by Jo Haldeman
Giving an apologetic half-smile, Bob admits that their efforts to deal with Watergate were far from admirable and their language may have been crude at times.
May 1974
Shortly after the transcripts are released, they are published in paperback. Now that anyone and everyone has a copy, they are the subject of many lively discussions. When the Ehrlichmans join Bob and me for a five-day vacation in Palm Springs, we spend hours bemoaning their release. Jeanne and I are concerned about the negative impact of the less-than-presidential conversations. John continues to be upset that he had no knowledge of the taping system. Bob reminds us that it was installed to provide the president with an accurate record of what was said for his memoirs.
Bob is frustrated that the release of the transcripts has created a great distraction. The focus should be on the more important things the president is trying to accomplish. I’m more discouraged now than I have been in the past. I find nothing redeeming about the tapes, and I wish the president had destroyed them.
Although Nixon proposes comprehensive national health insurance in a radio address, it goes nowhere, and his public support continues to erode. By the end of the month, the House Judiciary Committee is warning the president that his refusal to turn over the actual tapes, rather than the edited transcripts, “might constitute a ground for impeachment.” When Nixon doesn’t comply, the Supreme Court agrees to review the matter.
Dwight Chapin is sentenced to ten to thirty months in federal prison. My heart breaks for him and his family. I know that it is extremely hard on Bob as well.
The Smoking Gun
June 1974
Indicted with Bob three months ago, Charles Colson pleads guilty to obstruction of justice and is sentenced to one to three years in prison and a $5,000 fine. The president’s popularity takes an unexpected upswing when he returns from a “triumphant” world tour. In Cairo, Nixon and President Anwar el-Sadat sign an accord in which the US will supply Egypt with nuclear technology. After attending the twenty-fifth anniversary of NATO, Nixon flies to Moscow, where he and Soviet Chief Brezhnev hold a third summit meeting and embark on a series of arms negotiations. As long as Nixon concentrates on foreign affairs, he gets high marks, fueling speculation that he might be able to regain his stature after all.
Sometimes I forget that there are other stories in the news. Mikhail Baryshnikov, the Soviets’ premier ballet dancer, defects to the West, and former chief justice of the Supreme Court Earl Warren dies. After being abducted last February, Patty Hearst, heiress to the Hearst publishing fortune, is being held captive by the Symbionese Liberation Army. The Environmental Protection Agency orders gas stations to have at least one pump with unleaded gas, and string bikinis are the latest craze.
When Non asks me to join her and five of her grandchildren, including Ann, on a whirlwind American Express tour of Europe, I look forward to spending the month abroad. As we move from country to country, I’m amazed to see how little the Europeans care about Watergate. Invariably, they believe that the American public is overreacting.
July 1974
Non and I stay abreast of the news by reading the International Herald Tribune. In Nice, France, it’s disheartening to see a picture of John Ehrlichman on the front page. Sitting on the boardwalk overlooking the Mediterranean, I read that he was convicted of conspiracy and perjury in the Ellsberg psychiatrist office break-in trial. I have tried not to think about Watergate on this trip, but reading this brings it all back. Suddenly, I feel very far away from home.
As soon as I return to Los Angeles, Watergate is front and center. The House Judiciary Committee approves three articles of impeachment, charging President Richard Milhous Nixon with obstruction of justice, abuse of power, and contempt of Congress. The last president to have impeachment proceedings brought against him was Andrew Johnson, 106 years ago. The Supreme Court rules that the president cannot claim executive privilege for the tapes, and he must surrender those that were subpoenaed.
Calling the Watergate scandal, “a shameful episode in the history of this country,” the judge in the Ellsberg break-in trial gives John Ehrlichman the harshest sentence yet meted out—twenty months to five years. I feel John’s pain when I read a description of his reaction in The Nation.
Ehrlichman momentarily lost his usual steely grip on himself. Standing glumly erect as he listened to the judge’s words, Ehrlichman returned silently to the witness table and reached out to steady himself on the back of his chair, then slowly sank down into his seat.
Former presidential lawyer Herbert Kalmbach goes to prison for six to eighteen months for campaign violations. Former secretary of the treasury John Connally is indicted on charges of bribery, perjury, and conspiracy.
In the meantime, Bob has found an agent and is working on a partial manuscript to submit to a New York publisher. He and Hank Saperstein hope to get a million dollar advance. When nothing materializes, Saperstein publicly admits, “It’s not easy to promote a book about the Nixon White House by someone who’s under indictment.” His comment is discouraging, but Bob takes it in stride and continues working on his manuscript. I don’t see how he does it.
August 1974
In August, Susan is clerking for an attorney in Red Wing, Minnesota, and both Hank and Peter are working in Los Angeles. Ann joins Bob and me and the four dogs at Bay Island for the month.
When my parents arrive at #11 for the weekend, the routine never varies. We hear the slap of Dad’s flip flops as he works around the house and walks back and forth to the dock, checking on his boat. From the front porch comes the sound of Mom snapping off the ends of the string beans that we’ll have with tonight’s leg of lamb dinner.
On Friday, August 2, Judge Sirica sentences John Dean to prison for one to four years for his admitted role in the cover-up. Three days later, a big Watergate story breaks. The White House releases three more tape transcripts of conversations held in the Oval Office and the EOB on June 23, 1972, six days after the break-in. In one of them, Bob and Nixon discuss getting the CIA to tell the FBI to “turn off” its investigation into “the Democratic break-in thing.”
The transcript reportedly links the president and his chief of staff to the “initial stages of the cover-up,” and public reaction to it is strong. Is this as bad as it sounds? How will it affect Bob’s case?
Outside, the wind is blowing, creating white caps on the bay. I know Bob would love to be out sailing, but he’s deluged with phone calls. When there’s finally a lull, he joins me on the porch.
“Don’t jump to conclusions, Jo,” he says, aware of my concern. “You’ve got to remember that the president and I were trying to keep the investigation from getting into other areas that had nothing to do with the break-in.”
Although Bob remains calm and self-assured, I am not. It becomes clear that the president has two options—resign or fight impeachment charges on the floor of the Senate. In no time, this June 23, 1972 tape becomes known as the “Smoking Gun.”
Is it possible that a conversation between Nixon and my husband could bring the presidency to an end? I am stunned.
I Do Not Want to Go to Jail
Tension continues to build, and the weather changes. Tuesday, August 6, is hot. There’s not a breath of wind, and the bay is as smooth as glass. The deadly calm feels ominous. Seeking relief from the heat, I set up a beach chair under an umbrella close to the water. Before long, Bob joins me. We’re alone, and I can tell that he has something important on his mind.
“Ziegler just called,” he begins. “He’s sure the president’s going to resign.”
“Oh, no…” I catch my breath.
“I hope to talk to him before he makes up his mind. But first, I’d like to get your opinion.”
“Yes?” I can’t imagine what Bob is thinking.
“I plan to ask the president for a pardon. What do you think?” Bob avoids looking at me, focusi
ng instead on two boys in kayaks having a water fight.
“A pardon?” I repeat. His suggestion comes as a surprise, and I need to collect my thoughts.
“Yes, a pardon…I do not want to go to jail.” Bob enunciates each word precisely.
“You won’t go to jail!” I blurt out. “You can’t!” The thought of Bob’s being sent to prison is abhorrent to me. Yet, I hesitate answering him.
Why? Why do I question Bob’s asking for his own pardon? I think it’s because I believe he’s innocent. And the only place for Bob to prove his innocence is in a court of law. To pardon is to forgive someone for an offense. Doesn’t asking for a pardon imply guilt?
“So?” Bob asks, glancing over at me.
I brush some sand from my arm. Looking up, my eyes meet his. I owe it to him to respond truthfully—even though I can’t fully explain my feelings. “A pardon would be extraordinary, Bob. If the president granted you one, all the uncertainty and fear that we’re experiencing now would be gone. We could get on with our lives.” My voice is firm, but now it falters. “It’s just that…that…I feel you should not ask for your own pardon. To me…it implies your acceptance of guilt. Let someone else request it.”
For a long while, Bob says nothing. Absentmindedly smoothing out an area of damp sand beside him, he uses a seashell to draw a set of ascending connected straight lines that resemble stairs.
At last, he speaks. “Actually, I was thinking that as his final act in office, the president should pardon everyone connected to Watergate and grant amnesty to all the Vietnam War draft dodgers. By dealing with the whole shebang in one fell swoop, he’d clear the slate for Ford.” Bob studies his design and adds a few more “steps.” “It may seem self-serving, but I honestly feel that the president would be doing the nation an enormous favor.”
The more Bob talks, the more resistant I become. I tell him that I don’t think the country would accept Nixon’s granting both a general amnesty and blanket pardons. The president is under attack, and emotions are too raw right now.
Bob isn’t persuaded, and our conversation peters out. Rubbing sand over his drawing, he tosses the shell into the water and heads back to the house. When I walk into the living room later, I find him talking on the phone to Al Haig. Explaining that he wants to discuss blanket pardons and amnesty with the president, Bob is put on hold. As he waits, I go into the bedroom to change into shorts and a polo shirt. The silence continues, and I start to tense up. Finally, I hear him say, “Thanks, Al. I understand.” There’s a click as he places the receiver back on its cradle.
I may question the premise for Bob’s call, but it hurts me deeply to see him denied access to Nixon. Within minutes, he places other calls. He talks to his lawyers, John Ehrlichman, and Dwight Chapin, explaining to each of them his proposal to grant universal pardons and amnesty. John agrees to contact Julie Eisenhower and Rose Mary Woods, both of whom might be helpful in getting through to the president.
For the rest of the day, I feel out of sorts. Seeking support, I call my father. As a lawyer, he’s greatly respected and noted for being fair and nonjudgmental.
“I don’t understand your position, Jo,” Dad says. “I’ve already written the president, asking him to give Bob a pardon. I think Nixon owes it to him, and Bob shouldn’t hesitate to ask for one.”
I’m taken aback by my father’s answer. It causes me to have second thoughts. Bob and I are in agreement on most issues, and I am generally supportive of him. But in this case, I feel as if I am undermining him. I don’t like to be in this position, and I wish I knew what to do. What to say…
◆
At 7:30 a.m. the next morning, the home phone rings while Bob and I are eating breakfast. When I answer it, a White House operator informs me that the president would like to speak to Mr. Haldeman. Bob takes the receiver and settles on a high stool next to the kitchen wall phone.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” Bob begins, reminding me of all the times I’ve overheard this greeting in the past. “No, sir, it’s foggy here.” There’s a long pause. “Yes, sir…I understand if you feel that you have to resign, but I think you’re making a serious mistake.” Bob’s voice is firm and decisive. “However, if this is your decision, you know that I’ll do everything I can to support you.”
Shifting his position on the stool, Bob swings around so that he’s facing the window in the upper half of the Dutch door. Outside in the turning basin, a small boat with three fishermen in it is anchored off the seawall. Each time they cast their lines, ripples move in graduating rings across the still water.
“Mr. President, there is one point that I would like to raise with you,” Bob continues, slowly twisting the telephone cord around his left index finger. “I firmly believe that you should exercise your constitutional authority to grant pardons… Yes, sir…to all those who have been charged with any crimes in connection with Watergate. And I also think that you should grant amnesty to the draft dodgers at the same time. In wiping the slate clean, pardons should go hand in hand with amnesty.”
Don’t do this, Bob.
Bob doesn’t falter. “For the sake of the country, and especially for the sake of your successor, I think it’s imperative that you bring all of this to an end. I realize that my request is a minor point compared to what you’re now facing, but I’d like to follow it up with a written recommendation as soon as possible.” Bob presents his case as if it were a run-of-the-mill White House memo. It’s cut and dried, impersonal. “I’ll do that,” he says, “and I wish you all the best… Yes, sir… Good luck, Mr. President.”
Giving a heavy sigh, Bob hangs up the receiver and then stands and stretches. “Well, it’s all over,” he says, and his voice is hoarse. “Without congressional support, the president feels he can’t govern the country. He’s going to resign tomorrow.”
“I’m so sorry, Bob. So very sorry.” I can only wonder what must be going through Nixon’s mind right now. So many memories…so many shattered hopes and dreams. Tentatively, I ask, “Do you think the president will grant the pardons and amnesty?”
“I doubt it,” Bob says. “But it was sure worth the effort.”
As soon as he finishes his breakfast, Bob gets back on the phone. In his race against the clock, he does everything he can to pursue his objective. First, he calls John to see if he’s made progress in contacting Julie and Rose. Then, he asks his lawyers to send a memo immediately to the White House on the subject of pardons and amnesty. His last call is to update Al Haig on what’s going on.
I sense that Bob is starting to act desperate, and it’s more than I can bear. Stepping outside, I’m engulfed in a low layer of early morning fog. Everything is damp, and I can taste the salt in the air. At the side of the house, the American flag droops on the flagpole. Bob’s Sunfish looks desolate on the beach, where he left it two days ago.
In an attempt to work off my frustration, I start sweeping the porch. Watching the sand disappear between the weathered wood planks gives me a sense of satisfaction. At least, I’m in control. The glass door slides open, and Bob steps out. I’m surprised to see him when he has so much going on.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“I just got a call from the FBI,” he says.
“What do you mean? Why?”
“One of their agents in Boston received an anonymous tip. Apparently, someone’s planning to kill me tonight.”
The broom slips out of my hand, and Bob catches it.
“Don’t worry, Jo. It’s not a big deal.”
“Murder’s not a big deal?” I ask weakly.
Bob grips my shoulders and looks at me. “I’m sure it was just a crank call. Everything’s under control. Mr. Joyce, from the FBI’s LA office, told me that he has already contacted the Newport Police. They should be arriving any minute.”
“The police are coming?” I can’t believe what Bob is saying. “The police are c
oming to Bay Island?”
Within the hour, Bob’s protection arrives in force. Three Newport policemen appear to stake out the island, a Coast Guard boat cruises back and forth in front of our house, and a police helicopter hovers overhead. By noon, the island is swarming with activity. Bewildered-looking neighbors congregate in little groups, trying to figure out what’s going on. All the attention exasperates Bob, who finally convinces the police to call off the boat and the helicopter.
“I can’t just ignore this,” Lieutenant Jim Spears says. “I’m leaving three plainclothes policemen here overnight. One will be stationed at the bridge, and the other two will be somewhere on the grounds. Don’t worry. They’ll be gone by eight tomorrow morning. I promise.”
Meanwhile, rumors of the president’s pending resignation are rampant, and several reporters show up at our door. At the same time, Peter calls from Los Angeles to report that the press is also gathering outside our home. He puts two of the reporters on the line, and I hear Bob tell each of them, “No comment.”
The phone rings again. It’s John Wilson confirming that Bob’s memo requesting blanket pardons and amnesty has been delivered to the president. A neighbor taps on the door and breezes in. Oblivious to all that’s going on, she proceeds to tell me how much she admires our family and presents me with an oversized green leather scrapbook of pugs. Pugs? Of all times, why now?
I am touched and thank her profusely. By nightfall, however, I have another concern. It’s the policemen stationed on the island. It’s a cool, foggy night, and at ten o’clock, I ask Ann to help me make gingerbread, while I put on a pot of coffee.
“Good grief. What’s going on?” Bob asks, stepping into the kitchen.
“Mom thinks the policemen will get cold,” Ann explains.
Bob shakes his head in disbelief. “I’m going to bed. The two of you are nuts.”
