by Jo Haldeman
“It was at the time of the transition,” he states. “I was serving as the senior US military officer in Australia, and I was amazed to get a call from my old friend Bob Haldeman, who was in New York. He wanted to talk to me about working as some sort of assistant to the president.”
Bob leans forward in disbelief. “That’s not true!” he exclaims. “I never contacted Alex about a job. He was the one to approach me. He sent me a long letter specifically requesting the position.”
Neither Bob nor I can imagine why Alex would lie, but the exchange that follows is even more unnerving. “Mr. Butterfield, are you aware of the installation of any listening devices in the Oval Office of the president?” Chief Minority Counsel Fred Thompson asks.
Listening devices? Bob and I look at each other. Will Alex reveal the existence of the White House taping system? There’s a stunned silence among the Committee members, spectators, and the press. All eyes are focused on the tan, handsome, forty-seven-year-old witness. Alex doesn’t flinch.
“I was aware of listening devices.” Long pause. “Yes, sir.”
With his words virtually ricocheting off the tall marble columns in the staid Caucus Room, Alex clasps his hands in front of him and leans forward. In a steady voice, he explains that the devices were installed in both the Oval Office and the president’s EOB office. The recordings were made for historical purposes, and only a handful of people know about the existence of the taping system. Bob is one of them.
Alex concludes, “I only hope that I have not by my openness, and by my adherence to all instructions received to date, given away something which the president planned to use at a later time in support of his position.”
“The president can declare executive privilege to protect the tapes,” Bob says. “And Alex knows that.”
Outside, a thick layer of fog descends on Newport, and the mournful call of the foghorn carries across the bay. Bob’s pen glides swiftly across his yellow pad, and my mind races. This is one more incident where Bob has been named as one of the prime people involved. And not only did he know about the tapes, but he listened to two of them.
I slump back in my chair.
The next morning, Alex’s disclosure is the lead story nationally, and the headline “NIXON BUGGED HIMSELF” covers the entire front page of the New York Post. Most Americans want the tapes turned over to the Ervin Committee and/or the special prosecutor. John Connally is among the few who favor destroying them, and he tells Bob that the president should build a bonfire in the Rose Garden and invite the press to film the tapes as they go up in smoke. Although the president has only 40 percent public approval of the way he’s handling the situation, he refuses to release them. John Connally is right. Burn the tapes as soon as you can.
On Friday, July 20, Nixon returns to the White House after being hospitalized with viral pneumonia for the past eight days. Officially greeting his staff in the Rose Garden, he acknowledges rumors of his resignation and calls them “poppycock.”
“…let others wallow in Watergate,” he says. “We’re going to do our job.”
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At last it’s time for John Ehrlichman, and then Bob, to appear before the Ervin Committee. Bob and I fly to Washington, but once we are there, we part ways. Wanting to be near his personal papers and files, Bob stays in his office at our townhouse. I join Kathleen Bell at her lovely home on Dexter Street. I have fond memories of sailing in the Virgin Islands with her and her husband George, who has since passed away.
On Monday, July 23, John begins his testimony. Gathered around the TV in the Bells’ den, Jeanne, Bob, Kathleen, and I are served coffee and pastries by Lucille, the housekeeper. With its spring green walls, bright, chintz-covered chairs, and many bookshelves, the cozy room is comforting at a time of nervous tension.
Remembering how self-assured John was during his mock trial at Stanford Law School, I’m confident he will do well this morning. But I have reservations, too. Although he is good-natured and has a wicked sense of humor, John can be cocky. I worry that he might become abrasive when the senators question him.
“I didn’t cover up anything to do with Watergate,” John emphatically declares in his opening statement. “The vast percentage of my working time was spent on substantive issues and domestic policy. About one half of one percent was spent on politics, the campaign, and the events with which you have been concerning yourself as a committee.”
John is grilled by the Committee for five days. During that time, he makes it clear that he’s angry about being secretly recorded by the president. He testifies that he wants the tapes to be made public, in order to confirm what he has said. Most of the senators’ questions deal with John’s role in the break-in at Ellsberg’s psychiatrist’s office and the “Plumbers Unit,” an investigative team led by Hunt and Liddy to prevent leaks.
Senator Ervin’s hokey way of speaking visibly irritates John, who is usually affable and outgoing. When John’s jaw juts out, he appears to be snarling, and a commentator refers to his “look of defiance.” Not only is he combative in his answers, but so is his lawyer, John Wilson, who is representing both John and Bob. Wilson exchanges verbal blows with Senator Ervin over the president’s power to protect national security.
In summarizing, John says, “I do not apologize for my loyalty to the president, any more than I apologize for my love of country.”
It’s clear that John’s demeanor grated on the committee, the public, and the press. One journalist describes him as, “alternately scornful, disputatious, circumlocutory, condescending, and quite without apology for anything.” Jeanne had wanted to accompany John to the hearings, but he was concerned that the atmosphere was too hostile. I think her presence might have helped to soften his image.
How will Bob be judged when he testifies? When Joseph Kraft refers to John’s “maniacal arrogance,” I worry. Bob and John are so often linked together. Might Bob, with his crew cut and Germanic image, also be perceived as “maniacally arrogant”? Bernard Levin writes in The London Times, “The Senate hearings are like an inquisition, and the witnesses are having their cases prejudged without any of the safeguards of true legal proceedings.”
Mr. Inside
On Monday morning, July 30, I wake up early after a restless night. Now that the moment is here, it seems surreal that Bob will be testifying this afternoon. Sunlight seeps through the closed shutters in Kathleen’s guest bedroom. Washington is already hot and muggy, and the air conditioner has been running nonstop throughout the night. Susan arrived several days ago, and as I watch her sleepily disentangle herself from her twisted bed sheets, I think about our children. Throughout this whole ordeal, they have taken each day in stride. How Bob will be judged after these hearings is questionable, but whatever happens, neither he nor I ever want to lose the love or respect of Susan, Hank, Peter, and Ann.
Hank arrived last night, and all of us agreed that he and Susan should attend today’s hearing with their father. If all goes well, I will join Susan and Bob tomorrow.
In the afternoon, John, Jeanne, Kathleen, and I settle in the den to watch the proceedings. When the Senate Caucus Room flashes onto the TV screen, I stiffen up in anticipation. As soon as I see Bob raise his right hand and swear to tell the truth, I relax. Standing rigidly erect, he tucks in his chin and stares straight ahead. His demeanor is respectful and confident.
Before giving his opening statement, Bob turns to confer with John Wilson, who is seated next to him. Only five feet, four inches tall, the seventy-two-year-old lawyer is well respected and has a reputation of being exceptionally able.
Bob’s pace is slow when he starts to read. He praises the White House staff and those who served with him. “They were the most outstanding, most dedicated, and most able group of people with whom I have ever been associated…or ever hope to be associated.”
With assurance, Bob states that the president “raised questions ab
out Watergate from time to time during the period of June through the election.” He takes a moment to look at the senators. “The president’s interest consistently was to get the facts and to get them out.” The steady drone of his voice reminds me of those nights when I would hear him dictating his daily journal onto a cassette.
In referring to the White House investigation of Watergate, Bob pauses. “And it now appears…we were badly misled by one or more of the principals, and even more so, by our own man, for reasons which are still not completely clear.”
This is as close as Bob gets to blaming John Dean, and when he concludes, I think his opening statement came across as honest and nonjudgmental. The Washington Post concedes that “the man, who has been endlessly portrayed as Bad Guy No. 1 in the Watergate plot…was as amiable as a bowl of warm pudding, despite all of the prior testimony about his Prussian managerial style.”
The following morning, I’m apprehensive about attending the hearing. Dressing simply, I wear a pleated, off-white skirt and dark-green, cotton blouse. It’s too hot to take a sweater or a jacket. By the time I reach the packed Senate Caucus Room, I have a bad case of nerves. Susan and I pause in the doorway to let our eyes adjust to the harsh glare of the camera lights. With its twelve marble columns, ornate ceiling, and four giant crystal chandeliers, the room is larger than it appeared on television. Tension and excitement fill the air as we take our reserved seats in the first row of spectators. Several rows in front of me, there are two empty leather chairs at a table covered with a brown felt cloth. On the table are two microphones, a pitcher of ice water, and two glasses.
Bob enters the room with John Wilson at his side. Smiling, he waves to Susan and me as one of the spectators in the rear calls out, “Good luck, H. R.” Looking poised and confident, he takes his seat at the table. From where I sit, I see only the back of his head, his bristly crew cut, and his hunched shoulders.
I know that Bob is determined to tell the truth. As he testifies, it’s obvious that he’s trying to answer the questions directly and specifically. Aware of the risk of committing perjury, he has been advised by his lawyers to respond, “I don’t recall,” rather than speculate.
The Committee is indignant that Bob has had access to two of the presidential tapes. Claiming to be outraged, they demand to know why a private citizen was given that privilege, while elected government officials were not. Senator Ervin is suspicious. Jabbing at the air with his bony index finger, he wonders if the president and Bob selected only those portions of the tapes that they thought would be helpful to the White House.
In commenting on his recollection of what he heard on the September 15, 1972, tape, Bob states that his notes show that, “President Nixon had no knowledge of, or involvement in, either the Watergate affair or the subsequent efforts to cover up.”
Senator Howard Baker from Tennessee questions Bob on his “accuracy of recollection” regarding the March 21, 1973, tape. In an earlier statement, Bob quoted the president saying, “There is no problem in raising a million dollars, we can do that, but it would be wrong.”
“Now how sure are you, Mr. Haldeman, that those tapes in fact say that?” asks Senator Baker.
“I am absolutely positive that the tapes—”
“Did you hear it with your own voice?” Senator Baker interjects.
“With my own ears,” Bob confirms. “Yes.”
Later Senator Weicker questions Bob, bringing back bitter memories of his interview on Meet the Press when his arrogance and unsubstantiated accusations of Bob had incensed me. Shifting his six-foot, six-inch frame, Weicker leans forward.
“I think that…both you and I would agree that this went far beyond just a few men breaking into the Watergate.… It has revealed a situation both within the Committee to Re-Elect the President and within the White House, whereupon everything that was touched was corroded.”
Bob straightens up. Choosing his words carefully, he speaks slowly. “I will not, in any way, shape, or form ever accept that allegation or contention. I think that does a grave disservice to the country even to state it. And I apologize immediately for having responded with that amount of vigor.”
The tone of Bob’s voice is deliberate. I don’t detect any anger, only sincerity and conviction.
August 1973
Bob spends three days being grilled by the Committee. He remains unruffled and self-assured, but there are times when he answers that he can’t recall, or when he qualifies his answer as being to the best of his recollection. When he does, the seven senators act as if they don’t believe him. Their posturing and exaggerated words of disbelief frustrate me. It’s hard to respect them when they act so superior. The Minneapolis Tribune has a cartoon of Bob raising his left hand, saying, “My name—to the best of my recollection at this point in time—is H. R. Haldeman.”
On the whole, the press gives Bob high marks. Life magazine describes him as, “the picture of neat propriety in his brush cut and flag lapel pin.” He is portrayed as, “more polite than his reputation for being hard-nosed led the senators to expect.”
In one article, there is a brief reference to me. “Stamped on the strong face of Jo Haldeman, married twenty-four years and mother of nearly grown children, were the habits of reserve and deep personal discipline to be expected in the partner of Nixon’s relentless chief of staff.”
In comparing the Haldeman style with the Ehrlichman style, William Shannon writes:
They had been known in their days of White House power as “the Germans,” “the Berlin Wall,” or “Mr. Outside” and “Mr. Inside.” John D. Ehrlichman, who had a gift for small talk and made himself available occasionally to members of the press and of Congress, was regarded as the more affable “Mr. Outside.” H. R. Haldeman, his UCLA classmate, once said, “Every president needs an SOB. I’m Nixon’s.” Tireless in his attention to detail, tyrannical to his subordinates, implacable in his acquisition of power, Haldeman was the inaccessible “Mr. Inside.”
In their successive appearances before the Committee, however, they reversed their public images: Ehrlichman, coming on like gangbusters, hostile and combative; Haldeman, all soft deference and prep school manners.
Son of Nixonstein
When Bob and I return to California, it’s not the welcome home I expected. We are greeted by a vicious cartoon that virtually leaps off the editorial page of the Los Angeles Times. In heavy black ink, Bob is portrayed as an evil-looking, crew cut Frankenstein. Paul Conrad, the noted cartoonist, has drawn him with bolts protruding from his neck and a jagged scar cutting across his forehead. His grim face scowls out from a black background, and the caption reads, “Son of Nixonstein.”
As soon as I see the humiliating portrayal, I’m overwhelmed by the power of a cartoon. Without words, the single image makes an indelible imprint in my mind. I don’t want the children to see it and cram it into the trashcan. I cry, and my tears come from embarrassment and shame.
I never thought it would happen, but Bob has become notorious. His name and face appear not just in the news, but in hair salons, ice cream shops, and delicatessens. There’s “Haldemint Ice Cream,” “Haldeman’s Hot Potato Salad,” and the “Haldeman Cut,” a Bob Haldeman crew cut for women. In Doonesbury, the nationally syndicated comic strip, Mark Slackmeyer’s biography of Bob reads, “Los Angeles is a lonely town to grow up in, especially if you’re a small boy named H. R. Haldeman.”
When people hear me say my name or see it on a check or charge card, they recognize it and often question if I’m any relation to the Haldeman. In West Los Angeles, some irate residents of Rustic Canyon want to change the name of Haldeman Road. The area was developed in the early 1920s by the Uplifters Club, who used it as a ranch. As a prominent member of Uplifters—along with his close friend, L. Frank Baum, author of the Oz books—Bob’s grandfather, Harry Marston Haldeman, had a street named after him. Fondly remembering her dating days with Bud, Harr
y Marston’s son, Non is heartsick over the proposed name change. She cherishes her memories of visits with the family at their house on Haldeman Road.
Here at Newport Beach, a recently updated local map gets Bob and John Ehrlichman mixed up. A large arrow swoops down on Bay Island and identifies it as the location where “John Haldeman stayed in seclusion.”
The Queen tour boat now includes a stop offshore from #11. When the wind is right, it carries the captain’s voice up to the porch. “The white house with the blue shutters is where Watergate figure H. R. Haldeman lives. Look carefully, and you might see him.” The passengers’ heads simultaneously turn and look in our direction.
When a barber convinces Bob to let his hair grow, the press writes endless tongue-in-cheek stories about it. There’s “Haldeman’s Head With Hair,” “Taking a New Look,” and “Haldeman Involved in Scalp Cover-up.” A few columnists even speculate that Bob is trying to change his image. Before and after photos of Bob appear in Newsweek, which reports that it’s “all part of a hairy deal between father and son,” referring to Bob’s agreement with Hank to let his hair grow, as soon as Hank cuts his.
It’s not easy to live with the fallout from Watergate, but nothing can compare to the guilt and sadness I feel when I see Peter’s name on his new Newport Beach Public Library card—“Peter Haldeaux.”
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On Tuesday, August 7, live television coverage of the Watergate hearings ends after thirty-five days of testimony from thirty-seven witnesses. They held the nation spellbound for 325 hours. Only two major figures in the Nixon White House did not appear: Charles Colson, who pleaded the Fifth Amendment, and the president, who declined the invitation.
Although the “biggest soap opera of all time” is finally over, the grand jury is still looking into Watergate, and the press is quick to prejudge the men being called to testify. The coverage is so unfair that even the liberal commentator Daniel Schorr expresses doubt about it on the CBS Evening News.
