by Jo Haldeman
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The next morning, Gay helps me pack up my fancy, rattan picnic basket. The beautifully equipped Abercrombie & Fitch hamper was a wedding present, and I’ve finally found a way to put it to good use. It’s a Saturday, and the visiting hours are longer. With the exception of the afternoon break, I’m looking forward to spending the whole day with Bob.
On the way to Lompoc, I can’t resist stopping to pick a few wildflowers for Bob. By the time I reach the camp, heavy black clouds have blotted out the sun. The towering pines and eucalyptus trees surrounding the parking lot look dark and foreboding. As I’m unloading my things, it starts to rain. I make a mad dash to the Visitors Center. In one hand, I grip the bouquet of poppies and lupine, along with the hamper. In the other, I clutch my purse and a bag of games.
Inside, it’s bedlam. The unseasonably wet weather has forced everyone to remain indoors. The air is thick with cigarette smoke and the odor of damp clothing. Babies are crying, and older children are working off their pent-up energy by running around the crowded room.
As soon as Bob checks in, we head for a corner, where we drag two vinyl-covered chairs together. Once we’re settled, I give Bob the bedraggled wildflowers. He starts to take them and then quickly retracts his hand.
“Good grief, Jo,” he exclaims. “Don’t you know that it’s against the law to pick California poppies?”
Embarrassed and confused, I mumble, “I…I didn’t know…I’m sorry.”
Bob shakes his head in disbelief. “Here I am in jail, and right in front of the guards, my wife hands me a bunch of illegally picked wildflowers. You’ve got to get rid of them right away.”
I head for the trashcan at the far end of the room. Above it a soap opera in Spanish blares from a wall-mounted TV. I hesitate. It’s hard to toss the flowers into the trash, where they land on top of a mixture of orange peels, fast food wrappers, and cigarette butts. And it’s doubly hard to see Bob sitting on that cheap, red vinyl chair in the middle of all this confusion. Usually adept, he’s awkwardly trying to undo the straps that hold the dishes and silverware inside our fancy picnic basket.
How can today’s visit be so different from yesterday’s? Nothing is going right. It’s raining. I’m angry at myself for picking the flowers, and I hate this crummy room, where Bob looks so out of place. The noise drowns out most of our conversation, and we have to shout. Bob lacks his usual enthusiasm, and for the first time, he finds fault with things. He misses his privacy and complains that the camp food is institutional.
“Most of the time we only have plastic spoons to eat with,” he says. “The knives and forks ‘mysteriously disappear,’ just like my toilet kit.”
“Someone stole your toilet kit?”
“Yeah,” he confirms. “Can you send me a new one?”
At 8:00 p.m., visiting hours are finally over, and everyone springs into action. Bob and I pack up and follow the parade to the side door. As families push past us, he gives me a quick kiss and hands me the hamper. Halfway out the door, I look back and call out, “I love you.” I don’t think he hears me.
Outside, the rain has stopped, and it’s starting to clear. Walking past the damp picnic tables, I come to the white line. Instead of ignoring it, I deliberately step on it. It’s a dumb thing to do, but it makes me feel better.
Things don’t improve on the drive back to Newport. The station wagon breaks down again in Santa Barbara, and this time, it’s a broken radiator hose. What’s going on with this stupid car? Why is all of this happening to me? When I’m back on the road, I sing hymns to keep from feeling sorry for myself.
It matters not what be thy lot,
So Love doth guide;
For storm or shine, pure peace is thine,
Whate’er betide…
I struggle to stay awake and arrive at Bay Island well after midnight. Trying to be as quiet as possible, I push a cart containing my overnight bag and picnic supplies across the bridge onto the island. At #11, the porch light is on, and Mother is still up waiting for me. After I shower, she appears with a bowl of soup on a tray. My heart fills with affection. Her calm strength and love assure me that everything will be all right.
A Commutation of Sentence
Two days later, I’m surrounded by family as Hortons and Haldemans gather at #11 to celebrate the Fourth of July. Although everyone misses Bob, he sounds quite content when he calls from the camp. Explaining that the warden has allowed the press to film his cubicle and the sewer plant, he adds that the buildings were painted for the occasion.
“Did you do anything special today?” I ask.
“It was neat,” Bob exclaims. “They put on a Fourth of July picnic with barbecued chicken and free soda pop!”
Soda pop? In thirty years, I’ve never heard Bob use the term “soda pop,” let alone drink one. Listening to him talk, I realize that it takes very little to please him these days. Food has become the primary focus of his attention.
August 1977
In August, the space shuttle Enterprise passes its first flight test in the Mojave Desert. After twenty-five years, the Volkswagen Beetle is being replaced by the Rabbit. Jackie Kennedy Onassis receives $20 million from her late husband’s estate, and Elvis Presley dies at forty-two.
Between my work at Coldwell Banker, visits with Bob, and visits to Bay Island, my days are full this summer. Although I spend much of my time on the road, I find that it gives me a chance to reflect on my life. The drive along the coast is particularly beautiful, and I love the smell of the eucalyptus trees mixed with the saltiness of the sea air. There are rugged palisades on one side and the beach with its rolling waves on the other. In the distance, offshore oil rigs dot the ocean. At times, I parallel the train, and we play a game of “cat and mouse.” One minute, it appears on my right; the next, it’s on my left.
My mother and father take the family to Honolulu this month to celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Although there are fourteen of us, I find that it’s hard to be here without Bob. The trip brings back nostalgic memories of my last visit. As a junior in high school, I sailed to Hawaii with my family on the Matson Line’s S.S. Lurline. Bob paid his own way to join us and was with me every waking moment.
The days get hotter. At the camp, I wear a straw hat and sit in the shade, while Bob faces the sun to keep up on his tan. On several occasions, Bob asks another inmate and his wife to join us at our table. Robert is serving time for nursing home fraud. He and Bob both enjoy bridge, and as partners, they placed third in the duplicate bridge tournament. When they tell Mildred and me that they also tried to join the fire brigade, we are astonished. The two of them are older than most of the inmates and physically less fit.
“The fire brigade?” Mildred questions. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
Giving a smug smile, Robert responds, “Firefighters get private rooms.”
September 1977
By September, Bob has a steady flow of visitors. In addition to scheduling visits with family and close friends, I coordinate requests from Maury and Kathleen Stans (former secretary of commerce), Chuck Colson (former special counsel to the president), John and Nell Wooden (UCLA basketball coach), Diane Sawyer (former press aide to the president), Bruce Herschensohn (former deputy special assistant to the president), and Larry Higby, Gordon Strachan, and Dwight Chapin (former aides to Bob in the White House).
Mother and Dad combine their visits with overnight stays at the Parkers, and Non drives alone to Lompoc every other week. I go every Friday, which means that I can have both lunch and dinner with Bob, as long as it’s still daylight saving time. This leaves me free to work on the weekends, the busiest time in real estate.
When the station wagon breaks down for the fourth time, both Bob and I agree that it’s time to replace it. Soon, I’m the proud owner of a new Ford Grenada. The four-door sedan is black and has flashy chrome hubcaps. It’s fun for me, and ye
t appropriate for my real estate clients.
My next trip to Lompoc is a breeze. What a difference a new car makes! To my surprise, Bob has something new, too. A full, thick mustache.
“You look like…Pancho Villa,” I tell him.
Bob is pleased with the comparison. “The guys who ride in the bus with me to the sewer plant encouraged me to grow it,” he says, running his finger along the bushy growth of hair on his upper lip. “They think I look Mexican, like them.”
As we eat and talk, Bob tells me that his publisher is pushing him to hurry up and finish the book. However, it’s difficult for him to work fast. The typewriter at the sewer plant frequently skips letters, and several of its keys stick.
In the middle of our conversation, Bob abruptly excuses himself and goes over to another table, where a young inmate and his mother are visiting. He’s done this before, and I don’t like it. It’s hurtful to be left alone after I’ve driven miles to be with him for such a brief time. Why does he do it?
When Bob returns, he gives me a ring made of highly polished, honey-colored wood. “Here, Jo. Bud made this for you in furniture shop.”
Feeling sheepish for having been annoyed, I slip the ring on my right ring finger. It fits perfectly. Bud looks pleased when I thank him.
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Three months have passed since Bob entered the camp, and he can now apply for a commutation of sentence. According to his probation officer, things look encouraging. Judge Sirica is trying to get away from his “Maximum John” image and shows signs of greater compassion. Family and friends are being encouraged to write to him on Bob’s behalf. In my letter to Sirica, I refer to Bob’s character, his devotion to his family, and his strong reliance on his faith. I talk about the hardships we face, but I avoid pleading for sympathy.
Both Henry Kissinger and Charles Colson tell Bob that they will also send letters to Sirica. Henry is teaching at the Edmund Walsh School of Foreign Service at Georgetown University, and Chuck is setting up a Prison Christian Fellowship Program. Bob asks me to contact James Neal, too. Although John Wilson feels that it would be an imposition to ask the former prosecutor at the Watergate trial to write, Bob thinks that Mr. Neal would be happy to do it.
Judge Sirica reduces Bob’s sentence from two and a half to eight years to one to four years. Sometime in May, the parole board will set his release date. At that point, Bob will have been at the camp for almost a year.
Two Birthday Picnics
October 1977
One of the things I miss most about Washington is the dramatic change of color in the fall. The gray, leathery leaves on the sycamore trees that line our street in Hancock Park can’t compare to the vivid crimson and gold foliage in Georgetown and Kenwood. In our backyard, the large Brazilian pepper tree isn’t deciduous, and its leaves remain a dull green. Red berries appear on the pyracantha bushes at the side of the house, and buds are starting to form on the camellia plants in front.
Two un-carved pumpkins sit on our front doorstep, and my new car is parked in the driveway. I’m careful when I hand wash it. It has no smears, and its black paint shimmers in the morning sunlight. One of the best things about it is the tape player, and I buy lots of cassettes of my favorite Broadway musicals. Turning up the volume, I play them over and over as I drive back and forth to the camp. I adapt their sentimental lyrics to fit my own circumstances. In Man of La Mancha, Nixon becomes Don Quixote, the knight-errant who fights windmills and tries to achieve “the impossible dream.” With his luxurious mustache, Bob is Sancho Panza, Don Quixote’s sidekick. When the Mother Abbess in The Sound of Music tells Maria to “climb every mountain,” I think of the gently rolling hills north of Santa Barbara. The song that’s closest to my heart is “Send in the Clowns” from Stephen Sondheim’s A Little Night Music. Its lyrics describe an upside-down world similar to the one in which Bob and I live. I’m the “one who keeps tearing around,” and he’s the “one who can’t move.” Like the character Desiree, I question, “Isn’t it rich? Aren’t we a pair?”
With the exception of the three pugs and Rufus, I’m the only one living at home now. Bob’s office and the children’s rooms are deserted and quiet. After taking the California bar exam this summer, Susan is clerking for a judge in St. Paul, Minnesota. Hank is working in the music business and lives in West Los Angeles. Peter has transferred from Vassar to the University of California at Santa Cruz, and Ann is a freshman at Stanford. Although I miss the children, it’s good that they aren’t here. I’m hardly ever home.
On October 25, I take Hank and his girlfriend to dinner at L’Hermitage to celebrate his twenty-fourth birthday. Heather Eaton is a lovely girl, and I am glad that Hank is serious about their relationship. He tells me that he wants his father to meet her, but he refuses to take her to Lompoc. He doesn’t want “Heath” to see Bob in the camp.
When Bob turns fifty-one on October 27, he shaves off his moustache. Because he cannot receive anything that hasn’t been on a list submitted by him and preapproved, we cannot surprise him with gifts. Instead, his mother, sister, and I bring him a special picnic. We prepare everything that Bob likes: duck a l’orange, wild rice, marinated green beans, tapioca with whipped cream, homemade oatmeal cookies, Betsy’s homegrown blackberries, and Los Angeles Country Club macaroons. Although we think it might be too ostentatious to use the damask tablecloth, china plates, and silver flatware, it doesn’t bother Bob. He likes it and says that it makes it seem more like a party.
Four days later, I return to the camp with my mother and Gay to celebrate my forty-ninth birthday. This time it’s all of my favorites: corned beef sandwiches, sauerkraut, dill pickles, peanut butter milk shakes, and Mom’s homemade pumpkin pie, topped off with whipped cream and honey. Bob is a good sport and eats everything, except the pickles and the sauerkraut.
November 1977
After the two birthdays, I decide to replace our elegant, English picnic hamper with something smaller and lighter. At an import store, I buy a cheap, dome-shaped wicker basket, a small wooden cutting board, and a set of ugly, pea green plastic dishes. When Bob questions the color, I tell him that I had no choice.
Without daylight saving time, the camp no longer has extended visiting hours on Fridays and Saturdays. In order to make myself available to Lucy on the weekends, I plan to visit Bob every Monday. It’s cold at the camp on Monday, November 7, but Bob and I prefer to sit outside, away from the crowd. Handing him a ham sandwich, I tell him that Rose Mary Woods called the other day. “She asked about you and said that President Nixon was very blue the day you entered prison.”
“Did you happen to mention to Rose how blue I felt that day?” Bob asks sarcastically.
After playing a game of gin rummy, I put a stack of mail on the table for Bob to go through. He scans several national news magazines and holds up one with Nixon on the cover. “You know, Jo, I think President Nixon’s just as much a prisoner as I am. The only difference is his walls are invisible.” Bob glances around the patio. “I’ll tell you one thing though…I’d rather be here than where he is.”
A dark cloud blocks the sun, and Bob zips up his windbreaker. “I’m convinced that Richard Nixon still has the potential for greatness. The highpoint of my career was serving in his administration. There’s no doubt in my mind that, even knowing the outcome, I would still choose to work for him in Washington.”
“Even with Watergate, your resignation, and… this?” I ask, looking around us at the camp.
“Even with this,” Bob confirms without hesitation.
At 3:00 p.m. visiting hours are over, and I collect my things. On the drive home, I have plenty of time to mull over Bob’s remarks. He said that he would still choose to go to Washington, even if it meant the same outcome. Would I?
Unlike Bob’s response, mine is not quick or clear. Unquestionably, Washington was the experience of a lifetime for both of us. Our time in and around the White House w
as far more exciting and meaningful than I ever dreamed it would be. Serving as the president’s chief of staff was Bob’s moment in the sun, and I gladly supported him by taking a backseat. I had so many reasons to be proud of him, and I was.
But there was also a dark side. To accomplish all that he did, Bob was hard on his staff, as well as himself—and me. His total commitment to the president, together with his insensitivity, became a problem in our relationship, which we never really addressed. My insecurities as a White House wife were personal and private, and it was my nature to work through them on my own. One way of coping was to rationalize that in four or eight years we would return to Los Angeles and I would have my Bob back.
Then came Watergate, which brought its own very public challenges. Aware of our difficulties, our friends and family rallied in support of Bob and me. Without question, Bob bore the brunt of its repercussions, but he turned to me. As a result, our marriage was strengthened.
What if we hadn’t gone to Washington? Presumably, Bob would have continued to be a successful businessman and a pillar of the Los Angeles community. We would have been financially comfortable, the Haldeman name would have been unsullied, and our family would have been spared the fallout of Watergate.
Would I have chosen to go to Washington if I had known then what the next ten years would bring? I don’t know…
The Ends of Power
December 1977
Monday, December 9, is another cold and dreary day, but this time, Bob and I decide to have our picnic inside. As usual, the visiting room is crowded and noisy, and we have to huddle together in order to carry on a conversation. Bob is eager to give me an update on his book. He has finally finished it, and Tom Lipscomb, the publisher, and Joe DiMona, his collaborator, have come up with a title.
