by Jo Haldeman
In the master bedroom, there’s a small desk with Bob’s papers and books piled on it. Here, he reviews his legal documents and reads the Christian Science Daily Lesson. The poem I gave him, “Friction Benefits Me,” is propped up against the desk lamp.
November 21, 1974—Trial Day Twenty-Nine
It’s overcast and cold this morning, and I expect to see snow when I push aside the ruffled white curtains at the bedroom window. Instead, there is nothing but a few barren trees and piles of dry leaves.
I find it’s hard to adjust to being back in court, and I have trouble concentrating. It’s frustrating to hear that John Wilson probably won’t be giving his opening statement for another week. This means that I could have stayed in Los Angeles longer.
While we’re listening to a tape of a conversation between Bob, John Ehrlichman, and Nixon, a reporter in the press section laughs and is reprimanded by the federal marshal. Annoyed, I glare at the reporter. He returns my look with a smart-alecky grin.
I’m out of sorts all morning, and things don’t get any better in the afternoon. With the jury out of the courtroom, John Wilson reacts when the judge rules against him.
Pouting, he glowers at Sirica. “That’s for my error bag, Judge, and it’s already bursting at the seams.”
“You mean your wind bag,” Jim Neal fires back. “Actually, it’s for your ‘ferty bag,’ which is two pounds of manure in a one-pound bag.”
Everyone laughs, and Wilson quickly responds, “I’ve been listening to this product of the Moonshine District of Tennessee for eight weeks now, and I’m getting tired of it.”
I’m irritated. The lawyers are fiercely competitive in everything they do and say, and their one-upmanship often comes across as pure theatrics. They play to the press and the public. This trial has serious consequences for the five defendants, and it disturbs me when the lawyers seem to lose sight of this.
As soon as court is adjourned, I’m anxious to leave. Feeling discouraged, I stop and quietly remind myself of the “Friction” poem. “My attitude is of my own persuasion.” Am I going to allow myself to be “disturbed and hurt” or do I remain “calm and self-controlled”?
◆
I welcome the weekend. On an unusually balmy Sunday afternoon, Bob, Susan, and I take off for Theodore Roosevelt Island. The tiny eighty-eight-acre patch of land in the middle of the Potomac River is an ideal place for the three of us to get away from the stresses of court. Following a dirt path through the naked woods, we don’t do much talking. In this serene spot, the only sign of the outside world is the rumble of airplanes above as they approach and depart National Airport. The trial seems very, very far away.
Before returning home, we pay a visit to the Lincoln Memorial, which is a sharp contrast to the solitude of Roosevelt Island. Surrounded by crowds of noisy, enthusiastic tourists, I stand at the base of our sixteenth president’s towering, seated figure. Across the Reflecting Pool, the Washington Monument is bathed in the pinkish glow of the setting sun. Experiencing the same sense of peace I had earlier, I find the view both beautiful and moving.
Don’t Be Absurd, Jo
November 25, 1974—Trial Day Thirty-One
This morning, the prosecution finally rests its case. While the lawyers for Ehrlichman, Mardian, and Parkinson believed that it was more effective to give their opening statements before the prosecution’s case, the lawyers for John Mitchell and Bob decided to wait until now.
At 3:50 p.m., Bill Hundley addresses the court on behalf of John Mitchell. Calling John the fall guy for Watergate, he tells the jury that, “Mr. Mitchell’s loyalty and belief in his president kept him from blowing the whistle on the Nixon White House.” It’s late, and I note that the jurors don’t appear to be paying attention. Hundley’s words seem to be lost on them. I hope the jury will be more alert when John Wilson gives his opening statement tomorrow.
On the way home tonight, we drop the Toyota off at the dealership to repair a loose engine mount. Returning to the house in a rental car, we discover that the washing machine is broken. Things are not going well.
November 26, 1974—Trial Day Thirty-Two
The courtroom is packed this morning, and there’s a noticeable air of anticipation. When the jury enters at 10:00 a.m., I take out a fresh steno book and fold back the cover. All eyes are on John Wilson as he slowly walks over to the lectern and puts down a single legal pad. Whistling to himself, he pulls over a file cabinet filled with backup material. Bob’s lawyer has everyone’s undivided attention.
“May it please the court, ladies and gentlemen of the jury…” John speaks deliberately as he outlines what he plans to include in his opening statement. Separating his chronology into chapters, he begins.
“Chapter One: Before the Break-In; Chapter Two: Shortly after the Break-In; Chapter Three: The Need for Money…” Soon the chapters start to blur, and the chronology drags. The courtroom is especially hot, and I can’t concentrate. No one can. Across from me, an artist yawns, and in the jury box, a juror’s head nods. After the break, half of the reporters don’t return.
“Mr. Haldeman did not enter into a conspiracy and did not intend to enter into a conspiracy…” Wilson concludes at 11:30 a.m. and sits down.
I’m at a loss. In the beginning, Bob’s lawyer had a captivated audience, but I’m afraid he lost them with his long, confusing presentation. There was too much detail. Even if the jurors had been allowed to take notes, I don’t think they could have followed him. Most of them look bored.
This afternoon, when John Mitchell takes the stand for his direct examination, things don’t get any better. Wearing a brown suit, brown tie, and yellow shirt, he looks frumpy. His voice is faint, and he doesn’t have his usual twinkle. In contrast, Bill Hundley is hurried, and his words are jumbled. Headphones are distributed, and we are subjected to another tape.
“J. M. should use a mike,” I write. “The room is too hot, and juror number four is asleep.”
At 4:15 p.m., court adjourns. It has been a disappointing day, and I want to leave as soon as possible.
On the way home, my feelings get the best of me. Turning to Bob, I blurt out, “I wish you could have given your own opening statement. You don’t mince words, and you speak to the point.”
“Don’t be absurd, Jo,” Bob replies. “You know absolutely nothing about legal tactics. John Wilson really knows his stuff, and I’m darn lucky to have him as my lawyer.”
I can understand why Bob feels this way. It’s essential for him to believe in his lawyer and to agree with his tactics. I spoke without thinking and regret being critical.
November 27, 1974—Trial Day Thirty-Three
When I step out to get the paper this morning, the thermometer shows only twenty-eight degrees, and there’s a layer of ice on the front walk. In an article about the trial in The New York Times, I read that Wilson’s opening statement was “long and low-keyed.”
In court, yesterday’s lackluster performances are noticeably replaced by the vitality of the chief prosecutor as he strides up to the lectern. Baiting John Mitchell with a slew of cutting remarks, Jim Neal begins his cross examination. His attack lasts four hours and is so intense he doesn’t even pause when he accidentally knocks over a glass of water. With water spreading across his papers and running down the side of the lectern, Neal calmly finishes up.
◆
There is no court on Thanksgiving, November 28, and for the first time I can remember, we aren’t having a turkey dinner. Instead, Bob, Susan, and I have meat patties, lima beans, and cottage cheese in our little dining room.
No one knows where we will be at Christmas, but I’m determined to have our family together at that time. I make reservations for Hank, Peter, and Ann to fly to DC if the trial is still going on. Bob, Susan, and I have reservations to return to California if it’s not.
Bob’s Day in Court
November
29, 1974—Trial Day Thirty-Four
Friday morning, I wake up with butterflies in my stomach. Today, Bob will be called to testify. The word is out, and the line of spectators at the courthouse is already long. People nudge each other as we walk past, and press photographers jostle to take Bob’s picture. He is relaxed and stops to sign autographs.
So much is riding on Bob’s testimony today. While he seems to be enjoying himself, I can feel a knot tightening in my stomach.
In the defendants’ rooms, I’m surprised to see Jeanne Ehrlichman. She tells me that she plans to be here for both Bob’s and John’s testimonies. The courtroom is packed. I want to find a good seat, but I end up off to the side in the second row, where I can’t even see the witness box. Recognizing my dilemma, a friend of John Mitchell gives me his seat on the front bench.
At 10:50 a.m., John Wilson calls Bob to the stand for his direct examination. Leaning forward, Judge Sirica asks Wilson, “I take it you’re not going to make an opening statement?”
“I hope everyone remembers that I already made one,” Bob’s lawyer tersely responds.
Following this exchange, Bob is sworn in. He looks clean-cut and handsome in his Repp tie and Phelps-Wilger suit with his little American flag in the lapel. Gripping the edge of the bench, I’m more nervous than I thought I would be. I desperately want Bob’s honesty, loyalty, and competence to come across. I love him, and I want others to see my husband as I know him.
Whistling softly to himself, John Wilson adjusts his heavily magnified glasses and walks over to the lectern.
“Mr. Haldeman, can you tell the court where you reside in Los Angeles?”
Bob’s expression is blank. Following a long pause, an embarrassed smile spreads across his face. I’m mortified. Could it be that he’s forgotten our address? Richard Ben-Veniste snickers.
Finally, Bob speaks. “Sorry,” he apologizes. “I’ve moved around a lot recently. My home address is four-four-three North McCadden Place.”
Answering the rest of Wilson’s questions without hesitating, Bob succinctly describes the structure of the White House staff, as well as his job as chief of staff.
“I had no independent schedule of my own during my four and a half years in the White House,” he explains. “I operated as the one person who was totally available to the president at all times, day and night.”
As the day progresses, Ben-Veniste does his best to create a distraction by posturing and trying to look bored. He languishes in his chair, while Wilson questions Bob about the FBI and the CIA. Assistant Prosecutor Jill Volner yawns and looks at her watch. Bob ignores their theatrics and continues to hold the jury’s attention. He denies having any involvement in raising hush money for the Watergate burglars. He tells the jury that he did not authorize the destruction of documents, nor did he intentionally seek to obstruct justice.
At one point, Ben-Veniste objects. “That’s a leading question, Your Honor.”
Wilson fires back, “I haven’t asked a leading question in four hours, and that’s a pretty good track record.”
Mr. Hoffar, one of the jurors, straightens up and intently follows this exchange. He appears to be amused by Bob’s lawyer, which I hope is a good sign.
When court is adjourned, I want to throw my arms around Bob’s neck and congratulate him, but he is quickly surrounded by lawyers. It’s been a long day, and I was impressed with my husband. His answers were clear, and I don’t see how anyone can fault him. In my daily call home, I give our families a glowing report of Bob’s first day on the stand.
The next morning, The New York Times reports, “Mr. Haldeman appeared confident and spoke in an eager manner, leaning forward and speaking close to the microphone.”
December 2, 1974—Trial Day Thirty-Five
Bob’s mother and brother arrive over the weekend in the middle of a violent thunder storm. Their plane is buffeted by lightning and torrents of rain, which is a frightening experience for everyone—except Non, who is so focused on Bob and the trial she remains undaunted by the weather.
This morning, it’s still raining hard. As Bob, Non, Tom, Susan, and I slosh through puddles on our way to the courthouse, we are hit by a heavy gust of wind. Stepping into the foyer, four of us look totally bedraggled. But not Bob. Every hair is in place.
“Does your barber travel with you?” Tom quips.
Bob laughs. “With a little time and hairspray, you, too, could have the same effect.”
In the courtroom, I take a seat between Non and Tom in the front row. When Bob comes in with his lawyers, he smiles at us, and Non excitedly jabs me with her elbow. Jim Neal comes in late, having been delayed by the storm. When he sits down at the prosecutors’ table in front of us, Non nudges me again. Every time she moves, her charm bracelet jangles noisily. People are starting to look at us, and I feel conspicuous. Non is oblivious. The jury enters, and when one of the jurors looks in our direction, Non excitedly whispers, “I think that woman knows that I’m Bob’s mother.”
“Shhh,” Tom says, “You’re attracting attention, Mom. Take off your bracelet.”
After Bob is seated in the witness box, John Wilson steps up to the lectern. In typical fashion, he softly whistles as he leans down to organize some papers in the large file box next to him.
“Why’s he whistling?” Non asks.
“I don’t know. It’s a habit he has,” I whisper.
Continuing from where he left off last Friday, Wilson proceeds with his direct examination of Bob. Time drags. He loses me when he quotes from various conversations, memos, and tapes.
“Etc…etc…yawn,” I write.
“What’s the relevancy of this?” Ben-Veniste asks, leaping up from his seat.
“If Mr. Ben-Veniste will sit down for five minutes, he’d learn the relevance,” Bob’s fiery lawyer retorts.
“Your Honor? May I ask Your Honor a question?” Bob interjects.
“No,” Judge Sirica snaps back. “Wait for counsel.”
Following a few more exchanges between Wilson and Ben-Veniste, Sirica scowls. “I’m not going to let you engage in these little side remarks. We used to have a judge here who would say something once, and if you didn’t abide by it, you would be on your way to that little jail behind this court.” The judge pauses, and his voice becomes stern. “Do you understand what I mean?”
Tom gives me a surprised look, and his mother leans over and whispers, “Is it always like this, Jo?”
“No, Non,” I tell her. “It’s not always like this.”
When court adjourns for lunch, Bob’s sister joins us. We have been expecting Betsy since early this morning, but her red-eye flight from Los Angeles was delayed by the storm.
Back in the courtroom, John Wilson does a good job of wrapping up his direct, and I’m less critical of him. After spending all morning on tedious testimony, he is able to capitalize on it. He ends by asking Bob a series of questions. Did he knowingly enter into a conspiracy? Did he intend to enter into a conspiracy? Did he intend to obstruct justice? Did he intend to conspire with John Mitchell or John Ehrlichman to give false testimony?
Bob looks directly at his lawyer and each time answers, “No, sir, I did not.”
Four Days of Cross-Examination
Late in the afternoon, it’s Richard Ben-Veniste’s turn to cross-examine Bob. He stands and places a thick, black three-ring notebook on the lectern. With red tabs marking points of reference, it’s intimidating.
“Please give ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers to my questions, Mr. Haldeman,” Ben-Veniste begins.
“Yes, sir,” Bob acknowledges.
“How many people were you chief of?”
A grin flashes across Bob’s face. “I can’t answer that with a ‘yes’ or a ‘no.’ I must explain.”
“Good for you, Bob,” Non says under her breath.
Ben-Veniste’s questions co
me fast. “Did you have an interest in detail?” “Who were your assistants?” “Did you determine who went in to see the president?” “You were very close to Mr. Nixon? No question about that.”
“No question about that,” Bob confirms.
“You agreed to tell the grand jury everything you knew, Mr. Haldeman, and yet you never mentioned anything about the White House tapes. Was it your hope that they wouldn’t be revealed?”
“It was not a matter of my hopes,” Bob replies, looking straight at the jury. “I was under orders from the president of the United States not to disclose the taping system. Those were my instructions.”
There are times when Bob can’t remember a specific conversation or date, and he has to answer, “I can’t recall.” When he does this, Ben-Veniste rolls his eyes in exasperation.
Throughout the afternoon, Bob remains unruffled by the assistant prosecutor’s questions and theatrics.
December 3, 1974—Trial Day Thirty-Six
Sirica’s courtroom is so crowded, the marshal has to ask some people to move in order to accommodate our family. At 9:40 a.m., the jury is called in, and Bob is seated in the witness box. Looking pleased with himself, Ben-Veniste sizes up his audience and approaches the lectern. With an exaggerated flair, he fingers a red tab and opens his black notebook to where he left off yesterday. Focusing on the White House tape transcripts, he reads selected portions of conversations out of context, which distorts their meaning. Then he summarizes Bob’s answers, deliberately drawing the wrong conclusion.
“Weren’t you concerned that the money you had transferred to the CRP showed a direct link between the burglars and the CRP?” Ben-Veniste asks.
Bob tries to respond, but Ben-Veniste interrupts him. “Sir, I’m not through,” Bob says, looking up at the judge.
“All right, let him finish,” Sirica instructs the assistant prosecutor.
When Bob takes his time explaining, Ben-Veniste puts his head down in despair and leans against his file cabinet.
