by Jo Haldeman
At 11:35 a.m., I write a single word in capital letters in my steno book, “BEDLAM,” as members of the prosecuting team wheel in the shopping carts and haphazardly distribute headphones, along with transcripts of the tapes. Eager to get them, people shout out and raise their hands. The solemnity and dignity of the courtroom instantly changes into a circus-like atmosphere. In the end, everyone receives a white plastic bag. Not just the judge, jury, alternates, lawyers, defendants, and clerks, but family members, friends, reporters, artists, and the general public, as well.
There’s a rustling of plastic as we remove our headphones from the bags and examine them. The monstrous, tan, cup-like ear pads are mounted on wide headbands, each of which has a long, twisty cord connected to it. After plugging this into a round metal outlet on the floor under our seats, we are instructed to listen to a ten-second test tape.
“Weird sight!” I write as I look around the room. John Ehrlichman’s headphones are askew; Judge Sirica is still struggling to figure out how to put his on; John Wilson’s look like a bonnet on his pink head; Bob’s hair is slightly out of place; and the artists have their headphones perched on top of their binoculars. In the witness box, John Dean calmly looks over the transcript. His headphones are precisely in place.
When everyone is set, the courtroom becomes silent as we strain to make out the conversation on the first tape. The judge, jury, prosecutor, defendants, and their lawyers have been given transcripts to follow along. For those of us who don’t have transcripts, the scratchy sounds and exaggerated background noises on the tape make it difficult to distinguish who is talking and what is being said. A pen grates on paper; a coffee cup clatters in its saucer; a chair squeaks; and a cough explodes in my ear.
The tape goes on for about an hour. In a discussion that took place on September 15, 1972 in the Oval Office, Dean gives a progress report on the Watergate investigation to the president and Bob. It’s an odd sensation to hear their voices, and I feel like an eavesdropper. I also find that the swearing isn’t nearly as bad as I feared it might be. With the exception of an occasional “damn,” there are very few four letter words, and I never hear the “f” word. The term “expletive deleted,” used in the transcript, is far more suggestive than the actual language.
Late in the afternoon, both Dean and the jury are excused, and there’s a long discussion at the bench about calling Nixon as a witness. Although both the government and John Ehrlichman have subpoenaed him, Nixon’s lawyer says the former president won’t be able to appear for several weeks. He has been suffering from a flare-up of the phlebitis that has plagued him for many years.
Intense, Tedious, and Boring
October 18, 1974—Trial Day Five
A few of the spectators hiss at John Ehrlichman this morning as he walks into the courthouse. It’s hurtful to see this, and I look away.
In court today, John Dean will be subjected to more of Jim Neal’s direct examination. Standing at the lectern, the forty-six-year-old native of Tennessee addresses his star witness in a pleasant, Southern drawl. As he talks, he flips through the pages of a large loose-leaf notebook, which contains a multitude of yellow index tabs. His presentation is mesmerizing. To my surprise, I find that Neal has a certain folksy charm and is less abrasive than some of the other lawyers.
Later in the day, listening to the March 21, 1973, tape, I hear John Dean tell the president, “We have a cancer…within…close to the presidency that’s growing.” I pay close attention when Nixon says that “it would be wrong” to grant the Watergate burglars clemency. This is where Bob is supposed to have perjured himself at the Watergate hearings. He had mistakenly stated that the president had used those words, “it would be wrong,” in discussing the payment of money, instead of clemency. I hope that the jury can see this as a mistake and won’t regard it as an intentional lie—perjury.
When court is adjourned this evening, I find it hard to believe that we have completed the first week of the trial. On the drive home, I take stock of my reactions. The court process can be incredibly intense, as well as tedious and boring. One moment, I’m afraid and apprehensive; the next, I’m laughing and enjoying the fellowship. Bob Mardian’s opening statement is forgettable; Ken Parkinson’s is memorable. Richard Ben-Veniste is brash; Jim Neal is a “straight talker.” The tapes are extremely difficult to follow; the transcripts are inaccurate; and the “expletive deleted’s” aren’t as bad as I had expected. John Dean has an uncanny recall of the minutiae, and his testimony comes across as believable. It’s difficult to face John Ehrlichman after he blamed the president and split with Bob. The benches are hard, and I hope Maureen Dean won’t sit next to me.
◆
Over the weekend, I catch up on the news. In Rabat, Arab heads of state call for the creation of an independent Palestinian state. Former president Nixon is in critical condition following an operation to prevent a blood clot from traveling to his lungs. President Ford and Secretary of State Henry Kissinger agree that escalating oil prices will lead to a worldwide depression. Racial violence breaks out in Boston’s public schools, and Ford denies the governor’s request to call in the National Guard. Defending his pardon of Nixon, Ford tells a House panel that there was “no deal.”
October 22, 1974—Trial Day Seven
Today is cool and crisp. Although a chilly wind penetrates our light coats as we walk from the car to the courthouse, Bob is in no hurry. When a young boy with a Polaroid camera asks to take his picture, he stops to pose. Autograph seekers hound him, and he obligingly signs “H. R. Haldeman” on whatever they give him.
Wearing a beige suit, John Dean takes his place in the witness box for the fifth straight day. At one point in his testimony, he quotes Bob: “Once the toothpaste is out of the tube, it’s hard to get it back in.”
After lunch, Jim Neal finally winds up his direct, and John Wilson is the first defense lawyer to cross-examine Dean. Bob’s lawyer is raring to go, and his shiny, bald head is flushed in anticipation. I soon become apprehensive. After asking each question, Wilson wanders back to his table and then whips around and interrupts Dean’s attempt to respond. Speaking in a flat, controlled voice, Dean has a wide-eyed, innocent look and remains unflappable. I find Wilson’s theatrics disconcerting, and I worry that the jury may find them offensive.
Using a red felt tip pen to record my personal feelings, I write, “Dean maintains his cool…even when admitting he had concealed evidence after telling authorities for months that he had disclosed everything.”
When Wilson belabors a point, Sirica tilts back in his chair and says, “Awright, let’s get on with this.”
“But, Your Honor,” our crusty bulldog snaps back, “I’ve sat around here for five days waiting for this opportunity.” John Wilson has known Sirica for over forty years and is aware of his “Italian temper.” Apparently, one of his strategies is to provoke the judge into making a legal error that could be grounds for a mistrial.
I have trouble keeping track of Wilson’s points, and I wish that he would follow up on the tapes. Why doesn’t he reinforce Bob’s innocence and clarify his motives? He makes everything so drawn-out and complicated. Feeling let down, I write one word when Wilson is through with his cross-examination: “TEDIOUS.”
When we return to the defendants’ rooms, I lag behind as Bob and the other lawyers gather around John Wilson to congratulate him. I’m surprised when Susan approaches me and admits that she, too, was disappointed. It’s nice to have someone with whom I can share my thoughts, but we are careful about keeping our opinions to ourselves. Wilson is considered to be the best trial lawyer in Washington. His reputation is impeccable, and Bob’s future depends on him.
October 23–25, 1974—Trial Days Eight–Ten
On Wednesday, October 23, Bob tells us that Jim Neal approached John Wilson about a possible plea bargain. “I told them that it would be very hard for me to consider a plea,” Bob says, “unless s
omeone can show me that I did something illegal.”
John Dean spends three more days being cross-examined by the other four defense lawyers. During this time, he confirms that he borrowed money from the $350,000 that Bob had transferred from the White House to the CRP. With no sense of wrongdoing, Dean states that he used the money to pay for his honeymoon and a new patio. I’m amazed and look over at Maureen to see her reaction. She doesn’t flinch.
Friday is Hank’s twenty-first birthday, and he’s celebrating in California without us. I miss him and wonder when our family will be together again.
◆
Two days later, it’s Bob’s forty-eighth birthday, and John Ehrlichman joins us for dinner. Struggling to lower his large frame onto the Japanese zaisu, he jokingly asks Bob if he can’t afford chairs.
“If you think that’s bad, try sleeping in an Arabian tent,” Bob counters.
Throughout the evening, both men are relaxed and chatty, but neither one mentions the trial. Although their legal defenses differ, as well as their perspectives on Watergate, it’s obvious that they don’t want these divergent views to affect their friendship.
As I watch the two of them interact, I’m reminded of how positive Bob has been throughout this whole ordeal. He’s under as much pressure now as he was in the White House, but he is handling it differently. He is patient in court, remains upbeat, laughs a lot, and is more than willing to help out at home. His faith is upholding him, and I know that everything will be all right. No matter how this trial ends.
October 28, 1974—Trial Day Eleven
The courtroom is packed on Monday when the government calls its second witness, the infamous Howard Hunt. Considered the mastermind behind the Watergate break-in, Hunt is a former CIA agent. Wearing a rumpled, double-breasted, gray pinstripe suit, his stooped figure looks bedraggled. His voice is almost inaudible. I write, “sounds as if he has some teeth missing.”
“When I was released from prison last January,” Hunt testifies, “I had planned to reconstruct my life. However, in the spring of this year, I began to read the transcripts of the White House tapes, and I felt a sense of rude awakening. I realized that these men were not worth my continued loyalty…I resolved to make the hard decision to testify to the entire truth.”
The derogatory reference to “these men” hurts. Although Bob has never met Hunt, I’m sure the jury doesn’t realize it and has already linked the two of them together.
When court adjourns, I remain seated on the bench, staring at the empty witness chair. Hunt’s testimony was damaging to Bob, and the sad memory of his slouched body has a lingering effect on me. I had expected to see a self-possessed, dispassionate CIA agent. Instead, I found a broken man. The last thing I write for today is, “I feel great compassion for this tragic figure.”
October 29, 1974—Trial Day Twelve
In its October 29 issue, People magazine has a positive article about Bob, which is particularly nice to see after so much negative publicity.
…H. R. “Bob” Haldeman, forty-eight, has remained the most resolutely cheerful…. [He] still chats easily with spectators, and unflinchingly autographs copies of Woodward and Bernstein’s All the President’s Men. His newly modish hairstyle and modest sideburns have further softened the bristling, tough-guy image dating from his days as Richard Nixon’s principal assistant…. [He] is considerably sustained by the unflagging support of his family, especially his wife, Jo, and his eldest daughter, Susan, twenty-three.… Susan dropped out of law school to attend every minute of the trial… The family has been…using borrowed cars and taxis to get to the courthouse.
On the other hand, John Molloy of The Washington Star writes one of the strangest articles about Bob.
Haldeman was smart to get rid of his crew cut. It was typically fifties and sent out a message of those times when the blacks experienced great racial prejudice. In Haldeman’s case, the crew cut said to the blacks, “I’m prejudiced.”
If there’s one thing I’m learning, it’s that journalism isn’t objective. It’s filled with the biases and subjective opinions of the reporter. In the future, I don’t think that I will ever accept a news article at face value.
Jeb Stuart Magruder
October 30, 1974—Trial Day Thirteen
Last weekend, we bought a used 1969 Toyota. The little, yellow sedan doesn’t have as much character as the Checker cab, but it’s ours. Bob loves using its stick shift, which he has to do frequently on this morning’s heavy commute across the Fourteenth Street Bridge. The air is warm and humid, and below us the Potomac River smells pungent and fishy. I’m hot in my black turtleneck sweater and tweed skirt. The skirt is itchy, and I notice that I already have a snag in my left stocking. I dislike having to dress up every day and wish that I could occasionally wear pants.
Jeb Stuart Magruder is the government’s third witness. Sentenced to ten months to four years, Jeb is being held at Fort Holabird as part of the witness protection program, along with John Dean.
At thirty-four, Jeb joined the White House staff as special assistant to the president. During the 1972 presidential campaign, he moved over to the CRP as its deputy director. I know him personally and am anxious to hear his testimony. His youth and look of boyish innocence make it difficult to believe that he was convicted of perjury and obstruction of justice.
“Jeb’s testimony flows easily,” I write as Jill Volner, one of the young assistant prosecutors, questions him for the second day. “More personable than John Dean.” When Jeb freely admits to lying to the FBI and the grand jury, as well as concocting the cover story for the break-in, he sounds glib. The more he talks, the more superficial he appears.
“Jeb’s told so many different stories, he’s unable to distinguish fact from fiction,” Bob says during our lunch break. “His testimony’s all over the place.”
In the hallway, I run into Gail. Jeb’s pretty wife is wearing a bright, periwinkle-blue suit, which complements her blue eyes. As soon as I see her, it’s as if Watergate had never put a constraint on our friendship. Gail reminds me of the time I left a violet plant on her front porch, and I tell her about my attempt to write an open letter of support to the Watergate wives. She talks freely about how much her life has changed. She visits Jeb at Fort Holabird every day, and last week was their fifteenth wedding anniversary.
“It must be hard on you to watch Jeb testify,” I say.
“Not particularly,” Gail quickly replies. “You soon realize that it’s all a game that the lawyers are playing with the defendant’s life. You learn to accept it, and you do what you have to.”
Gail’s detached attitude surprises me. She’s tougher than I expected. As the afternoon proceeds, Jeb links all five defendants to Watergate, and it’s clear that his testimony will spare no one. He makes an effective witness for the prosecution.
On the way home this evening, Bob needs to review his files at the EOB. As we turn into the parking lot at the White House south entrance, I am beset by strong feelings of déjà vu. How many times in the past have I parked my car here? How many times did I climb those back stairs to Bob’s office? This evening, it’s different. Not only do we have to wait for the White House police to scrutinize our temporary passes, but we are not allowed to get out of the car until a member of the Secret Service is available to escort us across the street to the EOB.
Once we reach the fifth floor, the agent accompanies Bob into the attic room. Susan and I wait outside in the hot, stuffy hall for over an hour. She reviews her trial notes, while I try to read. At one point, we are allowed to peek inside the room. I see bare light bulbs suspended from the ceiling, a desk, chair, file cabinets, security camera, and two motion sensors. Bob has to sign in or out every time he goes through the door.
Walking back to the car, Bob chats nonchalantly with our security escort. In front of us, the White House is bathed in the soft light of an almost full moon. It
looks majestic and grand. Memories flood my mind, and it’s a deeply personal moment. I wish so much that things had turned out differently.
October 31, 1974—Trial Day Fourteen
Today is my forty-sixth birthday, and even with all he has on his mind, Bob remembers. In a drab conference room, surrounded by empty bookcases, files, and packing boxes, he and his legal team present me with a cake and sing “Happy Birthday.”
An Island and a Monument
November 6–20, 1974
I have been in Washington for more than three weeks, and I miss Hank, Peter, and Ann. It’s not easy to live with our family split up like this; I want to go home. With things proceeding slowly in court, Bob agrees that it’s a good time for me to take a break. I plan to return in time for John Wilson’s opening statement.
On November 6, I fly to Los Angeles for a much anticipated two-week stay. Once I settle in, it’s easy to slip into my old routine. I am happy to be back with family and friends, and the days pass quickly. When the time comes for me to return to Washington, the hardest part is once again leaving Peter and Ann with the housekeeper.
Bob and Susan meet me at Dulles, and from there we drive to Arlington, Virginia. The townhouse in Alexandria was sold while I was in California, and Bob has rented a small, two-story brick home at 722 Cleveland Avenue. Although it only has two bedrooms and one tiny bathroom, I prefer it to the bachelor pad with its bizarre décor. Pointing to a vase of flowers on a table in the living room, Bob tells me that our landlady gave it to him, with a note saying that he adds class to the neighborhood.
