by Jo Haldeman
“How do you like The Ends of Power?” He asks, raising his voice.
In the past, I’ve been critical of Tom and Joe, but I’m really pleased with their suggestion. “I like it a lot,” I tell Bob. “I think The Ends of Power makes a real statement.”
“The jacket’s going to be red, white, and blue. Underneath my name and the title, there’ll be a replica of the presidential seal…except, the eagle has lost its grip on the arrows, and its left claw is empty. The arrows are lying in a bundle below.”
“Sounds good,” I say. “It’s powerful.”
“The publication date has been moved up to the middle of March,” Bob continues, opening the picnic hamper. “I’ve got less than three months to do my final edits and clean up some of Joe’s more exaggerated scenarios.”
“That sounds tight. Can you make it?”
“I think so, but it’d sure be great if you could help. I wondered if you would take parts of the book with you and work on them at home.”
“Of course.”
I’m flattered that Bob is turning to me for help, but I’m worried about how much time I have to give to his book. Not only is Christmas practically here, but I spend long hours at Coldwell Banker. I also agreed to be interviewed by two journalists. Bob is convinced that the added publicity will help the sale of his book, and he encouraged me to talk to them. Camilla Synder is interested in my work in real estate for her article in the Herald Examiner. In contrast, Tommy Thompson wants to feature Washington and Watergate for his story in The Ladies Home Journal.
When I hear that Bob will be given a seven-day furlough at Christmas, I’m thrilled, and I want everything to be perfect for his homecoming. Before I leave to pick him up on December 21, my Christmas gifts are wrapped, our cards are in the mail, and the tree and house are decorated. I’ve completed my editing of The Ends of Power, and my interviews with Camilla and Tommy are over. In the living room, my homemade sign saying, “Welcome Home, H. R. H.,” is taped to the fireplace mantle.
As soon as Bob walks through the front door, the activity in our home picks up. Hank introduces Heather to his father. Family and friends drop by for visits, and we receive many thoughtful gifts. Bob has no trouble adjusting and thoroughly enjoys seeing everyone.
On December 22, Ann is presented at the annual Las Madrinas Debutante Ball. Although Bob escorted Susan around the dance floor on her presentation eight years ago, he believes that his presence at the event this year would be too much of a distraction. Dressed in white tie and tails, Hank substitutes for his father, and Bob finds himself home alone on the second night of his furlough. The rest of the family attends the ball, and a spontaneous round of applause breaks out as Hank and Ann take center stage. I am overwhelmed, and my heart is filled with pride. It’s as if everyone in the room wants to show support for Bob and our family.
On Christmas Eve, Bob takes his place at the head of the table and carves the turkey for twenty Haldemans. The following morning, my parents come for breakfast, and Bob cooks the scrambled eggs. When we open our stockings, mine is filled with little notes saying: “Good for Crest toothpaste,” “Good for Kodak film,” and “Good for Arpege bath powder.” Unable to do any shopping, Bob has substituted notes instead. One of my gifts to him is a replacement for the collage of family photos that was stolen from his cubicle at the camp.
The day after Christmas, Susan returns to her clerkship in Minnesota, and John Ehrlichman and his oldest daughter, Jan, drop by for tea. On a Christmas furlough, John is in Los Angeles to visit his mother. He has put on weight since the Watergate trial and sports a bushy mustache, as well as a receding hairline. Relaxed and chatty, both John and Bob joke about their experiences in prison and are soon comparing “hacks” (guards), head counts, lock downs, work assignments, and the quality of institutional food. John never mentions Jeanne.
At 5:00 p.m., on Tuesday, December 27, Bob’s furlough is up. Before leaving, he insists on making his favorite sandwich for lunch. Standing at the kitchen counter, he meticulously butters two slices of Weber’s white sandwich bread and spreads them with cranberry sauce and mayonnaise. Next, he adds turkey and lettuce, followed by generous amounts of salt and pepper. The two of us eat at the breakfast table by the window, with Rufus and the pugs at our feet.
I walk back to the garage to get the car, while Bob pauses to wave to Ann, who is leaning out her upstairs bedroom window. Dressed in the same blue athletic suit that he was wearing when I picked him up at the camp, Bob looks as if he were going jogging. But he’s not. Instead, he’s going back to Lompoc, and we face another long separation. I can’t help thinking about the futility of his incarceration.
Bob turns on the radio as soon as we are on the freeway. Switching from the news to country music, he starts to sing “A Boy Named Sue” along with Johnny Cash. Belting out each verse, word for word, he never misses a beat. There isn’t much traffic, and I set the cruise control. Bob closes his eyes and taps his foot in time to the music. A wax paper bag slips off his lap and lands on the floor. Inside it is an extra turkey sandwich.
◆
In the news this month, Vietnamese “boat people,” attempting to flee from the Communists, arrive in the United States in droves. John Travolta stars in Saturday Night Fever, and Debby Boone’s “You Light up My Life” is the current hit song. Charlie Chaplin dies at eighty-eight.
January 1978
It’s New Year’s Day. Three years ago today, the trial verdict was announced. Driving to Lompoc this morning, I think back to that moment, visualizing Bob in the courtroom. With his hands clasped in front of him, he stood before Judge Sirica, never flinching as the word guilty was read five times. So much has happened since then. We have moved on.
It’s my first visit since Bob was home on furlough, and it’s tough getting back into the routine. The weather doesn’t help. It’s cold and rainy, preventing us from being outside. Rounding up two of the vinyl-covered chairs, Bob and I sit facing each other in the middle of the crowded Visitors Center. He goes through the mail, while I unpack the picnic hamper. I struggle to be upbeat, but Bob is relaxed and eager to talk. He tells me that he has been reassigned from the dormitory to a room. He has a Chinese roommate named Tom who is a good bridge player and doesn’t drink or smoke. His only fault is that he’s too respectful of Bob and acts subservient.
“Tom keeps calling me Mr. Haldeman, instead of ‘H. R.’ like the other guys do,” Bob says. “But, I can’t complain. He’s good at making deals, and that’s what prison’s all about. I’m not sure how he does it. He gets oranges every morning, so we can have fresh juice. And he’s even convinced some old guy to leave milk and rolls outside our door for breakfast.”
Using the cutting board, Bob slices an apple and spreads blue cheese on each piece. “The guys at the sewer plant have deals, too,” he says. “They sneak steaks and eggs from the kitchen and store them with the chemicals in our refrigerator. Later, we cook them on the Bunsen burner.”
Bob is less eager to talk about the progress of the editing of his book. Tom, his publisher, and Joe, his collaborator, challenge every change he wants to make and try to dissuade him from cutting the parts that are speculative and titillating.
“But there’s good news on the sales side,” Bob says. “The serialization rights have been syndicated and bought by Newsweek and thirty newspapers. Tom tells me that two hundred and fifty thousand advance copies of the book have also been sold, which is the highest number ever.” Handing me a slice of apple with cheese on it, he adds, “Just think, Jo, I can finally start paying off my legal fees, and the first check’s going to John Wilson for forty thousand dollars.”
February–March 1978
Bob tells me that the release date for his book has been moved up to February 27 and is being kept as a closely guarded secret. “Tom and Joe are treating it like ‘literary plutonium.’”
Eleven days before the official
release date, The Washington Post strikes again.
On February 16, the paper reveals the closely guarded secret. Apparently, The Ends of Power was stolen from the bookbinder by a reporter, and now unauthorized excerpts appear in The Post under the headline, “Haldeman Accuses Nixon.” The New York Times describes the act as, “a second-rate burglary of H. R. Haldeman’s memoir of a third-rate burglary.” The Post counters that it is under no obligation to honor the veil of secrecy. It never signed a contract for the serialization rights.
Scooping everyone, The Washington Post features the more sensational scenarios that Joe and Tom insisted on. Bob is criticized for his use of conjecture when writing about President Nixon, Henry Kissinger, and Charles Colson. The media frantically tries to contact him, but the Federal Bureau of Prisons issues a statement saying that he is denying all requests for interviews. I hear nothing from him and have to rely on news reports.
The following day, a gigantic headline in the Los Angeles Times reads, “HALDEMAN’S MEMOIRS.” Under that is a smaller headline, “An Inside Look at the Nixon Presidency.” Half of the newspaper’s front page is devoted to articles about the book, and there are four full pages of excerpts and photos inside. I’ve never seen the paper give so much attention to one news event. Before I finish reading all of it, I receive a collect call from Bob, who is well aware of the commotion stirred up by The Post. He pumps me for more news.
“The news organizations that bought the exclusive syndication rights are so angry they’re considering releasing your book early,” I tell him. “They might even refuse to pay the contract price.”
“Tom told me about that,” Bob says.
“You should see the Los Angeles Times this morning. It’s filled with stuff about the book. I’ll bring it up with me when I visit.”
“That’ll be great. This whole thing’s a nightmare. In many ways, I’m glad that I’m stuck in prison. At least the press can’t get to me.”
◆
Two days later, it’s our twenty-ninth wedding anniversary, and I’m on my way to visit Bob. It’s pouring rain, and large puddles fill the camp’s parking lot. The dripping eucalyptus trees give off a wet, pungent smell. Tucking the Los Angeles Times into the picnic hamper, I put on my raincoat and slosh across the road to the Visitors Center. The line is long, but people are amazingly patient.
“Happy Anniversary,” Bob says, giving me a light kiss. “Glad to see that you survived in one piece after all the hullabaloo over the book these past few days. Tom says it’s been crazy.”
Bypassing the mail, Bob pulls the Times out of the hamper and starts to read. He’s so absorbed, he hardly reacts when the man behind us lights a cigarette. While I wait for Bob to finish, my mind drifts, and I absentmindedly focus on a small rip in the cushion of his chair. Each time he shifts positions, more of the white stuffing bulges out. The longer I sit here, the more incongruous this scene seems. I hate this noisy room with its cheap chairs and cigarette smoke. What are we doing here, anyway?
“The president, Henry, and Chuck sure aren’t going to be very happy with this,” Bob says from behind the paper. “I’ve got to write them and clarify things. Tom’s furious at The Washington Post, and he’s frantically trying to salvage the publishing contracts.” Bob shifts positions, and some of the stuffing drops onto the floor. “On the other hand, Tom figures that the leak and the negative publicity are good for book sales.”
“At least that’s one plus,” I say, setting two plates on the floor and dishing up the taco salad.
Bob leans down to pick up his plate. “Not a great way to spend an anniversary is it?” he asks.
“I used to think that picnics were romantic,” I reply, wiping up two dabs of spilled Russian dressing.
“When I get out of jail, you’ve got a date to go dancing,” Bob says. “L’Escoffier at the Beverly Hilton has a band, and I promise we’ll go dancing on every anniversary.”
When it comes time to leave, my raincoat is still damp and feels clammy when I put it on. The heavy rain doesn’t let up on my drive back to Los Angeles, and our house is cold and dreary. But none of this matters. All I can think about is Bob’s promise, and I head for the family room. Searching through a stack of old 78 records, I place three of them on the turntable and push the start lever. Grabbing one of Bob’s sweaters, I place one sleeve on my left shoulder and hold the other in my extended right hand. Twirling and dipping in time to the beat of the romantic strains of “Symphony,” “Why Do I Love You?,” and “A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody,” I dance with Bob. The blue plaid couch and pine coffee table fade away as the two of us glide around the room. When the music stops, I clutch the sweater and stand motionless for a long time.
◆
On February 27, The Ends of Power hits the bookstores. Its red, white, and blue cover with its altered presidential seal is crisp and patriotic. Joe DiMona’s writing style is easy to read, and Bob’s book rapidly climbs to the top of The New York Times Best Sellers List. The Book of the Month Club chooses it as an alternate selection, and there are plans to print it in several foreign languages. Bob receives many requests from friends and strangers alike to autograph their copies. Having no way to do this, he asks me to order preprinted cards for him to sign. These can be inserted in the books when I mail them back to the individuals.
Newsweek carries sixteen pages of excerpts from The Ends of Power, and the magazine’s red cover is electrifying. “Haldeman Talks” is in harsh yellow print above a picture of Nixon and Bob facing each other, nose-to-nose. The review is not complimentary.
Haldeman’s dark-side-up portrayal of Nixon enmeshed in Watergate is a devastating one. Haldeman’s book, of course, is the work of a convicted principal in the Watergate conspiracy, and is likely to be read and judged accordingly. His allegations against Nixon and Colson in particular rest heavily on circumstantial rather than eyewitness evidence.
Henry Kissinger disputes the book’s conjectures in an appearance on the Today show; Chuck Colson denies them in a public statement; and Nixon releases a statement saying that his memoirs will be published in May. John Dean sends a sarcastic letter to Bob, telling him that the use of the presidential seal on the jacket is illegal.
Bob is determined to counter the book’s misconceptions, and in March, he’s given the opportunity by Dell Publishing Company, who buys the rights for the paperback edition. Bob is encouraged to write an afterword, where he can address the book’s speculations and inaccuracies.
April 1978
By the end of April, Bob has served ten months of his sentence and is entitled to monthly town passes, as well as one overnight furlough every three months. On Friday, April 28, I pick him up at 7:00 a.m. for his first town pass. He has to be back by 7:00 p.m., and we can go as far as the Danish town of Solvang, which is twenty-one miles away.
The morning air is cool, and the sky is cloudless when I arrive in Lompoc. Bob checks out, and we leave for Hans Christian Andersen State Park, a small park on the outskirts of Solvang. Although the sign says, “Velkommen,” it’s too early in the day for visitors, and we are the only ones here. Clutching two Styrofoam cups of coffee and a bag of Danish pastries, we stake out a weathered wood picnic table. Joking about the irony of leaving one picnic table for another, Bob straddles the bench and helps himself to a cinnamon roll. Not far from us, a couple of blue jays are squabbling over some acorns under a large, sprawling oak tree.
Bob tells me that the parole board is scheduled to meet at the camp next week. Although Judge Sirica has reduced his sentence to one to four years, it’s up to the board to determine his actual release date. Their decision will be based in part on letters they receive on his behalf, as well as an interview with both Bob and me. We have a lot riding on this, and I express some concern about my part.
“You’ll do fine, Jo,” Bob says, tossing a raisin to the blue jays.
John Ehrlichman was released yes
terday, after serving eighteen months. He was found guilty in two trials, which causes me to be hopeful that Bob won’t have to serve as long. A car enters the park, and two mothers get out with their young children.
Watching them walk over to the playground, Bob tells me that before he’s released, he plans to finish reading Will and Ariel Durant’s eleven-volume set of History of Civilization. He asks me to send him the Age of Faith and Renaissance volumes.
“Deputy Dog’s our new warden,” Bob says. “It’s ridiculous. He spends all of his time driving around in his station wagon, spying on us. He’s even making us clean up our rooms, and we have to turn in our extra mattresses.”
“You have more than one?” I ask.
“Yeah. Prison mattresses are like thin sheets of cardboard. You need at least three to get a decent night’s sleep.”
At noon, we leave the park and drive into Solvang for lunch. The town is bustling with tourists, and occasionally someone recognizes Bob and gives him a smile. On Copenhagen Drive, we window shop and buy ice-cream cones at 31 Flavors.
Standing outside a bookstore, Bob talks about what he plans to write in the afterword of his book. He’s convinced that President Nixon had no previous knowledge of the Watergate break-in, but he wants to say that Nixon’s request for more information could have been the underlying cause for it. He also wants to make it clear that the president was involved in the containment of Watergate from Day One, but that he and Bob were not aware of any cover-up until March of 1973, when everything started to unravel. He emphasizes the difference between cover-up, containment, and obstruction of justice.
Licking his Jamoca Almond Fudge ice-cream cone, Bob says, “The White House should have pursued Watergate to its source immediately and cut it out whatever the cost. But…we didn’t. And we paid a terrible price. Look where I am now.”
By the time I get home after our twelve-hour visit, I’m exhausted both physically and emotionally. Although it’s late, I’m still mulling over Bob’s concerns about the book and his regrets about the way Watergate was handled.
