flight to Minneapolis.

  “Sorry, Mr. Haldeman, I wish I could help,” the agent says, looking right through me as if I didn’t exist. “I’d be happy to book you on our three fifteen flight, if that works for you and Mrs. Haldeman.”

  Suddenly, Bob and I are on center stage. Not only do the people in the ticket line recognize us and know what the problem is, but everywhere I look I see the Haldeman name. Virtually everyone is reading the early edition of The Evening Star, with banner headlines proclaiming, “Focus Shifts to Haldeman.” Testifying with limited immunity at the Senate Watergate hearing yesterday, Jeb Magruder said that he had attended meetings to approve Liddy’s plans for the bugging and the break-in. He stated that all plans had gone to Haldeman’s aide, Gordon Strachan. Upon hearing this, Senator Ervin concluded that Haldeman must have known about the break-in.

  Haldeman. Haldeman. Haldeman. Bob’s name appears everywhere. And I have let him down in the worst possible way. I wish I could dissolve. Disappear. Vanish. There’s not a thing I can do, except to say I’m sorry. I steel myself for the Haldeman look, but it’s not there. Instead, Bob’s eyes are soft and steady, and he tells me not to worry.

  “You’ve had a lot on your mind recently,” he says. I nod. The agent issues the tickets.

  Calmly assuming control, Bob calls Susan from a pay phone to give her our new arrival time. He suggests that he and I have lunch in Georgetown at the Gourmetisserie, which is within walking distance of our townhouse. We can wait at home until it’s time to return to the airport.

  Retracing our steps through the terminal, we check our luggage in three lockers. Bob flags a taxi, and for the second time this morning, we drive by Washington’s monuments and the White House. After lunch, we walk home, where I hesitate on the sidewalk before stepping inside. Although we left only a couple of hours ago, the house looks different. I feel like an intruder. In the living room, I sit on the edge of the couch and try to read one of the magazines that I had meticulously arranged on the coffee table earlier. Eager to make a call, Bob heads straight for the phone in the kitchen.

  “Hey, Larry,” he says, “you won’t believe what happened at the airport.” While Bob gives a detailed description of why we
aren’t on the plane, I fall back on the couch and try to block it out.

  On the drive back to National Airport, our taxi passes the monuments and the White House for the third time. Our check-in at the Northwest Orient ticket counter goes smoothly, and an airline agent personally escorts us out to the plane. She points to two seats in the first row. The seat across the aisle is being held for a VIP passenger who turns out to be the Democratic senator from Minnesota, Hubert Humphrey. When he boards, he cordially shakes hands and is remarkably interested in and supportive of Bob. Although the two of them talk nonstop during the entire flight, they never mention the 1968 presidential election, when Humphrey was defeated by Nixon.

  The following day, Bob and I attend the graduation ceremony at the University of Minnesota. Seated high up in a packed stadium, we can’t even find Susan in the mass of students below. Fortunately, Bob discovers that we can use the zoom lens on his movie camera to get a close-up view of our daughter receiving her B.A. in history. We are proud of our summa cum laude graduate, who begins her summer job tomorrow, working at the local Burger King.

  Sunday, June 17, 1973, is the anniversary of Watergate. Was it only one year ago that I was in Key Biscayne, reading about a bizarre break-in at the Watergate? How could I ever have known that it would have such a devastating effect on our lives twelve months later?

  Although our flight to California is the last leg of our official departure from Washington, Bob will be making many return trips. Not only will he be meeting with his lawyers and giving depositions, but he’ll be testifying at the Senate Watergate hearing next month.

  Newport will be our base for the next three months. During this time, my job will be to find a home in Los Angeles, enroll Peter and Ann in school, and sell the townhouse. Both Bob and I could easily get discouraged with our situation, but we have our faith. I cling to one of my favorite quotes, “To those leaning on the Sustaining Infinite, today is big with blessings.”

  The Elusive Mr. Haldeman

  Two hours after landing at LAX, we are walking across the bridge onto Bay Island. Pulling a two-wheeled cart filled with our suitcases, we follow the path past the center green, the caretaker’s house, and the tennis court. The carriage lamp in front of #11 is lit, and the tomato-red golf cart sits next to the fence with its battery being charged. Sounds of happy voices come from the open windows. Mom, Dad, Peter, Ann, and my sister with her four children are expecting us.

  As usual, dinner is a lively affair. In order to accommodate eleven of us, two extensions have been added to the dining room table. The sun is setting, and the musty-yellow café curtains and the half-shutters above them are pulled back. The rose garden outside is in deep shade, but the tips of the tall eucalyptus trees are highlighted in a golden glow.

  At the head of the table, my father stands. His chair makes a scraping sound as he pushes it back across the rough, linoleum-tile floor. “I’d like to propose a toast,” he says, raising his glass. “Please join me in welcoming home Bob and Jo.”

  ◆

  With the chaos of Washington behind us, I anticipate enjoying the summer without the press, but that’s not possible. Reporters become frantic when they can’t find us. Not knowing that we are spending the first half of the summer on Harbor Island, they rent boats and hover offshore from Bay Island. A front page news story appears in the Daily Pilot, speculating about our whereabouts. A large photo of #11 is featured above the headline, “Haldeman, Kin Hidden in Newport—Somewhere.” The article accuses the “elusive Mr. Haldeman” of deliberately hiding. In the meantime, Bob goes unnoticed, blithely sailing his Sunfish around the reporters’ boats each afternoon.

  When our location is finally “discovered,” a photo of the house on Harbor Island appears in the Los Angeles Times with a caption reading, “Haldeman’s Hideaway Uncovered.” A local resident is quoted as saying, “Bob Haldeman sure has caused a lot of trouble,” but the reporter hastens to add, “The neighbor would not elaborate.”

  A few days later when Bob receives a call from the Associated Press, I ask him what it was about.

  “Just a rumor,” he responds evasively.

  “What now?” I press.

  “Apparently, I’ve committed suicide.”

  ◆

  Nixon receives a major setback when Congress passes the Case-Church Amendment, which forbids all US military activity in Southeast Asia unless the president secures congressional approval in advance. This ends direct US military involvement in the Vietnam War and ties Nixon’s hands. The hawks predict that it is an open invitation to the Communists to invade South Vietnam. Watergate is also moving in the wrong direction. It is now being investigated by the General Accounting Office, along with the Ervin Committee, four other congressional committees, the FBI, and several grand juries.

  The Senate Watergate hearings continue on Monday, June 25, with John Dean testifying. Public interest is so high that all three television networks carry his testimony live. Bob, the children, and I watch it at #11 with my parents and my sister, Gay, and her family.

  Seated at a table facing the senators, Dean looks young and serious. Clearing his throat, he leans forward to get closer to the microphone. “To one who was in the White House, and became somewhat familiar with its inner workings,” he begins, “the Watergate matter was an inevitable outgrowth of a climate of excessive concern over the political impact of demonstrators, excessive concern over leaks, an insatiable appetite for political intelligence, all coupled with a do-it-yourself White House staff, regardless of the law.”

  I squirm uncomfortably in my chair. While I don’t like what Dean says, I wonder how much of the climate in the White House reflected Bob’s unwavering demand for perfection. I look over at him. Seated in a black Windsor chair in the living room, he’s busily taking notes on a yellow pad.

  Reading in a flat monotone, Dean implicates Mitchell, Magruder, and Colson. His opening statement is 245 pages long, includes forty-six supporting documents, and lasts seven hours. Occasionally adjusting his thin, tortoiseshell glasses, Dean doesn’t hesitate to speak against the president of the United States and claims that Nixon took part in the cover-up. The thirty-four-year-old former White House counsel states that he dealt with the president mostly through John Ehrlichman and Bob Haldeman and accuses them of being “the prime orchestrators of the cover-up.”

  “Dean’s desperate,” Bob says calmly as he writes. “He’s trying to save himself by pointing the finger at John and me. This is the only way he can get immunity. He has to come up with a plausible story to impress the federal prosecutors.”

  The Senate Watergate Committee’s questioning of Dean lasts four days. Giving precise answers, he never falters as his perfectly coifed wife looks on. Seated directly behind him, Maureen is praised by the press, who refer to her “steady gaze and glamorous air.” As I watch, I try to picture myself seated in that same room next month when Bob is scheduled to testify.

  After Dean’s appearance, columnist Stewart Alsop writes in Newsweek, “To continue to believe that President Nixon was wholly innocent of any involvement in the Watergate cover-up requires, by this time, a major act of faith… If the pro-Nixon witnesses, or Mr. Nixon himself, can extricate the president from the web John Dean has woven, it will be a miracle.”

  I worry about the effect of Dean’s testimony on public opinion. I hope people won’t prejudge Bob before he has a chance to testify. When I see a cartoon of Bob and John Ehrlichman fending off Dean, it reminds me of something that Patrick Anderson wrote. “The aide will almost certainly develop an enemy or two among his fellow staff members, his rivals in the harem.”

  July 1973

  In July, both Greece and Afghanistan proclaim new republics, and the Bahamas declare independence after three hundred years of British rule. The US Senate approves an amendment that will allow the construction of the Alaskan pipeline. Both the Senate and the House pass the War Powers Reso
lution, which restricts the president’s power to commit the United States to any armed conflict unless there is a declaration of war by Congress. Another blow to Nixon.

  By the middle of the month, the reality of our new life starts to sink in. Although Harbor Island is “home” right now, I spend much of my time in Los Angeles, looking at schools and houses. Bob is commuting back and forth to Washington. Whenever the Callaways are out of town, they invite him to stay in the upstairs study of our townhouse, where he has his desk, files, and a daybed.

  On Tuesday evening, July 10, he calls from his study. In the course of our conversation, he confides in me that he just finished listening to one of the White House tapes. I’m dumbfounded.

  “How’d you get it?” I ask. “I thought the tapes were top secret.”

  “They are,” Bob says. “But the president wanted to refresh his memory of a meeting in the Oval Office. He told me to take the tape home and then summarize it for him.”

  “Why you? You don’t work for him anymore. Is it even okay for you to have that tape?”

  “Of course. The tapes belong to the president, and he can do whatever he wants with them. Besides, tonight isn’t the first time I’ve done this. I listened to one last April, too.”

  Bob doesn’t go into any further detail, and soon we are discussing a house I saw today.

  Nixon Bugged Himself

  As the time for Bob’s appearance at the Senate Watergate hearing draws nearer, he spends a weekend being “prepped” by his brother Tom and his cousin Bill Haight. Bill is a trial lawyer, and both he and Tom hurl a variety of tough questions at Bob. Do John Dean, John Mitchell, and John Ehrlichman prepare this way, too? They are all lawyers. They probably don’t need the extra drill.

  On Monday morning, July 16, Bob and I turn on television to watch the testimony of Alex Butterfield. After being sworn-in, Alex starts to read his opening statement, beginning with how he got his job at the White House.