by Jo Haldeman
Attaching a huge hook to the front bumper of the Checker cab, the driver uses a crane to hoist us up to a forty-five degree angle. With our front wheels completely off the ground, the only thing we can see is the hook and the flashing red lights. Eyeing her father sitting helplessly behind the wheel, Susan smiles. “You look ridiculous, Dad.”
“This whole day’s been ridiculous,” Bob responds. “I’ve been smeared with jam, imprisoned in a police car, and hauled away by a tow-truck.”
The Checker cab gives a lurch, and our heads bob in unison. With that, the bizarre scene suddenly becomes hilarious. Giving in to our pent-up emotions, the five of us burst out laughing.
◆
With the trial winding down, Bob and I use the weekend to prepare for our return home. We put Peter and Ann on a flight to Los Angeles, return the rollaway bed and linens that we borrowed, advertise the Toyota, follow up on the repair of the Checker cab, and notify our landlady that we’ll be leaving soon.
The Jury Deliberates
December 30, 1974—Trial Day Fifty-Three
By the time Bob, Susan, and I arrive at the courthouse on Monday, I’m resigned to accepting whatever happens next. This morning, Judge Sirica will give his instructions to the nine women and three men. Then, it will be their responsibility to work through the complexities of each of the five defendants’ cases and reach just conclusions. I can only hope that they will take their time doing this.
In court, I look for a positive sign as the jurors take their seats in the jury box. Their expressions remain stoic. The marshal stands and tells us, “If you want to leave you must do it now. No one will be permitted to enter or leave during his Honor’s instructions.”
Adjusting his reading glasses, Judge Sirica swivels around in his chair to face the jurors. He compliments them on their attention and begins by defining the word, “verdict.” “‘Ver’ from veritas, truth; ‘Dict’ from dictum, speak”.
“To find any of the defendants guilty, you must all agree that sometime during the conspiracy, if only for one day, the defendant willingly took part in just one of the forty-five overt acts cited in the indictment.”
Sirica’s instructions go on for two and a half hours, and I don’t see how the jury can possibly remember any of it. “You are searching for the truth,” the judge concludes. “Let it be a verdict that will fulfill your duty and do justice to your conscience.”
At 12:30 p.m., the jury is excused to deliberate. The case is in their hands, and I feel both anxiety and relief. Everyone agrees that deliberations will take at least a week, and I’m torn between the anticipation of getting a verdict and the dread of hearing what it will be.
Back in the defendants’ rooms, there’s a noticeable change in the atmosphere. Newspapers, books, crossword puzzles, and playing cards appear out of nowhere. We talk louder, laugh harder, and drink more coffee. Pam Parkinson passes around a plate of homemade cookies. John Mitchell puffs on his pipe, and others light up cigarettes. Susan and I play double solitaire.
At 2:00 p.m., we are called back into court. The jury has requested individual copies of the indictment, and we are told that Mr. Hoffar, a retired fifty-seven-year-old superintendent of park police, is the foreman. I’m encouraged. I think he likes John Wilson, which might help Bob. At 5:45 p.m., we trudge back into the courtroom again. It’s freezing. This time, the jurors have requested the transcripts of John Mitchell’s testimony at both the trial and the grand jury, as well as the trial testimony of John Dean and two other government witnesses.
Judge Sirica explains that it’s not his practice to let the jurors have copies of testimony in the jury room and that it would take a court reporter about three weeks to read the requested material in open court. The judge denies the request. He tells the jurors that they must rely on their own recollections of the testimony.
At 6:00 p.m., the jury is excused, and court is adjourned. We can go home.
December 31, 1974—Trial Day Fifty-Four
This morning, the press is out in full force in anticipation of a verdict. Campers, stations wagons, walkie-talkies, televisions, telephones, lights, and cameras line our path as Bob, Susan, and I walk from the parking lot to the courthouse.
In the relaxed atmosphere, John Wilson pauses outside the defendants’ rooms to autograph a tape transcript for Fred Graham, a CBS newscaster. Back from his vacation, John is in high spirits and invites Fred into the room for a chat. Soon, Freda Reiter, the court artist, wanders in, followed by a reporter who says he heard that coffee is available. This is more than Bob can take. Giving a helpless shrug, he moves into the smaller room to get some privacy.
In the afternoon, the defendants are called back into the courtroom, where Sirica announces that the jury has requested the June 23, 1972, and the March 21, 1973, tapes, both of which include Bob. This can’t be good. I squirm uncomfortably on the bench.
Although it’s drizzly and dark when we come out of the courthouse this evening, we are met by a glare of lights and lots of activity. I grip Bob’s arm tighter as we dodge newscasters, cameramen, and electricians.
Tonight is New Year’s Eve. All I want is to spend a quiet evening at home with Bob and Susan. Our dinner is interrupted, however, by a reporter at the front door, who wants to confirm that we are celebrating with the Ehrlichmans. Pointing to the personalized license plates on the Checker Cab parked in front, he’s convinced that Jan Evans’ initials stand for John Ehrlichman. Bob finally convinces him otherwise, and he leaves. We are in bed with lights off by 10:00 p.m.
We Have a Verdict
January 1, 1975—Trial Day Fifty-Five
On this first day of the New Year, the weather is beautiful, crisp, and sunny with a few puffy clouds. Because it’s a holiday, there isn’t any traffic, and we arrive at the courthouse early. The halls are empty, and neither the escalator nor the elevator is in service.
The jury has been deliberating for a day and a half, and we expect this to be another long day of sitting around. I read the paper, while Bob gets into a serious game of bridge. With an overwhelming amount of information to consider, the jurors have two more requests: a list of the documentary evidence and Judge Sirica’s instructions on perjury law.
At 4:30 p.m., I yawn and look at my watch. It’s almost time to go home. Bob smiles as he plays his last card and makes a “small slam.” At that moment, the door to the hall opens. The court marshal steps into the room, and his words shatter our relaxed camaraderie.
“We have a verdict.”
At first, no one moves, and faces go blank in disbelief. When we are told to report to Judge Sirica’s courtroom immediately, Bob’s lawyers close in on him. He and I are separated, but we make eye contact across the room. His gray-green eyes are soft and steady. They tell me that he’s in control. He mouths the words, “Don’t worry. I’m okay.”
Before I know it, both Bob and Susan are gone. I’m surrounded by people pushing toward the door. I can feel my heart pounding. It’s the verdict, Jo…the verdict. It’s too soon. Stay calm. What if I cry? My thoughts are all over the place. As I’m fumbling in my purse for a hankie, Jeannie appears. Her presence grounds me. Together, we walk across the hall into the courtroom. Bob is seated at his table with his lawyers; Susan is nearby. Jeanne and I sit on a bench in the second row. Pam Parkinson is on the other side of me. The room is icy cold, and I shiver. Jeanne leans over and lightly grips my arm. Her hand is warm and reassuring. Across the aisle, reporters stampede to get seats, and the press section fills up quickly. Behind me, there are only seven spectators in the section reserved for the public. No one—absolutely no one—expected such an early verdict. My body feels like a dead weight, but I straighten up and try to sit tall.
The jury is called in. Clutching a large brown envelope, John Hoffar leads the way.
“Have the jurors reached a verdict?” the clerk asks.
“Yes, we have,” Mr. Hoffar
confirms, handing the envelope to the marshal. He passes it to the clerk, who takes it to the judge.
After checking its contents, Sirica hands the envelope with the verdicts back to the clerk, and the defendants are told to stand. Court Clerk James Capitanio starts to read, “The United States of America v. John Mitchell, Harry R. Haldeman, John D. Ehrlichman, Robert C. Mardian, and Kenneth W. Parkinson. Criminal case number seven-four-one-one-zero…”
With his hands clasped in front of him, Bob stares straight ahead. I can’t see his face. As much as I would like to forget the scene in front of me, I know I never will. All I care about is Bob. As the clerk reads his name and the five charges against him, I close my eyes.
“Count One [conspiracy to obstruct justice]—Guilty.”
No, no, no…
“Count Two [obstruction of justice]—Guilty.”
Stay strong, Jo. I clench my fists, and my nails dig into my palms.
“Count Seven [perjury at the Senate hearing, regarding knowledge of funds used for blackmail or “hush money”]—Guilty.”
Swallow… Take a deep breath.
“Count Eight [perjury at the Senate hearing, regarding the president’s statement, “It would be wrong”]—Guilty.”
I’m cold and numb.
“Count Nine [perjury at the Senate hearing, regarding a reference to Jeb Magruder’s committing perjury]—Guilty.”
It’s over. I open my eyes. Everything is the same. Bob hasn’t moved. He’s all right.
Repeating the word “guilty” fifteen times, the gray-haired clerk reads the charges against the other defendants. Only one person is found innocent, Ken Parkinson, the forty-seven-year-old lawyer for the CRP. Judge Sirica thanks the jurors for their work and wishes them a “Happy New Year.”
People start to move. Next to me, Pam Parkinson is overcome with relief. Her face turns white, and she looks as if she might faint. My arms automatically reach out to support her. I hear myself tell her how happy I am for her and her family. Dorothy Mardian gives the “Bronx cheer,” and the press looks in our direction. I hope they don’t think that I did it. As we file out of the courtroom, Bob Mardian remains slumped in his seat with his head in his hands.
Back in the defendants’ rooms, I rush to the phone to deliver the news to our families, but it’s too late. Non, Mom, Dad, Hank, Peter, and Ann already know. The moment the verdict was read in court, the Rose Bowl game was interrupted for a special announcement. I’m heartsick. What a terrible way for our children and families to find out about Bob. I assure them that we’re all right and will be home soon.
Outside, it’s as if Mother Nature were upset. The sky suddenly turns black, and a freak storm comes from out of nowhere. The drama of the scene is eerie. The wind blows in great gusts, and rain lashes across the windowpanes. Inside, the conviviality is gone. Although forever bonded by this life-shattering experience, each of us is already moving on. Keeping our thoughts to ourselves, we methodically pack up our things to clear out of the rooms.
At an impromptu press conference in the hallway, John Ehrlichman says, “If there ever has been a ‘political trial’ in this country, this was it.” With Jeanne standing beside him, he states that he’s confident that his conviction will be overturned based on the fact that he was denied Nixon’s testimony.
When we leave the courthouse, heavy drops of rain sting as a fierce wind blows them across my face. I’m not prepared for this. Along with the other defendants, we are swallowed up by the press. I’m aware of noise and confusion as reporters and photographers push and shove to jockey for position. They keep shouting one question over and over: “What will you do now that the trial is over?”
John Mitchell pauses before stepping into a waiting limousine. With his pipe clenched between his teeth, he replies, “I’m going to the moon, I think. It’s the best place.”
Hugging his wife, Ken Parkinson grins. “I’m going home and taking a hot bath.”
“This is not a happy occasion,” Jim Neal tells a cluster of reporters. “We prosecuted as fairly as we could and as vigorously as we could…and…” He pauses. “I just don’t have anything more to say.”
Bob faces a battery of microphones. With Susan and me next to him, he states, “There is only one human being in the world who knows with absolute moral certainty the truth concerning the charges against me, and I know legally and morally that I am totally and absolutely innocent. I have the full conviction that ultimately the truth will be known.”
When asked what he will do now that the trial is over, Bob replies, “I will proceed with the process of appeal, moving through the judicial system.”
As we step away from the microphones, a savage gust of wind rips at my hair. Above us, dark clouds shift positions and angrily swirl around. The shouting and the jostling seem to intensify. It’s a nightmare. I tell myself that I’m not a part of it. I’ll wake up, and everything will be normal. Normal? What is normal? I don’t know anymore. Susan’s arm steadies me.
Bob guides the two of us through the unruly crowd.
Bob Haldeman returns to Lompoc Federal Prison Camp after furlough,
September 1978.
Part Five
PRISON
Mike Wallace Interview
January 1975
In world news, Communist troops launch a new full-scale offensive against South Vietnam. Although the aggression is in violation of the Paris Peace Accords, the US does not retaliate. China reelects Chou En-lai as prime minister at its first meeting of the National People’s Congress.
In its first issue after the trial, Time reports that “most of the mysteries of Watergate have been resolved, and the nation can now begin to leave Watergate to the historians.”
I don’t see it that way. Watergate is far from being resolved. Bob is a convicted felon, and we are going to be living under the shadow of Watergate for a long time. The appeal process alone could take over two years. Bob’s lawyers have already submitted a request for a retrial on the grounds that the jurors may have broken their sequestration and read the newspaper or watched TV.
On January 8, Judge Sirica surprises everyone by reducing the sentences of the prosecution’s star witnesses to “time served.” John Dean and Jeb Magruder are given their freedom in exchange for their testimony. Non voices what we all are thinking when she says that it’s unfair to have Dean and Magruder walking around as free men while her son waits to be sentenced.
Three days later, it’s an odd feeling for Bob and me to be meeting with a probation officer in our home. I serve Mr. Westman coffee and sweet rolls during the two-hour interview, while he asks questions about our states of mind, our financial situation, and the burden prison will place on our family. His soft-spoken, courteous demeanor puts both Bob and me at ease.
“I believe in my husband’s innocence,” I tell him. “But I’m prepared for the worst.”
Bob is sincere and straightforward as he talks about our home life and finances, as well as his reactions to the trial, incarceration, and the future. Mr. Westman tells us that his report will be sent to Judge Sirica and suggests that I write a letter on Bob’s behalf. Determined to choose the right words to describe Bob’s ability, loyalty, and love of community and family, I spend hours working on it. I conclude by telling Sirica that I can find nothing redeeming about Bob’s having to serve time in prison.
As Bob and I pick up the pieces of our former life, I find it hard to focus on my daily routine. Every time Watergate is mentioned in the news, it’s a constant reminder of how unsettled things are. Throughout the month of January, I cling to the positive and try to work through the negative. When John Wilson files for an acquittal based on Nixon’s failure to testify at the trial and the massive pretrial publicity, I wonder if there is still hope for Bob.
February 1975
On Friday, February 21, Bob is in Washington for his sentencing. It’s
a cold, dreary day, and I feel so alone. The two of us have been together so much recently, it’s hard to be separated at this crucial time. When the phone rings, I’m not far from it. I hesitate before picking up the receiver. Do I really want to hear what Bob has to say? It’s all so final.
His voice sounds upbeat and matter-of-fact. He’s in a hurry, and the conversation is brief. “Sirica gave Mitchell, Ehrlichman, and me two and a half to eight years. Mardian got ten months.”
“Oh…”
“It could have been worse, Jo. Take care. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Bob is right. It could have been worse. Two and a half to eight years is a lot better than the maximum of twenty-five years, but it still means that he will be going to prison.
Deep in thought, I stand motionless at the kitchen window. The gardener is hosing down the driveway, but I’m not focused on him. Rufus comes over and nudges me. Bob doesn’t belong locked up. What good does it serve? Who benefits? My husband is not a criminal.
This evening, the Herald Examiner’s banner headline shares Bob’s fate with the rest of the world. “WATERGATE ‘BIG 4’ GET PRISON TERMS.” The next day, John Wilson tells the press, “Whatever Bob Haldeman did, so did Richard Nixon. Nixon has been freed of judicial punishment, yet Bob Haldeman has had to endure agony and punishment by trial and conviction.”
John Ehrlichman’s request to work with the Indians in New Mexico instead of going to prison is denied. John Mitchell informs the press that his sentence could have been worse—life with Martha.
March 1975
In March, following a powerful North Vietnam offensive in the Central Highlands of South Vietnam, the South Vietnamese army retreats in chaos, leaving nearly sixty thousand dead or missing.
Not in a position to seek outside employment, Bob continues to work on his book, which emphasizes the goals and accomplishments of the Nixon presidency. He still has no agent or publisher, and I wish I could help financially. The fact that I have no job skills troubles me.
