by Jo Haldeman
When Henry Kissinger calls the next morning to tell me that he’s writing the parole board on Bob’s behalf, it gives me a lift.
“How’s the book doing?” he asks.
“Bob’s frustrated,” I say. “He feels that he’s taken a step backward.”
Henry gives a raspy chuckle. “Tell him to consider it a step sideways, Jo.”
“I will,” I say. “Thanks, Henry. I needed that.”
Six More Months
May 1978
At 7:30 a.m. on Friday, May 5, I leave home. In a few hours, Bob and I will meet with the parole board, and each of us will make a statement. We have been told that the board will give a lot of weight to what we say, and I’m nervous. I want to do everything I can to get Bob’s sentence reduced to a year.
Feeling the need to collect my thoughts before arriving at the camp, I pull into a rest stop at the Gaviota Pass. A strong wind is blowing, and there’s an unseasonable chill in the air. Slipping on a heavy, cable-knit sweater, I spend an hour reading the Christian Science Bible Lesson. The references give me confidence and strengthen my resolve.
After I check in at the Visitors Center, a guard escorts me across the field to meet up with Bob in “B” Barracks. Stopping at a room at the end of a long hall, the guard tries to open the door. It’s stuck, and a call for help comes from inside. I recognize Bob’s voice.
“What’s going on?” the guard calls out, rattling the doorknob.
“I’m locked in,” Bob shouts back. “The wind blew the door closed.”
Subduing a laugh, I watch as the mortified guard rushes off to get help. The situation is eventually rectified by two guards who appear with the key. Once inside the room, I join Bob at a long wooden table, where we wait to be called for the interview. When we’re informed that the parole board is running late and our meeting will be delayed for an hour, I tell Bob that I’m glad. I can use the extra time to review what I plan to say. I read my statement to him, and he listens intently. When I am done, his advice is reassuring; his compliments, genuine.
There are two men on the parole board, and the interview is taped. I’m up first. As I make my statement and answer their questions, I’m unruffled and articulate. Describing our close-knit family, I explain that I work full-time in real estate to cover our ongoing financial needs. I talk about Bob’s positive attitude and lack of bitterness. Although I stress his integrity and honesty, one of the men refers to the severity of Bob’s crime and says that a sentence of twelve to sixteen months could be considered very light.
When it’s Bob’s turn to talk, he states that his family needs him, both as a father and a wage-earner. He plans to find a job and become active in the community after he’s released. He admits that the years following his resignation from the White House have been filled with doubt and uncertainty.
“This past year in prison, however, has been both a beginning and an end for me,” he concludes. “I believe the time has finally come to move on.”
On the whole, the men appear to be sympathetic, raising my hopes that Bob might even be released next month, after serving a year.
“We probably won’t hear the results of the interview for a couple of weeks,” Bob says as we walk back to the Visitors Center. “All we can do at this point is sit back and wait.”
A sudden gust of wind kicks up the dust in front of us, and something blows into my eye. As I struggle to get it out, Bob reaches into his pocket and offers me his handkerchief. We both smile. I realize that he, too, is remembering the time on Air Force One when he gave me his handkerchief so begrudgingly.
Bob has changed since those days in the White House. I wonder if he realizes just how much.
◆
Susan continues to be deeply frustrated by her father’s incarceration, and she writes him a letter. Later, she shows me his reply, where Bob writes in part:
Dear Sus,
There is certainly no argument from me to your point that the whole thing isn’t fair or right and that it is a terrible waste…. But we have to consider it in the overall and long-term context…. From the long range viewpoint, it is possible to see the potential for good that can eventually ensue.
All the lessons of history tell us not to concern ourselves solely with the immediate present. And all the life stories of people who have made a contribution show periods of interruption and frustration. So much so that these things have become clichés.
…The worst part of all of this for me—and for many others in here—is not my own concerns but my concerns about all of you. If I knew you were all happily going ahead with your lives, I would have no trouble handling my own.
I’m grateful for Bob’s calm acceptance of and positive perspective on this experience. I often wish that I could find the same peace of mind.
June 1978
Heavy fog moves into the Los Angeles basin on the first of June. With the arrival of “June gloom,” the US Parole Commission rules that Bob must serve eighteen months—not the year I thought, and hoped, might be a possibility. He won’t be released until December 20, six months from now.
Not only are Bob’s release date and the weather discouraging, but this whole month continues to be dismal. June 17 is the sixth anniversary of the break-in, and once again, the media has a field day rehashing Watergate. June 20 marks the one-year anniversary of Bob’s incarceration. And last, but not least, I have my own run-in with the law. In the course of making the drive to Lompoc six times this month, I receive two tickets for speeding.
Daylight saving time is back, which is both an advantage and disadvantage for me. On the one hand, I can stay late at the camp and have both lunch and dinner with Bob; on the other, I don’t get home until almost midnight. The late-night return drive is particularly long and boring, and I find ways to stay awake, some traditional, others more innovative. I roll down the windows, turn up the radio, and wear dark glasses. I make a stop for food, drive barefoot, and use my left foot on the accelerator. I even resort to propping up our small, portable TV on the floor of the passenger seat to watch a mini-series called “Rich Man, Poor Man.”
On Friday night, June 22, I’m desperately struggling to stay alert and pull into the parking lot of a Denny’s in the San Fernando Valley. Following a cup of coffee and a slice of banana cream pie, I’m still drowsy, so I curl up on the Grenada’s front seat and fall asleep. Before long, the car begins to shake, and when I spring up to see what’s going on, I startle a young man and woman who are leaning against the hood, passionately embracing. As soon as they see me looming up in front of them, they scream and take off at a run. What am I doing sleeping in my car? This is crazy. I start the ignition and get back on the freeway.
To satisfy our parents’ concerns about my safety, I have recently engaged the services of Westinghouse Alarm Company, which adds another dimension to my drive home. Now I have to stop at a public phone booth to alert the security patrol that I am almost home. It’s a hassle, but it’s reassuring to Mom, Dad, and Non. Tonight, it’s almost midnight when I pull into a Burger King in Hollywood to make the call. When I reach home, a patrol car with its headlights on high beam follows me into the driveway. Blinded by the bright light, I struggle to get all of my picnic supplies from the car to the house. With two security men watching my every move, I eventually get the back door unlocked. Once I’m inside, they drive away. I drop the picnic hamper on the floor, greet the dogs, and vow to cancel the service as soon as I can.
Despite the difficulties that I experience this month, the awesome beauty of Lompoc’s fields of flowers sends my spirits soaring. Blooming late this year due to the heavy winter rainfall, the acres of sweet peas are particularly profuse. I’m overcome by their rich colors and heady fragrance. The sight of them is breathtaking, and I will always hold these enchanting flowers close to my heart.
July 1978
Rather than taking a block of time off
this summer, I remain in Los Angeles. I continue to be busy at Coldwell Banker and spend one day a week visiting Bob. On the few occasions that I get down to Bay Island, it seems as if everywhere I turn, I face another memory of Bob. The hardest times are when the whole family is together and Bob is the only one missing. When Susan invites me to visit her in Minnesota, I jump at the chance to go someplace unfamiliar. I’m totally diverted as the two of us paddle a canoe down the St. Croix River and attend a Garrison Keillor concert in the park.
On Wednesday, July 19, it’s hot in Lompoc, and there’s not much shade on the patio at the Visitors Center. Bob and I finish our lunch of cold gazpacho, apples, and cheese, then drop our unwashed plastic dishes into the hamper. While playing Scrabble, he informs me that The Washington Post’s early release of the syndication of his book has cut into the profits. I, in turn, tell him that through her expertise and drive, Lucy continues to be number one in residential sales nationally at Coldwell Banker, and that I’m pleased to report that my earnings are up.
Later, Bob mentions that he received a copy of the letter that Jim Neal, the chief prosecutor of the Watergate trial, wrote on his behalf to the parole board.
“I was thinking about writing Jim back,” Bob says. “Enough time has passed since the trial, and I’d like to ask him to review the case from my viewpoint.”
“Will he do that?” I ask, wondering if Mr. Neal would take the time to read a letter that attempts to disprove the government’s case.
“Jim may be tough, but he’s also fair,” Bob replies. “If he’s willing to look over what I have to say, he might find me innocent. The only way to convince him is to lay out, fact-by-fact, the details of my knowledge and perception during the cover-up.”
“You’re going to rehash the whole trial?”
“You bet I am. What’s more, I’ve got to do it now, while my memory’s still fresh.” Bob pauses. “Look at it this way, Jo…as long as I’m in jail, I’ve got nothing better to do. What’s more, I have nothing to lose.”
When Bob puts it that way, I can’t object.
Heat
September 1978
When fall comes, real estate picks up. Working irregular hours, I leave for Coldwell Banker early in the morning and get home late at night. I grab lunch on the run and overlap with Lucy in the office, as well as in the field. Our client list grows, listings are secured, houses are sold, and escrows are closed. My little black car with its shiny hubcaps and Lucy’s mile-long limo are seen everywhere in Hancock Park. We are two very busy women.
I am thrilled when Hank and Heather announce their engagement. They plan to get married next June, and I only wish Bob could be here to share in the excitement. Instead, he writes Heath a long letter from the camp, welcoming her into the family.
At our picnic today, Bob talks about what his job options might be in the future. This is the first time that he has mentioned this, and I’m fascinated. Explaining that he wants to take his time and doesn’t plan to make any decisions for at least six months after his release, he ticks off a list of possibilities. Radio talk show host, guest lecturer, or manager of a bed and breakfast. Possibly a joint business venture in either China or Russia. Writing a book about the Nixon presidency or teaching. Some of these come as a complete surprise; others do not. I think he would make a great lecturer or teacher, and I assume he ultimately will write the book he’s always wanted to on Nixon’s achievements. I’m surprised and concerned when he tells me that making money isn’t a priority for him.
◆
Anticipating Bob’s first overnight furlough, I feel giddy. It’s as if we were going on a second honeymoon. The camp’s regulations stipulate that Los Angeles is too far, so we decide on Santa Barbara. When a friend of the family offers us his studio apartment in Montecito, we accept. It’s within walking distance of the ocean and sounds ideal.
I pack two overnight bags. One for Bob, and one for me. Following a brief check-out procedure at the camp, the two of us are on the road. I drive, and Bob sits in the passenger seat. In Santa Barbara, the weather is clear and unusually hot, and the beaches are crowded. The ocean is like glass. We stop at a market for breakfast supplies and at McConnell’s for a pint of peach ice cream for Bob.
At last, we arrive at Bonnymede, where we will be staying. The attractive Spanish-style apartment complex is nestled among picturesque Monterey cypress trees across the street from the Biltmore Hotel. In addition to the beach, there’s a pool and a tennis court.
The sun beats down on Bob and me as we unload the car. Collecting our overnight bags and the groceries, we climb the outside stairs to a second-story bachelor unit. Bob unlocks the door, and as soon as we step inside, I’m in his arms. The only thing I’m aware of is his holding me. I’m not sure who closes the door, and I don’t know how the ice cream gets into the freezer. Nothing seems to matter. Outside, Santa Barbara is experiencing a heat wave, and the thermometer soars to 105 degrees. Thick rays of sunshine filter through the half-opened plantation shutters. Our bags sit by the door, where Bob and I left them.
In the late afternoon, we put on shorts and take a walk along the beach. The sun is a huge red ball, shining through an eerie rosy haze. Waves of heat rise up from the sand, and the ocean is still. It just sits there, not moving. The two of us stroll along the edge of the water, weaving among the throngs of people and masses of brightly colored umbrellas. Many families are wading in the water to keep cool. Men roll up their trousers, women lift their skirts, and children are in their underwear.
Pulling a long strand of seaweed, a dark-skinned little boy runs past us. Accidentally flicking sand on us, he apologizes, “Lo siento.” Behind us, Bob and I leave a meandering trail of deep footprints in the wet sand. The scene is surreal.
The following afternoon as I drive Bob back to Lompoc, he relaxes in the passenger seat and takes in the scenery. I brace myself for our return to the camp. When we arrive, I linger in the parking lot to watch Bob as he walks over to the Administration Building. Wearing blue chinos and a white Oxford shirt, he carries in his left hand a paper bag with his toilet kit. As I drive away, all I can remember of the weekend is the oppressive heat and living in each moment as it happened, with no thoughts of the past or the future.
October 1978
In less than three months, Bob will be home for good, and I start marking off the days on my calendar. On Wednesday, December 20, I write in heavy black letters, “FINAL VISIT…LOMPOC…RELEASE.” I get goose bumps thinking about the date and how different our lives will soon be. Although Bob will have to report to a probation officer periodically and won’t be able to vote, he’ll be his own person and hopes to travel to the Holy Land sometime in the near future.
I’m excited, but I’m also apprehensive. Will people treat us differently when Bob comes home? How long will it take for him to get a job? How long will I continue to work with Lucy?
On October 10, Non’s brother, Uncle Al, calls and, in an animated voice, reports that Bob has only seventy-one more days at the camp. To Lucy, that’s the equivalent of five closings; to me, it’s eight visits and two town passes. Bob says, “Stop counting, Jo. I just want you to appear at prison one day and take me home.”
November 1978
Another month slips by, and tomorrow Bob will celebrate his second Thanksgiving at the camp. In order to arrive early, I spend the night at Andersen’s Best Western Motel in Solvang. I don’t check in until 10:45 p.m., and Room 150 smells of stale cigarette smoke. The décor is depressing, and the combination of loud neighbors and pouring rain keeps me awake most of the night.
The next morning, the storm has moved on, and the air is crisp and clear. Being a holiday, the camp is crowded, and I join a long line of cars entering the parking lot. At the Visitors Center, Guard Martinez forms us into two lines, “A” and “B.” Bob’s number is 1489-163B, which puts me in the “B” line, where I’m number six on the list for town
passes. Looking authoritative in his uniform, Martinez straightens his black tie. I grimace when I see that his tie-tack is a pair of tiny, silver interlocking handcuffs.
After checking out, Bob and I take off for the Parkers’ home. Their front porch is decorated with bunches of dried corn stalks and a large pumpkin. The door opens, and two Golden Retrievers bound out to greet us. Wearing an apron over her jeans, Gay follows, with Mom and Dad right behind. The aroma of roast turkey comes from the kitchen, where David is under the sink, trying to fix a jammed disposal.
Everyone talks at once as we help my sister put the finishing touches on dinner. Joe, Davy, Chris, and Amy are in and out; David mashes the potatoes; Mom makes gravy; and someone grabs a camera to take a picture of Bob and me. Seated at the dinner table, the ten of us bow our heads for a moment of silence. I am so grateful.
“This is the day the Lord hath made. Let us rejoice, give thanks, and be glad in it.”
Truly Whole
December 1978
On Monday, December 10, I make my final visit to the camp, and it’s hard to believe that in ten days I won’t ever be doing this again. No more white line, chain-link fence, guards, or loudspeaker blasting out, “Haldeman, you have a visit.” No more three-hour drives up and down the coast. Best of all, there will be no more picnics. When I tell Lucy that I plan to burn the picnic hamper and dispose of the pea green dishes after this last visit, she asks if she can come to the wake.
Bob and I are in high spirits as we enthusiastically discuss the plans for his homecoming. Invitations are in the mail for our open house on Saturday, December 23. After that we have much to look forward to: Christmas Eve with the Haldemans, Christmas morning with my parents, a week at Smoke Tree Ranch, and in February, an engagement party for Hank and Heather. There’s a lot happening, and from now on, Bob will be a part of it. He talks about sleeping in a real bed, having unlimited use of the phone, driving a car, playing his guitar, and taking walks with Rufus.
