by Jo Haldeman
The interview has forty-five million viewers. It’s the largest worldwide audience ever for a news interview. John Ehrlichman tells the press that Nixon’s remarks are “a smarmy, maudlin rationalization that will be tested and found false.”
Two weeks later, Nixon makes headlines when David Frost asks him about the legality of a presidential act. His response is convoluted and troubling. “Well, when the president does it that means it is not illegal.”
On May 23, the US Supreme Court announces its decision not to hear Bob’s appeal. The door closes on any remaining hope. I won’t allow myself to think about what comes next.
In the final segment of the Nixon/Frost interview, on May 25, the former president becomes emotional and admits that he was responsible for bringing himself down. Noticeably perspiring, he says, “I gave them [the American people] a sword, and they stuck it in. They twisted it with relish, and I guess if I had been in their position, I would have done the same thing. I let my friends down. I let the country down… I let the American people down. And I have to carry that burden with me for the rest of my life.”
Overall, I’m disappointed in Nixon’s performance, and I don’t find his wallowing in self-pity admirable or presidential. Bob puts some of the blame on himself. “The problem was we tried to present the president as one hundred percent good, while others were constantly portraying him as one hundred percent bad. In overplaying our hand, I wonder if we set the president up for the fall.”
David Frost is expected to make a million dollars from the interviews, and a Gallup Poll shows 69 percent of the public thinks that Nixon is still trying to cover up. The press pursues Bob for his reaction, and he finally gives in. In a press conference on our front lawn, he waits until all of the reporters are assembled. Then, he steps up to a battery of microphones and says, “I have one brief statement. If you really want to know how I feel about President Nixon, you can find out by reading my book.”
“Book?” I question, as soon as Bob steps back inside. “Do you have a publisher?”
“Not yet, but now that the president has dumped John and me, I’m going to change my approach. I’ve decided to write the Watergate story as I saw it. That way, I’ll be able to provide some explanations and clear up some questions.” Pulling off his tie, Bob drapes it and his blazer over the banister in the entry hall. “After three years of avoiding the subject of Watergate, I’m going to take it on. It’s not the book that I want to write, but it will sell.”
The gloves are off.
Night Thoughts
June 1977
The press relishes rehashing Watergate on the fifth anniversary of the break-in, and the US Supreme Court upholds public control of Nixon’s papers and tapes. In Britain, Queen Elizabeth celebrates twenty-five years on the throne with six days of pomp and pageantry. Seattle Slew wins the Triple Crown at Belmont.
On June 2, Sirica orders Bob to report to the Federal Prison Camp at Lompoc in twenty days. Steeling myself to mark the date on my calendar, I write “Lompoc” on the June 22 square and shade it in with a pencil. Now that prison is a reality for Bob, I can’t bring myself to write or say that word. As long as he’s incarcerated, I will refer to it as “the camp” or “Lompoc.”
Bob methodically makes preparations for his departure. After wrapping up his legal affairs, he finalizes the plans for his revised book on Watergate. With Joe DiMona as his collaborator, he signs a publishing contract with the New York Times Book Company, Inc.
Before leaving for Lompoc, Bob attends both of his daughters’ graduations: Ann’s from Marlborough and Susan’s from UCLA School of Law. His last outing is a family party in his honor given by his sister Betsy at her home in Rolling Hills.
These are poignant occasions. However, any happy memories are overshadowed by a growing anxiety when I climb into bed the night before Bob’s last day at home. My uncertainty becomes magnified as soon as he turns out the light. Night thoughts take over, and I become fearful and unsure about the future. Sensing my concern, Bob patiently begins to talk me through it.
“Don’t worry, Jo, I’m going to be fine. Think of prison as a work camp.”
“Will you be able to call?” I ask. “I’ll want to know how you’re doing.”
“I’m sure there’s a pay phone I can use,” Bob says. “And you’ll be coming up for visits. We’ll have lots of time to talk then.”
“What if there’s an emergency here at home?”
“You’ll handle things just fine. I have complete confidence in any decisions you might have to make without me. Just know that it’s really hard for me to walk away and leave you, and I appreciate all that you’ll be doing here at home.”
The two of us talk until past midnight, and I’m grateful for Bob’s patience. Lying in the dark, he extends his arm and draws me to him.
◆
On our final day together, I find myself being overly helpful just to be near Bob. When he leaves for a haircut at the Larchmont Barber Shop, I have trouble holding back tears. I want him here with me so I can commit to memory everything he does—his laughter and his gestures, the way he peers over his reading glasses, how he meticulously combs his hair or toys with his spoon at the dinner table.
When Bob shows me a letter from Nixon that he received in today’s mail, I’m touched. Compared to the former president’s accusations on the David Frost interviews, he seems to be speaking from his heart. The note is dated June 19 and sent from La Casa Pacifica, San Clemente.
Dear Bob,
As you know letter writing is not one of my major abilities. To find words adequately to express my deepest feelings for you as the day approaches when you go to Lompoc is extremely difficult.
We all hope that somehow the scales of what is called justice will be brought into balance. In the meantime, while it is small comfort, that enormously strong faith which is yours will sustain you, coupled with the realization that as far as Pat and I are concerned you have had, do have and will always have our deepest respect, admiration & personal affection. I know I reflect the views of many others who had the privilege of knowing the real Bob Haldeman.
God bless you.
RN
Tonight is our last night together, and by the time we go to bed, Bob has already moved on. His clothes are laid out for tomorrow, and his Bible is on the table in the front hall, where he won’t forget it. With two pillows supporting him, he’s sitting up in bed, working on a crossword puzzle. His pen moves rapidly across the page. It’s as if he doesn’t have a care in the world, while for me it’s the opposite. I can’t concentrate, and The Thorn Birds lies unopened on my lap. Switching off the light, Bob slides down and pulls up the covers. Facing me, he sleeps on his side with his hands tucked under his chin. In no time, he’s lightly snoring.
Lying wide awake, I stare at the ceiling. My night thoughts return, and this time they are more explicit. I picture a barbed wire fence, rough-looking prisoners, and guards with guns. Will Bob fit in at the camp? He’s so orderly and neat, and he likes his privacy. He’s not athletic or physically fit. What if the inmates pick on him? What if the guards have a grudge against him? I feel as if I’m slipping backward. Bob’s reassuring words from last night are gone, and before I know it, I’m crying. Bob sleepily props himself up on his right elbow.
“What’s wrong, Jo?”
He must be kidding. How can Bob ask what’s wrong? In a few hours, I’m driving him to…to…Lompoc…the camp. That’s what’s wrong.
“I don’t want you to go.”
“I know that, but we’ve got to put this experience behind us.” Bob’s voice is firm but gentle. “I’ve been living in limbo for four and a half years, ever since my name was first mentioned in connection with Watergate. Going to prison is actually a step forward, because it’s the last thing I have to go through. When this is over, we can all move forward. We will have survived. All of us will do j
ust fine.”
“I…I know we will,” I say, struggling to stay composed. “I’m so sorry to act this way. It’s just that… I love you, and I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Nothing’s going to ‘happen to me.’ As I told you, it’s like I’m going to a work camp, and you’ll see it tomorrow when you take me. Right now, we’ve got to get some sleep.”
His words have a calming effect, but as soon as I look at the lumpy shape next to me, I burst into tears again. I can make out Bob’s face, and the more loving his expression, the harder I cry.
I have a request, and it makes absolutely no sense. “Bob, I can’t look at you. It makes me cry. You’ve got to turn the other way.”
Before turning over onto his other side, Bob tells me that he loves me, and we kiss. Now the two of us are back to back. Eventually, I fall asleep.
In the morning, I’m relieved to find that my night thoughts have retreated. I embrace the day with the calm reassurance that I am here to support Bob as he starts on this last chapter in the saga of Watergate.
The Camp
The Federal Prison Camp in Lompoc is 150 miles north of Los Angeles. Bob has been granted permission to travel by car instead of riding in a prison van. He’s not allowed to drive, so I’ll chauffeur him. The two of us will make the trip alone. Later in the week, I’ll take his mother with me for the first visit. After that, the children.
In order to avoid the media, Bob decides to check in on Tuesday, June 21, a day earlier than announced. Somehow, the information gets out, and reporters start gathering in front of our house first thing in the morning. I greet them when I step outside, and I can feel their eyes following me as I walk back to the garage. I turn the key, but the car won’t start. Several reporters come over and watch as I struggle with the ignition. Finally, I’m successful, and by the time Bob comes out, I’m waiting for him in the driveway. Accompanied by camera flashes and questions, he walks over to the car and climbs in.
“What’s in the bag?” one reporter shouts.
Bob smiles but doesn’t answer. In his hand is a small paper bag, containing his toilet case and Bible. Nothing else. They’re the only personal items that he’s allowed to bring with him. The facility provides clothes and linen, and later he can make a written request for things from home.
Bob doesn’t have to be at the camp until 2:00 p.m., and we have allowed plenty of time to make the three-hour trip. Our drive through the San Fernando Valley is hot and dry, but along the coast, both of us are especially aware of the beauty of the ocean and the mountains. Bob lowers the passenger window and lets the cool salt air sweep through the car.
“I want to remember this,” he says, taking a deep breath. When he adds that he’s not sure when he’ll get to see the ocean again, it breaks my heart.
In Santa Barbara, we stop for gas, followed by lunch at a Taco Bell. Seated in the shade of a yellow and red plastic umbrella, Bob finishes his iced tea and tells me that we have only sixty-one miles to go. I don’t like to hear how close we are. Time is passing too quickly.
Soon, the road turns inland and goes through a pass, opening onto rolling hills dotted with clusters of poppies, lupine, and mustard. Approaching Lompoc, I’m overcome by the sight and heady fragrance of sweet peas, alyssum, and delphiniums, which are all in full bloom. Known as the “City Set in the Valley of Flowers,” Lompoc is surrounded by 1,500 acres of flowers, grown only for their seeds.
In the middle of nowhere, we pass a dark green highway sign, propped up at the side of the two-lane asphalt road. With an arrow pointing to the right, it reads, “Floradale Avenue—Correctional Facility.” My grip on the steering wheel tightens, and I wonder how often I will be making this drive over the next two and a half to eight years.
Before long, we come to the camp parking lot, bordered by giant eucalyptus trees. Across from it is a cluster of buildings: a three-story administration facility, two dormitories, a small, brick Visitors Center, and a chapel. Off to the side, there’s a large playing field with a chain-link fence around it. The setting isn’t nearly as bad as I had envisioned it, and I feel less apprehensive.
“End of the line,” Bob says, stretching. “Here’s where I get out.”
I turn off the engine and remain seated behind the wheel. Bob leans over to give me a kiss. Turning to face him, I wrap my arms around his neck. Our kiss is brief—almost impersonal, not the way I want it to be.
“I love you,” Bob says, gently releasing my clasp.
“I love you, too.” My voice cracks. “Take care.”
The next thing I know, the seat next to me is empty. The car door slams shut, and Bob is gone. I watch him walk away. The only sounds I hear are the crunching of gravel and the popping of eucalyptus pods under Bob’s Wallabees. Wearing khaki pants, a white button-down shirt, and a windbreaker, he grips his paper bag in his left hand. Once he reaches the other side of the road, he turns and gives a final wave. He looks little and so alone.
When Bob enters the Administration Building, he will be photographed, fingerprinted, and subjected to a body search for drugs and weapons. I shudder. Bob doesn’t belong here. How can I possibly leave him?
Somehow, I start the car and get back on the road. Feeling disconnected from my body, I’m hardly aware of the long drive home. As soon as I step into the entry hall, I’m jolted back to reality. The three pugs are barking, and Susan and Ann rush out to greet me. As we talk, I relive the heartache of this long day.
At 11:30 p.m., the phone rings. It’s a collect call from Bob! Bob? Calling me now? Eager to hear his voice, I quickly agree to accept the charges.
“Hi, Jo. I knew you would want a report, so I called as soon as I could.”
As Bob describes being processed and assigned a cubicle in the dorm, I take notes which Susan and Ann read over my shoulder. His voice sounds as upbeat as ever, and I’m relieved.
When I finally climb into bed at 1:30 a.m., I curl up with Bob’s pillow and lie with my arm extended over onto his side. I have no night thoughts and fall into a deep sleep almost immediately.
Handelman, You Have a Visit
The following morning, Henry Kissinger calls to say he’s thinking of Bob and me and wishes us well. He tells me that Bob has conducted himself with great dignity throughout this whole ordeal. When I hear the familiar German accent, it evokes strong memories of Bob, John, and Henry in their glory days at the White House, and I picture the self-confident, all-powerful Palace Guard, laughing and joking. At the time, Bob seemed invincible. He was always in control, and I can’t help comparing those days to what he faces now.
When I go into the Coldwell Banker office, Lucy has already read news accounts of Bob’s arrival at the camp yesterday. She understands how anxious I am to visit him and encourages me to take time off this weekend. Visiting hours are from 12:00 p.m. to 3:00 p.m. on weekdays and 8:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. on weekends. During daylight saving time, there are additional visiting hours from 5:00 p.m. to 8:00 p.m. on Fridays and Saturdays.
Three days after taking Bob to the camp, I return on Friday, June 24, with his mother for our first visit. Driving along the coast in her chocolate-brown Cadillac Seville, the two of us talk nonstop, excitedly speculating on what sort of life Bob is leading—who his friends are, what the food is like, and how he spends his time. We hardly take note of the beautiful coastline or Lompoc’s spectacular fields of flowers. Three large, pink cardboard boxes are on the backseat. Each contains a picnic lunch, personally packed by the chef at the Los Angeles Country Club. Bruno is a fan of Non’s, and he would do anything for her.
Arriving at noon, we park the car and follow the stream of families carrying picnic baskets into the Visitors Center. Non is upbeat and excited about seeing her son. But for some reason, I suddenly feel out of place and become filled with misgivings. This is it, Jo. Get a hold of yourself.
The room is crowded, and people are divi
ded into two lines for processing. A uniformed guard is seated at a table. Checking off Non’s and my names, as well as Bob’s, he asks if we brought in anything illegal. As soon as we are cleared, Bob is notified over a blaring loudspeaker.
“Handelman, you have a visit!”
Non looks crestfallen. “They didn’t get the name right! How will Bob know it’s for him?”
“Don’t worry, Non, he’ll know.” Looking across a paved area, I see a chain-link fence in the distance. With a pang, I recognize Bob as one of the men waiting patiently at the gate.
“Bob’s coming over here!” Non exclaims. It’s the same elated tone she used whenever she spotted her son at a White House event.
As soon as he steps inside the room, Bob identifies himself to the guard. “Haldeman, number one-four-eight-nine-six-three-B.” I cringe.
Non and I push forward to greet him, but Bob is distracted. Guiding us toward the door on the opposite side of the room, he tells us to hurry if we want to get seats at a table in the patio.
“The guys told me that outside is the best place to be,” he explains.
The three of us step out into a small grassy area, which is enclosed on three sides by the L-shaped Visitors Center and the camp chapel. The fourth side is open to the road, where a painted white line runs along the edge of the asphalt. Bob doesn’t relax until we’re seated at one of the picnic tables. At the other end of it, a Spanish-speaking family is busily unpacking a lunch of tamales, beans, rice, and homemade tortillas and salsa.
Eagerly opening one of the pink boxes, Bob exclaims, “Wow! This is great, Mom. Roast beef, sourdough French bread, fresh fruit, and country club macaroons! Thanks.”
As we eat, Bob and his mother are both at ease and animated, while I feel restrained and out of sorts. Bob talks freely about life in the camp. He refers to the other prisoners as “the guys,” and he says he would like to join a bridge group during “free time” in the afternoon. He’d also like to play tennis and plans to put in a request for me to bring him his racket.
