by Jo Haldeman
Resignation and a Pardon
When I step outside to get the paper the next morning, the brick walk is damp from the heavy fog. Hesitating, I pick up the Los Angeles Times. Today—Thursday, August 8—is one day I’d rather not see the headline. But there it is: “Nixon Resignation Appears Imminent.” I scan the article as I walk back inside.
Nixon buckles under GOP pressure… Not enough support in the Senate to escape conviction if impeached by the House… Vice President Ford briefed by Nixon’s chief of staff…
It is reported that the president will address the nation tonight to announce his resignation. How can any of us understand the tremendous inner pain Nixon must be feeling? It’s such a sad way to end his career in government. He was so proud, and he accomplished so much.
Bob spends the day on the phone, still pushing for last-minute pardons and amnesty. I try to keep busy around the house, but what I really want is to be by myself. Late in the afternoon, I go for a sail in Hank’s little Sabot. The sun is finally out, and its warmth feels good. I’m alone, and memories of Richard Nixon flood my mind. Some are personal; some, presidential.
I envision Nixon as a candidate, wildly waving his hands above his head in a “V for victory” sign. I see him as president, confidently striding down the steps of Air Force One to shake hands with Chou En-lai on Chinese soil. And I’ll never forget the sight of him as the proud father of the bride, beaming as he escorted Tricia down the aisle in the White House Rose Garden.
For me personally, there’s the memory of all of the White House receiving lines where Nixon would grip my hand and ask about my “drinking problem.” He loved his little joke. It was his anchor in an insecure world of social amenities and small talk.
Tonight, Bob, Ann, and I gather in the living room to watch Nixon give the last formal speech of his presidency. Promptly at 6:00 p.m., the president appears on the TV screen. Seated at his desk in the Oval Office, he looks up and gives a forced smile. In his lapel is a small American flag. Reading slowly and deliberately, he begins.
“This is the thirty-seventh time I’ve spoken to you from this office. Throughout my public life, I have always tried to do what was best for the nation.”
Nixon tells us that without congressional support, he cannot continue as president. “With the disappearance of that base…there is no need for the process to be prolonged.”
Then Nixon says the words that must be the most difficult he has ever had to utter. “Therefore, I shall resign the presidency effective at noon tomorrow.”
I look over to see Bob’s reaction. He doesn’t flinch; he’s engrossed in the speech. The president continues, “By taking this action, I hope that I will have hastened the start of that process of healing which is so desperately needed in America.”
Referring to his inaugural address, Nixon reminds us of his promise to dedicate himself to the cause of peace. After mentioning his accomplishments, he concludes, “…To have served in this office is to have felt a very personal sense of kinship with each and every American. In leaving it, I do so with this prayer, ‘May God’s grace be with you in all the days ahead.’”
The president’s image fades, and I check my watch. It took only sixteen minutes for Nixon to announce the most significant decision of his presidency.
Slowly rising from the couch, Ann addresses her father. “I’m really sorry, Dad.”
Bob steps out on the porch, and I follow. The two of us stand in silence, side by side, looking at the bay. It’s the Thursday night “beer can race,” and a dozen sailboats glide by. Their giant, colorful spinnakers balloon out in front of them. In the distance, the hills are turning pink in the light of the setting sun. The sight of the slowly turning Ferris wheel at the Fun Zone is strangely poignant.
I feel empty. Not bitter, just terribly sad.
◆
At 6:30 a.m., on August 9, 1974, Bob and I are back on the couch again. This time, we’re here to watch live coverage of the president’s departure from the White House. The minute the Nixon family steps into the East Room, the US Marine Band plays “Hail to the Chief” for their last entrance. Three hundred members of Nixon’s staff are gathered to say goodbye. Many are crying.
Standing at a podium, Nixon starts out awkwardly. He lacks his usual rigorous self-control and gives in to his emotions. Fumbling in describing the virtues of government service, he adds that in his administration “no man or no woman ever profited at the public expense or the public till.”
The president’s speech is disjointed and rambling. Squirming uncomfortably, I shift positions. While Nixon talks, I study the somber expressions on the faces of Tricia, Eddie, Julie, David…and…Pat. Poor Pat. Her eyes are swollen from crying, and yet there she is standing at her husband’s side looking brave. I feel sorry for her. Should I have made an effort to reach out to her long ago when Jeanne Ehrlichman expressed concern? Probably not. If there was going to be a personal relationship, it would have had to come from the president or Pat.
Nixon goes on and on. He’s almost irrational. He talks about his father and mother and finally concludes by saying, “Always give your best; never get discouraged; never be petty. Always remember, others may hate you, but those who hate you don’t win unless you hate them. And then you destroy yourself.”
At last, it’s over. I’m relieved. It was truly painful to watch.
The scene changes to the South Lawn, where President and Mrs. Nixon are boarding the helicopter for Andrews Air Force Base. From there, the two of them will transfer to Air Force One, which will fly them across the country to California. At 12:00 p.m. Eastern time, Gerald Ford will be sworn in as the thirty-eighth president of the United States. At that exact moment, Richard Nixon will become a private citizen, and Air Force One will take on a new identification. Without the president on board, it officially becomes SAM 26000.“Well, that’s it,” Bob says in a resigned voice as he turns off the television. “Richard Nixon now has the dubious honor of being the first president in our country’s history to resign.” Bob shrugs and gives a weak smile. “In spite of everything, I’ll always be proud to have served under him.”
I find it difficult to be enthusiastic about President Ford’s acceptance speech. It hurts to see how positively it’s received. Referring to “a great new era,” and “returning honor to the presidency” after “our long national nightmare,” Ford casts shame on the Nixon administration, and I worry about how it reflects on Bob. I’m afraid that people will associate him with the “nightmare,” when there was so much more to the Nixon presidency.
As the aide departs from the White House, bloody but not quite bowed, he must watch with envy as the new president’s team marches in—crisp, confident, eager to clean up the mess in Washington, to get the country moving again.
—The Presidents’ Men by Patrick Anderson
September 1974
Bob’s trial has been continued until next month. We return to Hancock Park, and the four children return to their various schools—Susan at Boalt Hall School of Law for her second year; Hank, a senior at UCLA; Peter, a senior at Harvard School; and Ann, a sophomore at Marlborough.
On September 8, thirty days after being sworn in as president, Ford grants Nixon a “full, free, and absolute pardon for all federal crimes he committed or may have committed.” Explaining that “Richard Nixon and his loved ones have suffered enough,” Ford adds that a fair trial by jury wouldn’t be possible and that a presidential pardon will spare the nation any additional grief in this “American tragedy.”
I believe the pardon is in the country’s best interest, but public reaction to it is mixed. In general, it follows party lines, with many Democrats expressing outright anger. They want Nixon to stand trial, and some even accuse Ford of striking a deal with the former president. Republicans generally support the pardon. A number of our friends are annoyed that Nixon got off scot-free, leaving Bob and all the oth
ers to suffer the consequences.
“President Ford had no choice,” Bob tells his mother and me during dinner at the Los Angeles Country Club. “To save the presidency, he had to pardon President Nixon. Nothing would have been accomplished by dragging him through the mud.” A waiter sets down a plate of macaroons, and Bob takes two. “A trial would have been a big feeding frenzy for the media.”
The day after Nixon is pardoned, the White House announces that it “has under study the issue of pardons for those accused or convicted of Watergate crimes.” My heart skips a beat. Maybe…just maybe…this is it. And best of all, a pardon would be coming from a third party. I’m excited. Bob won’t have to face a trial. He can get a job and pay off his legal fees. The press will leave us alone. Our lives will finally return to normal.
“Don’t hold your breath, Jo,” Bob advises. “President Ford hasn’t acted yet.”
A week later, Ford offers conditional clemency to the Vietnam War deserters and draft dodgers, but there are no pardons. Watergate is still dragging us along. On top of everything else, Bob’s prospects for publishing a book dry up. After contacting fourteen publishers, his agent tells him that he won’t be representing him any longer.
“The president’s resignation put a lid on things,” Hank Saperstein says. “Besides, Nixon’s going to write his own memoirs. Who’d want to read Haldeman’s version, if he could get Nixon’s?”
Where does that leave Bob? He needs lawyers, and lawyers cost money. Household expenses, mortgage payments, and tuition for the children’s schools cost money, too. Although he assures me that he gets some income from investments, I’m not sure where we stand financially.
“What are you going to do?” I ask, stepping out on our patio. Sunshine streams through the craggy branches of the Brazilian pepper tree in the center of the garden, and at its base, colorful pink and white impatiens are in full bloom. Bob is working at the glass-topped wrought iron table, with Rufus stretched out in the sun at his feet.
“I hate to tell you this, Jo, but at this point, my only option is a defense fund,” he says. “I know how you feel about it, but take a look at this.” Rummaging through a pile of papers, he pulls out a letter asking for contributions on Bob’s behalf. It’s signed by Z. Wayne Griffin, a well-known Los Angeles businessman and a friend of the family.
As much as I hate the idea of asking for money, I reluctantly agree. “You’ve got to do it, Bob.” I see no other way out. The next day, Wayne sends his letter to 1,500 of his business associates, along with a financial fact sheet.
Friction Benefits Me
While media hype over the upcoming Watergate trial grows daily, I’m only slightly aware of other world news events. After ruling in “opulent splendor” for fifty-eight years, Haile Selassie, emperor of Ethiopia, is unseated in a bloodless coup. Cyclone Fifi hits Honduras, killing ten thousand people. Alexander Haig is appointed NATO commander in Europe, and Betty Ford undergoes surgery for breast cancer.
Reporting one negative story after another, the press keeps pounding Bob. Woodward and Bernstein quote sources as saying that his request for a pardon was “threatening” and “tantamount to blackmail.” When the two reporters write that Bob implied he would send Nixon to jail if he didn’t get a pardon, Bob’s lawyer publicly refutes the article. It’s a valiant attempt by John Wilson, but I doubt if it does any good. No one will read it. No one cares.
Parade magazine states that “many White House observers accuse Haldeman of contributing to the fall of his boss by isolating him, abusing power, refusing to permit dissent, and surrounding himself with arrogant, ruthless, untruthful, paranoidal, subservient aides.”
In his San Francisco Chronicle column, Herb Caen reports that Bob was “coldly” told that he would not be charged for dinner at Chez Panisse, because the restaurant wouldn’t accept “tainted money.” In reality, when Bob, Susan, and I were at Chez Panisse, the manager enthusiastically welcomed us and insisted that our dinner was “on the house.” Bob left a generous tip.
In one newspaper, Jeanne Ehrlichman and I are described as “single-minded and ambitious like their husbands; never a part of Washington social life; and always aloof, close-mouthed, and mysterious… Official Washington, which never particularly liked them, gives both women high marks in their hour of trial.”
It’s been a long time since I have read anything positive about Bob. The press has built him up as such a villain that I don’t see how he’s ever going to get an objective trial.
◆
Bob plans to be in Washington for jury selection, which is scheduled to begin on the first of October. Although Susan has already started classes, she is going to take the term off. She wants to support her father by attending the trial and will take advantage of the unique opportunity to observe his lawyers at work.
I will join Bob and Susan when the actual trial begins. Knowing that it could last up to four months, I decide to split my time between Washington and Los Angeles. I plan to spend two to three weeks in Los Angeles, then two to three weeks in DC. That’s a long time to be gone from home, and I don’t like the thought of being so far away from the children. Hank lives independently, but I have to arrange for a housekeeper to stay with Peter and Ann. Neither they nor I are happy with this arrangement. I’m glad that they will be in school most of the time and that their grandparents are here to check on them.
When it comes time to pack, Bob has to resurrect his suits and winter clothes from the attic. Neatly arranging stacks of folded shirts, sweaters, and ties, he packs two suitcases. His suits go on hangers in a garment bag.
“This trial’s going to be a charade,” he says, when I enter our bedroom. “I don’t know why I’m even packing for it. Sirica’s a lousy judge, and it’ll be impossible for me to get a fair deal.”
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
“Sirica’s not very smart. He’s opinionated and doles out harsh sentences. People call him ‘Maximum John’ for a reason.”
Bob’s negativity is uncharacteristic and disturbs me. This trial is the greatest challenge that he’s ever had to face, and it’s important for him to think positively. The poem, “Friction Benefits Me,” by Elena Goforth Whitehead is helpful to me, and I slip it into his suitcase. It reads in part:
No life is free of conflict and abrasion,
But I select the metal of my mold.
My attitudes are of my own persuasion,
Disturbed and hurt, or calm and self-controlled.
October 1974
In order to prepare for the trial and find a place to live, Bob flies to Washington a few days before jury selection begins. A friend lends him a car, and in no time, he has rented a townhouse in Alexandria, Virginia. Unlike in political campaigns, Bob calls every night. I look forward to his report, but it’s not like being there with him.
On the first day of jury selection, the judge orders a separate trial for Gordon Strachan. A photo of Bob arriving at court appears in the Los Angeles Times. The paper predicts that Nixon will cast a large shadow over the proceedings but will probably never appear personally. John Ehrlichman has subpoenaed the former president as a defense witness, and the prosecution wants to question Nixon about the tapes.
The Times also reports that there are “cracks in the once solid front of the White House ‘twins’—Haldeman and Ehrlichman,” who may break with one another. John is supposedly “seething” over the tapes and is convinced that Bob and the president “deliberately kept him in the dark and frequently discussed him behind his back.” I hope that the story is exaggerated. I’m anxious to talk to Jeanne about it.
It takes the prosecution and defense lawyers eleven days to select a jury of nine women and three men. Susan arrives in DC in time to hear the judge give the jury instructions.
The trial is set to begin on Monday, October 14. With my heart in my throat, I say goodbye to Hank, Peter, and Ann and leave for Washi
ngton.
Bob Haldeman testifying in the Watergate Cover-up Trial, November 29, 1974.
John Daly Hart, The New York Times
Part Four
THE TRIAL
An Arabian Tent and the Courtroom
Time magazine ranks the Watergate trial as “one of the ten or so most important events in the American presidency.” Identified in court as Criminal Case No. 74-110 United States of America v. John Mitchell, et al., it has five defendants: John Mitchell, H. R. Haldeman, John Ehrlichman, Robert Mardian, and Kenneth Parkinson. I’ve never met Mardian or Parkinson, the former assistant attorney general and the former counsel for the Committee to Re-Elect the President. I don’t know why these five men are linked together. It compounds the case for each of them and is unfair.
If only Bob could stand trial alone.
It’s intimidating to think about what lies ahead, but I love being back in Washington. I’m curious to see the townhouse that Bob rented in Arlington. When he stops the car in front of the three-story brick residence at 216 Wilkes Street, I’m pleased. A brick sidewalk is lined with trees whose bright yellow leaves shimmer in the early evening light. We are two blocks from the Potomac River, where a cluster of small boats lies at anchor in a protected harbor.
Although the scene is vintage New England, the interior of our new home is contemporary. Susan calls it a “bachelor pad,” and Bob seems anxious to get my reaction. I can see why, as the three of us walk from room to room. There is a floor-to-ceiling fish tank in the living room, and the dining room has no windows. In keeping with its Japanese décor, the table is two feet off the floor with Japanese legless chairs, or zaisus. The master bath is black from top to bottom, and the coup de grâce is the master bedroom. It’s an Arabian tent. Fabric with wild patterns of black, brown, and white swirls is draped from the center of the ceiling to the tops of the walls and then down to the floor, concealing the windows and doors. The carpet is white fur, and a smoky mirror covers the wall behind a king-sized mattress, which sits on the floor. Three over-sized pillows have been randomly placed around the room, and a three-foot tall, brass Turkish hookah stands in one corner. There is no other furniture.
