In the Shadow of the White House

by Jo Haldeman

  In the defendants’ rooms, the atmosphere is relaxed, and there is more socializing than usual. Hank is surprised at all of the camaraderie. At one point, Ken Parkinson’s mother tells Bob that one of her friends swears he wears a toupee.

  “Nope,” Bob replies, placing a chair directly in front of her and sitting down. While the other defendants and their lawyers gather around, he leans forward and asks her to test her friend’s theory.

  Yanking hard on a few strands of Bob’s hair, Mrs. Parkinson enthusiastically declares, “It’s real!” The rest of us cheer.

  December 18, 1974—Trial Day Forty-Seven

  In December, Governor Nelson Rockefeller is sworn in as vice president, filling the vacancy created when Gerald Ford became president. The national jobless rate rises to 6.5 percent, the highest level of unemployment since 1961. In London, a bomb explodes in Harrod’s, causing considerable damage. An earthquake in Pakistan kills 4,700 and injures 15,000. At the age of eighty, one of radio’s most enduring stars, comedian Jack Benny, dies.

  At the trial, the esprit de corps in the defendants’ rooms continues, and on December 18, Jim Neal suddenly appears. Sporting a sheepish grin, he’s clutching a big cigar in one hand and cradling a Virginia baked ham in the other. Everyone swarms around him.

  “From one ham to another,” the chief prosecutor says, presenting the ham to John Wilson.

  “I can’t believe how laid-back everybody is,” Hank comments.

  “It’ll be different tomorrow,” his father tells him. “It’s Neal’s turn to crank up the heat.”

  Artfully Weaving the Web

  December 19, 1974 —Trial Day Forty-Eight

  It’s snowing. Outside, it’s a gentle world of white, as tiny flakes silently fall to the ground. Inside, Sirica’s courtroom is packed, and the anxiety mounts. After forty-seven days and eighty witnesses, it’s time for Jim Neal’s closing argument. As Hank and I take our seats on the bench, I can’t help but compare the relaxed atmosphere of yesterday to the stress of this moment. Today, there will be no jokes about toupees and hams, no back-slapping or big cigars.

  The action starts after lunch. Moving swiftly and efficiently, the chief prosecutor arranges large, yellow charts on an easel. “Mr. Neal,” Judge Sirica comments, “You’re so eager to get started, you’re like a race horse at the gate.”

  At 2:50 p.m., the jury is called in. Looking serious in a gray three-piece suit and blue shirt, Neal faces the jurors. “After twelve weeks, I’m sure you know who I am,” he begins. “I stand up here today to represent the United States of America… Perjury, obstruction of justice and conspiracy to obstruct justice are all involved in this case… I’ll tell you what this was about. It was too much money…”

  Giving a scathing denunciation of “defense attempts to pass off hundreds of thousands of dollars paid to the Watergate burglars,” Neal talks about “hush money.” He tells the jurors, “There has been an effort to beguile you, repeated over and over again,”

  Neal then lights into Bob. “In one of the saddest chapters in the two-hundred-year-long glorious history of the United States, defendant Haldeman has a conversation with the then-president in the sanctity of the White House.”

  After reading from the transcript of the meeting between Bob and the president on June 23, 1972, Neal quotes Bob’s explanation of the attempt to use the CIA to obstruct an FBI investigation, “It was to avoid political embarrassment.”

  “What a lie!” Neal shouts. “Can you imagine?”

  A shiver runs through me, and Hank asks if I’m okay. I didn’t realize how much I would need him for moral support. His presence is reassuring.

  Neal thumbs through a large stack of index cards. “Now let’s see what Mr. Ehrlichman said on the stand,” he says sarcastically. “Mr. Ehrlichman just sat there. Do you really believe that he didn’t know what was going on? He knows what’s going on twenty-four hours a day. You can tell from his demeanor.”

  The chief prosecutor grips everyone’s attention. He points an accusatory finger. He pounds the lectern. His face expands and contracts like rubber during his various mood changes. One moment, he’s pensive; the next, concerned; then, angry. With a dramatic flourish, he flips the pages of his chart, and the jurors lean forward to get a better look.

  This is Jim Neal at his best. Using every ploy he can, he artfully weaves the web that is the government’s case.

  Court is adjourned at 5:10 p.m., and I remain motionless on the bench. Having taken seven pages of notes in small print, I feel emotionally and physically drained. “I’m worried,” I confess to Hank. “Jim Neal’s a real spellbinder. I think he captivated the jury with all that drama and sarcasm. How can anyone top him?”

  Hank stands and stretches. “Let’s hope John Wilson will in his final argument tomorrow.”

  December 20, 1974—Trial Day Forty-Nine

  John Wilson is one of Washington’s best trial lawyers, and today we are counting on his passion, self-confidence, and expertise to convince the jury of Bob’s innocence. And yet, today of all days, Wilson announces that he’s tired. I am upset. I don’t understand why he didn’t pace himself better.

  My frustration grows throughout the morning as Jim Neal continues to hammer away at each of the defendants in his final argument. Explaining that the 3,700 hours of White House tapes are unique in the history of litigation, he uses selected portions of them to scorn Mitchell, Haldeman, and Ehrlichman.

  “You have heard the voices of three of the defendants,” Neal says. “You have heard them talk as the cover-up begins to crumble. You have heard them scramble for position and develop lines and scenarios.” Dropping his voice, he continues, “Tragically, these conspiratorial conversations have happened in the hallowed halls of the White House, where once strode such giants as Jefferson, Jackson, Lincoln, the two Roosevelts, Eisenhower, Kennedy.”

  Next, Neal compares the quotes of Lincoln and FDR to one of Nixon’s. “With malice toward none and charity for all,” he recites in a revered tone. “We have nothing to fear but fear itself,” he states dramatically. Then, he throws up his arms and says indifferently. “Give ’em an hors d’oeuvre, and maybe they won’t come back for the main course.”

  Watching his performance, I cringe and look over at my son, who is seated on the bench next to me. Although nothing in the tapes is new to Hank, I’m uncomfortable having him hear Neal quote the president in such a demeaning way. Absorbed in the chief prosecutor’s summation, he seems to be intently following every word.

  Later, Hank leans over and whispers, “Neal’s going light on Parkinson. I’ll betcha Ken’s going to get off.”

  When we adjourn for lunch, I have a lot of frustration bottled up inside of me, and I’m not eager to mingle with the other defendants. Meeting up with John Wilson in the hall, I can no longer contain my feelings.

  “John,” I say, looking down on Bob’s lawyer who is a couple of inches shorter than I am, “I don’t mean to be speaking out of turn, but please consider making your final argument short and simple. Just stress Bob’s innocence. Please don’t complicate things.”

  A hand grips my shoulder, and Bob gently pulls me away. He shakes his head, indicating that he disagrees with what I’m saying. His confidence in his lawyer never seems to waver, and I immediately regret interfering.

  The courtroom is cold when we return. At 1:29 p.m., John Wilson steps up to the lectern. The jury is seated, but several reporters are still straggling in. Although Wilson whistles under his breath and acts confident, I’m apprehensive. His final statement has to be clear and convincing. The jury has to understand it and believe it.

  Wilson begins by complimenting the jurors on their attention and recognizing their sacrifice in serving. “Trial lawyers are the surgeons of the law,” he explains. “My approach this afternoon will be different from that of my illustrious opponent. I want to start out in a haphazard fash
ion.”

  Haphazard fashion? Oh, no. This is exactly what I had feared. What’s next? Slumping down on the bench, I try to follow as Wilson refers to the Handbook of Jury Instructions and the Precepts of English Law. The jurors stare blankly ahead. Jim Neal pours himself a glass of water.

  “Having gone over these abstract principles,” Wilson continues, “I now want to discuss in chronological order the conspiracy charge against Mr. Haldeman.”

  I straighten up. Perhaps, he can pull this off after all—but that doesn’t happen. Starting with the Watergate break-in on June 17, 1972, Wilson rambles on for two and a half hours. I have eight pages of notes written in small print, including:

  Juror 2 is asleep… Wilson has lost me… He knows the case too well… Goes into too much detail… Confusing… Oh, dear… Heck.

  At 5:00 p.m., court is adjourned for the weekend, and I close my notebook. I look over at Hank, who shrugs his shoulders in resignation. Without saying anything, the two of us stand and walk out of the courtroom together.

  ◆

  On Sunday, December 22, Peter and Ann arrive for a week’s stay over the holidays. For the first time in three months, our whole family is together and I feel complete. Although our small two-bedroom house is a tight squeeze, we make it work. The biggest challenge for Bob and me is sharing the one bathroom with our four grown children.

  December 23, 1974—Trial Day Fifty

  The Toyota is too small for the six of us, so once again, we borrow the Checker cab to transport everyone to court. Bob and I are enormously proud of our children. It’s special to have all four of them attending the trial today, and I enthusiastically introduce our newest arrivals to the defendants and the lawyers.

  In the courtroom, Frank Strickler, John Wilson’s partner, gives the closing argument on Bob’s three perjury charges. Although I think his presentation lacks punch and won’t be remembered, both Peter and Susan say it’s effective. When we adjourn, Judge Sirica wishes the jury a Merry Christmas, and John and Jeanne dash out the door to catch a cab to the airport. They plan to spend the holiday with their five children at home in Hunts Point, Washington.

  ◆

  Court is recessed for two days. On December 24, we wrap gifts, attend the 5:00 p.m. Christmas Eve service at St. John’s Episcopal Church in Washington, and return home for a traditional turkey dinner with all the trimmings. Before going to bed, we put our presents under the tree and place our socks on the hearth. Later, Bob and I play Santa, filling them with a variety of goodies purchased at the last minute from the local drugstore. Unfortunately for me, my small Peds sock liner holds very little.

  Christmas is different this year. But somehow it works. It doesn’t matter what the circumstances are, as long as the six of us are together.

  December 26, 1974—Trial Day Fifty-One

  Coming downstairs on Thursday, December 26, I feel as if Christmas never happened. Dressed for court, I walk past the living room, where the tree is the only indication of yesterday’s celebration. Its needles are starting to turn brown, and the paper star is missing. Hank has taken off to ski at Vail, and Ann plans to visit a friend for the day.

  As soon as I enter the defendants’ rooms this morning, I miss John Wilson’s commanding presence. Bob tells me that he’s getting some much needed rest at The Homestead, a resort in Virginia. The jury is called in at 9:45 a.m., and Bill Frates stands to give John Ehrlichman’s closing argument. Jeanne is seated next to Peter and me.

  “I want to record this for our children word for word,” she says, taking out a pad and a pen from her purse.

  Frates talks, and Jeanne writes like mad all morning. After lunch, he is still talking, and she is still writing. Sirica looks impatient and tells the jury, “It doesn’t look like we will finish today. If we sit late, we can get rid of as many arguments as possible.”

  Did the judge really say that? In front of the jury? At least they turn him down, and court adjourns at 5:15 p.m.

  A Jar of Jam

  December 27, 1974—Trial Day Fifty-Two

  Friday, the courtroom is packed. Ann and I have to share a small space on the bench, while Peter sits on one of the chairs that have been set up in the aisle. The morning is spent on Parkinson’s final argument.

  After lunch, the government presents its rebuttal. I can feel my heart pounding as Richard Ben-Veniste stands. For some reason, Bob has been singled out, and the thirty-one-year-old assistant prosecutor will be delivering a separate rebuttal against only him. Jim Neal will follow, taking on the other four defendants. I’m on edge. Ben-Veniste’s cockiness and self-importance annoy me, and I don’t want Peter and Ann to be subjected to his degrading remarks about their father.

  Taking his place at the lectern, Ben-Veniste deliberately pauses to adjust his glasses. “I speak for the young, who have a stake in justice,” he begins. “I have great respect for John Wilson, who if he were here now—instead of taking his vacation a little earlier than the rest of us—would have a twinkle in his eye.” His comment is snide and unnecessary.

  Facing the jury, Ben-Veniste has his back to Bob. In a voice laden with sarcasm, he compares Bob to a little boy who gets caught with jam on his face.

  “Here’s the jam, ladies and gentlemen,” he exclaims. “It’s on Mr. Haldeman’s face. It’s on his hands, and he can’t get it off.”

  Every time Ben-Veniste cites more evidence against Bob, he repeats the story of the boy and the jam. As the jurors turn to look, I know they visualize Bob smeared with bright red strawberry jam. Ben-Veniste paints a vivid image that captures the imagination, and I’m chagrined. Do our children really have to hear this?

  At the end of half an hour, Ben-Veniste concludes his rebuttal. With a self-satisfied expression, he slowly turns and walks back to the prosecutors’ table. During the break, a crowd gathers in the hall, and I have trouble getting past it. When I see what the attraction is, I’m sickened. Standing in the middle of an admiring group of journalists, Richard Ben-Veniste is grinning. Obviously enjoying the attention, he raises his right hand high above his head for all to see. In it, he holds a jar of jam.

  Late in the afternoon, it’s Jim Neal’s turn to deliver the rebuttal against the other four defendants. Hunched over the lectern, he addresses the jury. “It’s no fun casting stones,” he says, “but to keep society going, stones must be cast. People must be called to account.”

  Speaking for four hours, the chief prosecutor varies his tone of voice. Soft and deliberate on some occasions; at other times, loud and vigorous. As always, he’s a spellbinder, but compared to his final argument earlier, what he says today seems somewhat confusing and rushed.

  “Everyone blames John Dean,” Neal concludes. “But Mr. Mitchell also blames Mr. Colson. Mr. Ehrlichman blames the president. Mr. Mardian blames the White House. And…” He pauses. “Mr. Haldeman really can’t recall enough to blame anybody.” People around me snicker under their breath.

  After fifty-two days, everything has been covered: the opening statements, the testimony of witnesses, twenty-two hours of taped conversations, the final arguments, and the rebuttals. Some of it was boring. Some of it was fascinating. And so much of it was frustrating. At last, it’s over. On Monday, the case will go to the jury.

  Leaving the courtroom, I feel weak. Ben-Veniste’s stinging accusations about the jam and Neal’s exaggerations stay with me. I take them personally and become obsessed with one objective—to get out of this building as quickly as possible. Desperate to be alone, I give no thought to Bob and the children. Putting my head down, I plow through the crowd.

  “Mrs. Haldeman,” Jim Neal calls out, stopping me in the hall. He extends his hand and locks eyes with me. “I want to wish you well…no matter what the outcome might be.”

  The heartfelt message from Bob’s adversary catches me off guard and puts my emotions over the top. Fighting to hold back tears, I’m more determined
than ever to get away. Peter catches up with me and tries to offer me his arm.

  I turn away and step onto the escalator.

  Once outside, I come to my senses and realize what I have done. Desperate to leave the courthouse, I thought of no one but myself. Finally, the tears come… I can no longer hold them back.

  By the time Bob and the three children find me, I have my emotions under control. I try to make amends with Peter, but he keeps his distance. It’s been a trying day, and no one feels like talking. The five of us pile into the Checker cab with one thought in mind, to get home as quickly as possible.

  Bob turns the key in the ignition, but nothing happens. He tries again, but the engine won’t turn over. He checks under the hood and reports that the battery is dead. People ignore us as they get into their cars and drive away. Everyone has enough problems of his or her own.

  Winding his scarf around his neck for protection against the bitter cold, Bob leaves us to get help. An hour passes before he returns, and when he does, we can’t believe what we see.

  “Dad’s in a cage!” Ann exclaims. “He’s a prisoner!”

  Obtaining the assistance of two policemen, Bob has returned with them in their patrol car. Unfortunately, the only seat available is the one in back behind a plate of steel mesh. His doors have no inside handles, and an officer has to let him out. They jump-start our battery, and at last, we are on our way home.

  Halfway across the Fourteenth Street Bridge, the Checker cab stalls in the middle lane of heavy, rush-hour traffic. With cars whizzing past us on both sides, it’s too dangerous to get out. There’s not a thing we can do, except to sit here and wait to be rescued.

  Ann prints “SOS” in large letters across the fogged-up back window. After a short wait, a small pickup truck comes up behind us and slowly pushes us over to the center guard rail, before driving away. Once again, we wait. Eventually, a tow truck with blinking, red emergency lights comes to our rescue.