by Jo Haldeman
“I hope you won’t have nightmares,” Bob says, giving a hopeless shrug. Groping the sheets that cover the door, he tries to find his way out. When he does, I follow.
October 14, 1974—Trial Day One
On Monday morning, October 14, I’m disoriented when I awake. Everything seems surreal. It’s hard enough to accept the fact that Bob will be a principal defendant in a major criminal trial today, let alone that the two of us have just spent the night completely enclosed in futuristic brown, black, and white swirls.
The day gets off to a slow start. As I get up, I come face to face with myself in the huge mirror. I look tired and frazzled and immediately begin to worry about the impression I will make in court. Crawling around on all fours, Bob helps me make up the bed. Susan joins us for breakfast in the Japanese dining room, where I discover that stockings and heels don’t make it easy to sit on a zaisu on the floor. The air is hot and humid when we step outside, but my hands are cold and clammy. I wish I felt more confident about what to expect in court.
Our transportation is an older model Checker cab, which a friend has lent us until we can buy a used car. When traffic slows to a crawl on the Fourteenth Street Bridge, Bob gets antsy, and his fingers nervously tap on the steering wheel. One block from the Capitol, he turns into the parking lot for the United States District Courthouse on Constitution Avenue. Spectators line the sidewalk, and a few of them snicker as we walk past. In the lobby, we take the escalator to the second floor and proceed down a long hall. Bob points to a closed door on the right.
“Over the next few months, we’ll be spending a lot time in that courtroom,” he says. “That’s where the Honorable Judge John J. Sirica presides.”
I tense up and grip Bob’s arm for assurance. Across the hall, we enter a suite of three rooms which has been made available for the defendants and their attorneys. Bob and his lawyers have staked out the middle room, while the others use the larger and smaller rooms on either side. There are tables and chairs, a couple of desks, and a red, Naugahyde couch. Sunlight streams in through large south-facing windows that overlook the entrance to the building.
As soon as Bob, Susan, and I enter the room, John Ehrlichman and John Mitchell break away from their groups to greet me. After exchanging hugs, I tell them that I miss their wives. John M. jokes about his lonely life after his divorce from Martha, and John E. tells me that he and Jeanne have sold their house in Virginia and have moved back to Seattle.
Bob introduces me to Bob Mardian, Ken Parkinson, their wives, and the other lawyers. At 9:20 a.m., a marshal appears and asks everyone to follow him into Courtroom Two. The casual conversation subsides, and we collect our things and walk across the hall. With an uneasy sense of foreboding growing with each step, I keep my head down and focus on the granite floor. For a fleeting moment, I’m not sure if I want to be here after all.
Sirica’s courtroom is crowded and buzzing with excitement as our group enters. Bob explains that the public sits on the left and the press and court artists are on the right. The trial will not be televised. We make our way down the aisle to the first two rows on the left, which are reserved for the families and friends of the defendants, witnesses, and attorneys. Glancing at his watch, Bob leaves to join his lawyers, and I take one of the few remaining seats in the second row.
Everyone around me is talking. They act as if this were a fun event. Reporters scrutinize our side of the room, and when their eyes rest on me, I straighten up. Although I feel insecure and alone, I try to appear confident. I focus on what is going on directly in front of me inside the rail.
I spot Susan sitting on a bench near a table where her father and John Wilson are conferring. I will be looking at the back of their heads during most of the trial. To the right are the other four defendants’ tables. Centered on the back wall, the judge’s seat faces the courtroom, with the court reporter and clerks in front of it. The prosecutors’ table is in front of the jury box, which lines the left wall. In the far left corner, the witness box looks isolated and lonely.
At 9:30 a.m., the clerk’s voice cuts through the chatter. “Will you all please rise.” Susan looks over her shoulder and gives me a reassuring smile. A door in the back opens, and the stooped figure of Judge Sirica enters. I’m surprised to see how small and unimposing he is. As soon as he takes his seat, I expect the action to start, but it doesn’t. Without the jury in the room, the lawyers haggle over legal issues, and the preliminary proceedings last for two hours.
At 11:30 a.m., the jury is finally called in, and I lean forward to get a better view of the nine women and three men who hold my husband’s fate in their hands. I can feel a knot in my stomach as I search their faces for a revealing expression, but there is none. Each of them looks stoic and serious, and I wonder what they are thinking. According to a recent poll, 84 percent of the people in Washington are convinced that Mitchell, Haldeman, Ehrlichman, Mardian, and Parkinson are guilty.
At the prosecutors’ table, Associate Special Prosecutor James Foster confers with four of his assistants. One of them stands and introduces himself to the court. Richard Ben-Veniste has a shock of jet-black hair and is wearing rimless glasses. He looks young and acts pompous, as he explains to the jury that it’s his job to give the government’s opening statement.
“The opening argument is like showing you the cover of a jigsaw puzzle box,” he says. “When you see what the picture looks like, it will be easier to put the pieces together.”
Ben-Veniste begins by describing the early morning break-in at the Democratic headquarters in the Watergate. The easel beside him holds a chart titled “The Cast of Characters,” and I cringe when I see Bob’s name on it. Ben-Veniste weaves an incriminating web as he works his way through a series of activities that occurred over a two-year time span. At every opportunity, he repeats the words “illegal” and “immoral.” His voice drones on, and my head nods. To force myself to focus, I pull a steno pad out of my purse and start taking notes.
At 12:20 p.m., we adjourn for an hour and a half lunch break. The defendants, their lawyers, and family members return to the defendants’ rooms. With an array of legal documents spread out on the table, Bob’s three lawyers—John Wilson, Frank Strickler, and Ross O’Donoghue—decide to work through the break.
Bob, Susan, and I walk to Barney’s, a nearby delicatessen, to get takeout lunches for the six of us. On the way back, we stop in front of the courthouse to watch a group of reporters in shirtsleeves playing football on the lawn. We exchange smiles, and a photographer from The Washington Post scurries over to take our picture.
The afternoon drags as Ben-Veniste goes through his chronology of events. To stay alert, I start taking notes again. Each time Bob’s name is mentioned, I mark it with an asterisk. There are three asterisks:
*Magruder told Bob that burglars were caught in the Watergate.
*On Bob’s orders, Strachan destroyed evidence in both his and Bob’s files.
*Bob controlled a secret cash fund.
Concluding his remarks, Richard Ben-Veniste tells the jury, “Keep your eye on the ball following the evidence. You will find beyond any reasonable doubt that these defendants are guilty.”
“The government must prove what it has said,” Judge Sirica adds. “Just remember, the prosecution’s opening statement isn’t evidence.” Court is adjourned at 4:35 p.m. It’s been a long first day, but the upside of it is that I better understand what to expect in court.
Had by His Boss
October 15, 1974—Trial Day Two
This morning, there’s a large photo of Bob, Susan, and me on the front page of The Washington Post. All three of us look happy. I show the paper to Bob, who is trying to eat breakfast in our Japanese dining room. Struggling to get his legs under the table, he has knocked his placemat askew.
At the courthouse, a sense of camaraderie prevails in the defendants’ rooms, and I enjoy talking with Bob Mardian
and Ken Parkinson, as well as their wives. At 9:45 a.m., the jury is called into the courtroom, and John Ehrlichman’s lawyer stands. Bill Frates is the first defense lawyer to give an opening statement. This can be done before or after the prosecution presents its case. Bob’s and John Mitchell’s lawyers have chosen to wait.
There’s a hushed silence as people wait to hear what Frates has to say. Is John really going to split with Bob and blame the president? Frates’ voice rises and falls in a steady cadence. Then, slowly and deliberately, he states, “President Richard Nixon deceived, lied, and misled John Ehrlichman…to save his own neck.”
The words are sharp and angry. They leave no doubt as to what course John will be taking, and I feel as if a giant wall has come between him and Bob. I look for a reaction. John is bent over an artist’s pad in deep concentration, and his pencil moves rapidly. Bob is leaning over his table, intently writing on a yellow pad. Neither of them looks up.
Frates continues. “President Nixon, who knew the full story, withheld it from Mr. Ehrlichman and prevented his recommended disclosure of the facts. John Ehrlichman was forced to resign in order to take the heat. In simple terms, he was had by his boss.”
Had by his boss? This is so different from John’s testimony at the Senate Watergate Committee. At that time, he didn’t know about the existence of the White House tapes, and he told the senators that he didn’t apologize for his loyalty to the president any more than he apologized for his love of this country.
The jurors show no emotion, and I desperately want to know what they’re thinking. “Stiff like martinets,” I write. I wish I knew more about them. Bob tells me that when they were asked if they recognized any of the defendants during the selection process, one of the women had pointed to him. “I recognize that one,” she had said. “But now he looks like a movie star.”
Following a long discussion at the bench between the lawyers and Judge Sirica, Bob Mardian’s lawyer stands to give his opening statement. Short and paunchy, David Bress gets off to a slow start. He becomes indignant and loses me as he goes on and on. I don’t see how the jury can keep track of his presentation any better than I can.
When we leave the courthouse this evening, Susan vents her frustration. “It’s ridiculous, Mom. Each of the five defendants expects the jury to track his side of the story, but that’s impossible. Sirica won’t let them take notes, and it’s completely unrealistic for him to tell them that by being attentive they will remember everything.”
As I prepare dinner, I keep thinking about John Ehrlichman’s opening statement. It raises a lot of questions. Was Bill Frates successful in portraying Nixon as the bad guy? If so, will it make the jury more sympathetic toward John? How will this affect Bob’s case? I haven’t noticed any change in his relationship with John, although the two of them don’t spend much time together. They are with their lawyers virtually every minute.
John Wesley Dean, III
October 16, 1974—Trial Day Three
It’s pouring rain on the third day of the trial. Clutching umbrellas, Susan, Bob, and I put our heads down and trudge from the parking lot to the courthouse. On our way, we pass a long line of people waiting to be admitted to the morning session. Only a few have umbrellas or raincoats. Most of them are soaking wet.
“Looks like everyone wants to see Dean take the stand today,” Bob says as he steps to the side, attempting to avoid a large puddle.
John Wesley Dean, III, the thirty-five-year-old “hero” of the Senate Watergate hearings, is the government’s star witness. With his amazing memory and precise recitation of details, he will provide the foundation of the prosecution’s case, along with the White House tapes and transcripts.
Dean, tapes, and transcripts—it’s a powerful combination. As I think about it, a gnawing feeling grows in the pit of my stomach. I wonder how the team of defense lawyers plans to discredit it. The tapes and transcripts will speak for themselves. Not only will the jurors hear Nixon and his aides intimately talking in the Oval Office, but they will be able to read every word. Using only those portions of the tapes that they want to emphasize, the prosecution will repeat them over and over, driving home each and every point.
Ken Parkinson’s lawyer, Jake Stein, is first on the court agenda this morning. “Salt and pepper hair combed straight back,” I write as Stein walks over to the lectern and arranges a stack of green note cards. His quiet, personable way of speaking makes his presentation easy to follow. I like him. Compared to Bill Frates and David Bress yesterday, Stein’s opening statement is simple, clear and concise.
When I return to the courtroom after the break, I have to push my way through hordes of people to find a seat. The public benches are packed, and there are excited whispers about Dean’s imminent appearance.
“John Wesley Dean, III.” Jim Neal, the chief prosecutor, calls the government’s first witness.
The name hangs suspended in the long silence that follows. Along with everyone else, I focus on the left door in the honey-colored, wood-paneled wall behind the judge. Nothing happens. We wait, and I watch the clock. At 11:22 a.m., the door opens, and a slight young man enters the room. Compared to Jim Neal’s husky physique, the former presidential counsel looks bland and frail.
Frequently clearing his throat, Dean speaks directly to the jury as he answers Neal’s questions. He gives a detailed description of a series of events in which he participated after the Watergate break-in. “Articulates his words precisely,” I write. “Gestures a lot with his right hand. Long, slender fingers.”
After lunch, there’s a flutter of excitement when a chic, young woman enters the courtroom. Her platinum blonde hair is slicked back into a tight bun. “It’s Maureen Dean,” the woman behind me whispers in awe. The jurors show no reaction.
Removing oversized dark glasses, Maureen takes a seat on my bench. Glancing from her to her husband, I find my emotions churning. I’m angry with Dean, who sits there so complacently telling his story. I blame him for withholding information from Bob and the president. I blame him for putting his own self-interest first.
The scratchy sound of chalk on paper brings my attention back to the trial. Across the aisle from me, the court artists are sketching Maureen. Three of the artists have contraptions on their heads to hold their binoculars in place while they draw. The fourth wears a cartridge belt to hold her felt tip pens.
Dean’s flat voice drones on throughout the afternoon. After the break, Maureen slips in next to me. The two of us stand together when Judge Sirica enters, and I can feel people staring at us. While the lawyers gather at the bench and the jury is out of the room, I introduce myself to Maureen and ask how she’s doing.
“Okay,” she replies. “I’m living temporarily with a friend in Chevy Chase. John’s been in prison a little over a month, and I’ve only seen him three times. I hope Jim Neal will let me talk to him during the breaks.”
In her beige wool skirt, tight black sweater, and gold jewelry, “Mo” looks sophisticated, and I have trouble picturing her visiting her husband in prison. A year ago, John pled guilty to obstruction of justice and received a sentence of one to four years. Instead of being incarcerated, however, he is being held temporarily at Fort Holabird as part of the government’s “witness protection program.” Located in Baltimore, Maryland, this “safe house holding facility” is a convenient place for the prosecutors to meet with him to discuss their strategy.
It’s still raining when court adjourns. After a long, trying day, Bob and I retire early. When the doorbell rings at 10:00 p.m., it wakes us up. Startled, Bob throws back the covers and crawls out of bed. Feeling his way along the wall, he gropes behind the hanging sheets to find the intercom. I can hear him fumbling with the lever of the speaker.
“Who is it?” he asks groggily.
“I’m from the ‘Style’ section of The Washington Post,” a woman’s voice pleasantly explains. “Will someone please c
ome down?”
“No,” Bob answers emphatically, and there’s a click when he releases the talk switch.
“Never?” the voice asks plaintively.
“Never,” Bob repeats and turns off the speaker. I can hear him shuffling across the fur carpet, struggling to find the bed.
Thud. Something heavy hits the floor. “Damn!”
“Are you all right?” I call out. Bob sounded as if he were in pain. I can’t see a thing in this tent.
“It’s that stupid hookah. What a ridiculous thing to have in a bedroom!”
The heavy brass stand landed on Bob’s bare foot, and I feel for him. And yet I’m so tired right now, it strikes me as funny. Suddenly, everything is funny. Not only this, but the Arabian tent, the fish tank, the Japanese dining room, the Checker cab, the late night visit from the journalist, and even the trial. I duck under the covers to suppress my snickers. It all seems so surreal. What on earth am I doing here?
Bedlam
October 17, 1974—Trial Day Four
As Bob, Susan, and I walk to the defendants’ rooms on the morning of the trial’s fourth day, my heart falls. Dozens of shopping carts filled with white plastic bags line the marble hallway. Inside each bag is a headphone.
“I guess today’s the day that we get to listen to the White House tapes,” Bob says sarcastically.
At 10:15 a.m., the jury is called in, and Judge Sirica explains that a conspiracy is two or more persons who get together to knowingly accomplish an illegal act or a legal purpose by illegal means. John Dean takes his seat in the witness box. I look for Maureen, but I don’t see her. During the break, John Wilson makes a point of telling me not to sit next to her if she comes today, because it sends the wrong message to the jury. I agree, but I have no control over where Mo decides to sit.
