by Jo Haldeman
This past year, a new kind of journalism developed, and I found myself doing on a daily routine some things I would never have done before. There was a vacuum in investigation, and the press began to try men in the most effective court in the country. The men involved in the Watergate [affair] were convicted by the media, perhaps in a more meaningful way than any jail sentence they will eventually get.
On August 15, the president gives his second major speech on Watergate. Denying a role in the cover-up, he admits abuses by his subordinates. There isn’t a day that goes by without a story about the Nixon White House. Secretary of State William Rogers resigns and is replaced by Henry Kissinger. Vice President Agnew is under investigation for alleged conspiracy, extortion, bribery, and tax fraud. Judge Sirica orders the president to turn over to the Justice Department the tapes of nine specific meetings related to Watergate. Nixon refuses. John Ehrlichman is indicted with three others in connection with the break-in at Ellsberg’s psychiatrist’s office. Jeb Magruder pleads guilty to a one-count indictment of conspiracy to obstruct justice, defraud the US, and eavesdrop on the Democratic National Headquarters. And when John Mitchell walks out on Martha, she tells the press that the stories about her receiving psychiatric care are “goddamned lies.”
Although I have found an English Tudor house in Hancock Park that both Bob and I like, the purchase is contingent upon the sale of our townhouse. Until we have a qualified buyer, Bob and I will continue to live at #11, while Peter and Ann stay with friends in the city in order to attend their new schools. It’s frustrating.
The Attic and the Puppy
September 1973
In September, there’s a noticeable change on Bay Island as summer residents pack up and head home. The days are shorter, and the ground is covered with large, dry sycamore leaves. At #11, the clothesline is empty, and the beach equipment is stored in an upstairs closet. Susan leaves for UC Berkeley’s Boalt Hall School of Law, and Hank returns to UCLA as a junior. Peter enters the eleventh grade at Harvard School, his father’s alma mater. And Ann is in the ninth grade at Marlborough, the alma mater of her mother, sister, grandmother, and various aunts. With our children gone, the beach house is a lonely place. Bob and I are the only ones left—along with three pugs.
October 1973
The townhouse sells in mid-September, and on Tuesday morning, October 2, a large Allied van arrives at 443 North McCadden Place with our furniture. With Bob’s help, the move-in is completed by nightfall. Three months after leaving Washington, our family is united under one roof, and Peter and Ann can enjoy the privacy of their own bedrooms.
Back in our old neighborhood, surrounded by family and friends, I find that it’s easy to slip into the same lifestyle I had five years ago. Before long, I’m serving on both the Harvard School Mothers’ Club Board and the Salvation Army Advisory Board. Bob and I become active in our church, and each of us teaches a Sunday School class.
When Bob isn’t in Washington, he spends most of his time in his upstairs study. The room isn’t large. His desk, daybed, chair, and ottoman take up most of the space. Bookshelves line one wall, and his guitar case leans against them. The three windows in the corner overlook our small, kidney-shaped swimming pool, as well as the canopy of a large Brazilian pepper tree in our backyard.
Bob’s autographed photos of prominent national leaders hang on the wall, along with Nixon’s inaugural quote. To these, he has added his collection of framed political cartoons lampooning him. There’s no room for the large portrait of Nixon, and it ends up in the attic, safely wedged between two boxes of Christmas decorations.
“From now on, slacks and blazers are as dressy as I’m going to get,” Bob says, passing me in the hall. In his arms is a mound of suits. Each one is on a wood hanger in a tan plastic bag, clearly identified in large black print – Navy Blue, Olive Green, Pinstripe, Tan, etc. The suits go into the attic with Nixon, and I wonder when I will see any of them again.
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Financially, Watergate has Bob trapped in limbo. Until he knows whether he’s going to be indicted by the grand jury, he can’t get a job. In the meantime, we’re living off his J. Walter Thompson retirement fund and income from our investments. Bob figures this will cover us in the short run, and he writes me a monthly check so I can pay our daily living expenses. He pays the school tuitions, taxes, and mortgage payments. His legal bills are mounting, and I worry.
Before we left Washington, when Nixon suggested that Bob and John could work at the Nixon Foundation, the two of them turned him down. There was also discussion of a deal with Reader’s Digest to write about Nixon’s first term in the White House, but Bob wasn’t interested.
“If I ever do any writing, it’ll be a book,” he says. “It’ll be about the president’s accomplishments. Not Watergate…but the rest of the Nixon story…like China, détente with Russia, welfare, healthcare, and tax reform. All that stuff that the president never gets any credit for.”
Bob soon realizes that writing a book is in fact the best way for him to make money. It’s a monumental task, but he’s disciplined and makes himself do it. After breakfast each morning, he goes up to his office, where he spends an hour studying the Christian Science Bible Lesson. Then he picks up a yellow pad and a pen and starts writing.
With time at home, Bob decides to get a dog. Claiming that pugs “don’t count as real dogs,” he researches the subject and comes up with the perfect breed—the Rhodesian Ridgeback.
Once Bob finds a litter, however, there’s a snag. The breeder refuses to sell a puppy to someone who is unemployed. Fortunately, he’s an avid Nixon supporter, and when he realizes who Bob is, the breeder quickly changes his mind. Bob returns home with the pick of the litter, as well as a collar, leash, and two bags of kibble.
With a soulful look and a long, wagging tail, “Rufus” joins our family. Handsome and smart, the gangly puppy is devoted to Bob. Soon, the two of them are inseparable. Curled up in a spot of sunshine on the carpet in Bob’s office, Rufus doesn’t move until Bob takes a break for lunch. In the late afternoon, they emerge again. This time, it’s for obedience training in the driveway.
The Saturday Night Massacre
In Washington, the Nixon White House continues to unravel. After admitting to his role in the payment of “hush money” to the Watergate burglars, John Dean pleads guilty to obstruction of justice. Pleading nolo contendere to one count of income tax evasion, Vice President Agnew resigns, and a judge sentences him to three years’ probation and a $10,000 fine. Nixon nominates House Minority Leader Gerald Ford to succeed Agnew.
With still no word from the Watergate grand jury, Non moves ahead with her plans to give a welcome home party in honor of Bob and me. It’s black tie, and I look forward to wearing my second inaugural ball gown.
On October 12, the Los Angeles Country Club is abuzz as two hundred guests gather for a reception and a sit-down dinner. Following a dessert of individual hot chocolate soufflés, Non steps up to the microphone and introduces her son. With his longer hair and deep tan, Bob looks handsome. He gives a brief summary of his experience at the White House and the effects of Watergate and then asks for questions.
In response to one about the tapes, he says, “I have always supported the president’s position on nondisclosure of privileged material, but I have no doubt that if and when the tapes are made public, President Nixon and I will be fully exonerated. As I told him, the tapes are our best defense.”
I hope Bob is right about the tapes. It’s reassuring to know that he is convinced that they will prove his innocence. I’m glad when he tells the guests that he wants to go on record publicly with his side of the story. “But,” he adds, “It must be at the right time and to the proper authorities.”
When asked about the five civil lawsuits pending against him, Bob’s response is lighthearted. “It would appear that I’m involved in a new government recreational program designed to k
eep the unemployed occupied.”
Meanwhile, the tapes create a major problem for Nixon. The president offers to have Democratic Senator Stennis review and summarize the tapes that have been requested by the special prosecutor. Archibald Cox refuses the offer, and things reach a climax. Nixon asks for Cox’s resignation. Cox refuses. On Saturday night, October 20, the president orders the attorney general to fire Cox. Rather than carry out the order, both the attorney general and the deputy attorney general resign. In a wild night of great confusion, the solicitor general, the third-ranking official in the Justice Department, reluctantly agrees to take over and fires Cox.
Throughout the evening, I keep the TV on and watch with alarm as the networks keep breaking into their programs with updated bulletins. John Chancellor begins his broadcast by telling us that the “country is in the midst of what may be the most serious constitutional crisis in its history.”
“Nothing even remotely like this has ever happened,” he says. “In my career as a correspondent, I never thought I would be announcing these things.”
I’m anxious to hear from Bob, who is in Washington. When he finally calls, it’s late at night.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “It sounds awful.”
“It is awful,” he agrees. “The president’s being chewed to death from every side. Haig called this afternoon to talk about the situation, and I agreed with him that drastic action was the only way for the president to save himself.”
I am concerned that Bob supports taking “drastic action,” and I am surprised to hear that the White House is still seeking his counsel.
Tonight’s events soon become known as the “Saturday Night Massacre.” Calling Nixon a “madman and a tyrant,” the press plays it for all it is worth. Senator Kennedy claims that it was a reckless act, done by a president “who has no respect for the law and no regard for men of conscience.”
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Four days later, the president vetoes the War Powers Resolution, calling the bill “unconstitutional and dangerous.”
The Tapes, the Tapes, the Tapes
November 1973
On November 1, the president appoints a new special prosecutor. Leon Jaworski is a sixty-eight-year-old Democrat who voted for Nixon. Two weeks later, the House allocates one million dollars to begin an impeachment process. It’s sad. Just one year ago, the president won the election by the largest number of votes in history.
On November 7, Nixon receives another setback when Congress overrides his presidential veto of the War Powers Resolution. A few days later, Nixon tells a group of Associated Press managing editors that he has never profited financially from public service. Justifying himself, he adds, “People have to know whether or not their president is a crook. Well, I’m not a crook.”
The media and political cartoonists pick up on the president’s unfortunate remark. Every time I see something about it, I find it hard to believe that this is the same man who spoke with such eloquence and inspiration at his first inauguration. I think of the quote hanging on the wall of Bob’s study, and I’m disheartened.
The dispute over the tapes continues. The president cites national security as a reason for not turning them over, but he agrees to release edited transcripts. When I hear that the conversations might contain both swearing and racial slurs, I become apprehensive. On the other hand, Bob steadfastly maintains that the tapes will vindicate him.
When an 18½–minute gap is discovered in a recording of a discussion that took place in the Oval Office on June 20, 1972, only three days after the Watergate break-in, it creates more mistrust. My heart sinks when I hear that the conversation was between the president and Bob. Why is it always Bob? Why couldn’t it have been John Dean or even John Ehrlichman? The press suggests that Nixon and Bob could have been discussing a cover-up. Questions are raised. Was the tape accidentally erased? Did someone tamper with it?
“I can guarantee you that the president and I were not talking about any cover-up,” Bob assures the family over Thanksgiving.
Seated on chaises by Non’s pool at Smoke Tree, six of us are discussing Conrad’s cartoon in today’s Los Angeles Times. It shows the president and Bob conferring, but there are no words in the conversation balloons. When we ask what could have caused the gap, Bob speculates that it might have been the president himself.
“He’s so mechanically inept,” he explains.
Several days later, Rose Mary Woods tells Judge Sirica that she made a “terrible mistake,” and she is responsible. She forgot to remove her left foot from the pedal of the tape player when she took a phone call. As hard as she tries to demonstrate what took place, however, it appears to be physically impossible. People doubt that she is telling the truth.
The tapes, the tapes, the tapes. That’s all I read about these days. They are even the subject of a sham notice in The Harvard Daily Bulletin at Peter’s school.
Members of The Cassette Tape Recording Club are advised to see Peter Haldeman if they can’t attend a meeting scheduled for seventh period.
My heart goes out to our son.
December 1973
Still no word from the grand jury. In South Vietnam, the fighting continues without US participation, and the Communists quickly take over two-thirds of the country. The Nobel Peace Prize is awarded to both Henry Kissinger and Le Duc Tho, founder of the Indochinese Communist Party. An Arab oil embargo creates an energy crisis in the US, resulting in long lines at gas stations across the country. Congressman Gerald Ford is sworn in as vice president.
Only twelve months ago, we were still living in Kenwood. Bertha was working for us, and Watergate was being described as “that great, gummy fungus.” Although our life has changed substantially since then, our celebration of Christmas remains the same. Bob hangs strands of colored lights around our outside entrance, while I decorate the tree in the living room.
Dressed in tuxedos and long dresses, fifteen members of the extended Haldeman family arrive for Christmas Eve dinner and gifts. On Christmas morning, my parents join us for breakfast. Mom’s contribution is a tray of broiled grapefruit doused with brandy and brown sugar. Along with our stockings and presents, there’s a gift for each of the three pugs, as well as for our newest addition, Rufus.
We spend the week after Christmas at Smoke Tree with Non. To accommodate seven adults and thirteen grandchildren, the garage has been converted into a dormitory for the boys. The driveway at Rock 12 is filled with bikes, and the American flag hangs limply from the flagpole.
Following dinner at the Ranch House on New Year’s Eve, we stroll back to Non’s house. The dark forms of cactus line the road, and the stars shine brilliantly. Bob searches for Orion. The moon reflects off the snowy peaks of Mount San Jacinto, and the air is cold. I link arms with my husband and dig my other hand into the warm, wool lining of my jacket pocket. It’s a different world here at Smoke Tree, and I am at peace. No one reacts to the Haldeman name. No one judges us.
January 1974
In January, the unanswered question of the 18½–minute gap in the White House tape is turned over to the grand jury. The cover of Newsweek features a cartoon of Nixon, Bob, and Rose Mary Woods posed as the Greek statue of Laocoön and his sons. Instead of serpents entangling them, it is the tapes.
Following Kissinger’s “shuttle diplomacy” in the Middle East, Egypt and Israel reach an agreement on troop disengagement, and the president receives a much-needed boost in the polls. In his State of the Union address, Nixon names the energy crisis, welfare, and mass transit as the major domestic issues plaguing the country. He states that one year of Watergate is enough and implores the country and Congress to turn to more urgent matters. I hope he can convince the American people that his ability to govern hasn’t been damaged.
February 1974
On February 25, the House Judiciary Committee formally requests the White House to produce recordings of forty-t
wo Watergate-related conversations between the president and members of his administration. When it’s reported that the thirteen men and eight women on the grand jury are probably going to indict several key Nixon aides, I hate to hear Bob say that he assumes that he is one of them.
“I think it’s inevitable, Jo. And, if I’m indicted, I’ll have to go to trial in a few months.”
A week later, when we are washing the dishes after dinner, Bob tells me that he talked to a former bank officer who served eight months in Lompoc Federal Prison.
“Why?” I ask, completely caught off guard.
“I wanted to find out what to expect if I have to go to jail.”
“Don’t talk like that, Bob. You are not going to jail.”
“Well, that remains to be seen. I thought it was a good chance to get some firsthand information on a prison camp here in Southern California. The guy said that it wasn’t as bad as he expected. He was treated well, and the time passed quickly.”
I don’t want to hear this. While Bob dries a colander, I scrub an iron skillet in a sink of soapy water. Prison. I scrub harder. Not only do I want to get rid of the bits of fried liver and onions, but I want to scrub away any thoughts of an indictment, trial, or prison.
“Aren’t you being a little premature?” I ask, handing Bob the clean skillet.
“I’m just being realistic, Jo.”
The Long Wait is Over
March 1974
Until Bob’s resignation a year ago, nearly everything in his life had gone his way. He was surrounded by a loving and supportive family, was in excellent health, and had no financial problems. Bright and capable, he quickly rose to the top in advertising. As White House chief of staff, Bob reached the pinnacle of his career. Exuding confidence, he was driven and demanding. Now he spends his days waiting to hear if he will be indicted.
