“Okay. Listen. Let me tell you what’s happened. I couldn’t tell Petersen I ever got that stuff, because I destroyed those documents.”
I gave Gray a determined and reassuring nod. He had made a sticky situation worse and we would have to stonewall that too. I didn’t feel very tough.
As the Christmas holidays approached, I began to brood about what all this was doing to my life. Each day I was a whirlwind that covered scores of little Watergate snares: Howard Hunt wanting us to find him a psychiatrist to help prove he was unfit to stand trial; Senator Edward Kennedy looking as if he might launch a Watergate investigation; the Cubans wanting to change lawyers; Judge John J. Sirica making warning noises in pretrial hearings. And business in the counsel’s office was skyrocketing, because I was indispensable in the burgeoning cover-up. My empire was developing. I no longer had to ask for fringe benefits. Haldeman had put me on the “A” limousine service, which entitled me to be picked up at home each morning and to have a limousine at my disposal. New partitions went up in my office. I redecorated for the sake of redecorating: new chairs, carpets, draperies. Workmen crowded in; we were expanding.… At night, I would go home and feel my spirit evaporate. I would nearly expire on the sofa. Mo knew enough to have the drinks ready and to stay out of the line of fire. I had switched from fifths of Scotch to half gallons so that I would think I was consuming fewer bottles. I spent most evenings at home, escaping with liquor. I asked Mo to cancel our social engagements. We quarreled, our new marriage already under severe strain.
Finally I decided once again to hide from Watergate, and we took off for California on an extended Christmas vacation. For ten days I managed to separate the cover-up from the rest of my life. Mo and I wound up spending New Year’s in Palm Springs. Haldeman, Ziegler, Higby and several other Haldeman staff people were also there, and we played tennis and worked on our tans. Watergate was taboo by unspoken consent. It had dropped out of the newspapers for nearly two months.
On Tuesday, January 2, the Palm Springs party arrived at March Air Force Base. There was a good deal of excited chatter because we were going to fly back to Washington in the new Boeing 707 jet that was soon to replace the current Air Force One. As we milled about in the waiting room, Ziegler told me I had a call from the White House. I went to return it, but before I could get a connection Higby tapped me frantically on the shoulder.
“Hang it up, John,” he snapped. “We’re leaving. Now. Bob wants to move out.”
“I won’t be a second, Larry. I’ve got a quick call to return.”
“Make it from the plane. You’ll get left if you don’t.”
Haldeman, always a demanding commander in chief in the President’s absence, expected his troops to move double-time. I grabbed Mo and dashed to the plane. It smelled like a new car, and there were sheets over all the seats because the Air Force brass didn’t want any passenger to leave a blemish before the President flew in the plane. The ground lines were still connected on the runway, and the White House operator came on when I picked up the phone. She said she had Paul O’Brien on the line waiting to speak to me.
“Where are you?” asked O’Brien.
“I’m out in California, Paul. I’m on my way back, and I’m sitting in an airplane right now.”
“Is it safe to talk?” he asked anxiously.
“No, I’m sure we’re going through at least two or three switchboards.”
“I see. Well, I’ll tell you this. We’ve got some serious problems. One of our boys is off the reservation. It’s serious. I need to talk to you as soon as you get back.”
The pilot was starting the engines. “Look Paul,” I said loudly, “we’re about to take off. They’re going to cut these lines any second now, and we can’t really talk anyway. I’ll call you tonight as soon as I get back.”
The plane was quickly aloft. I wandered up to the cabin where Haldeman was sitting. Everybody was testing out the latest gadgets, including a television that could pick up local stations as the plane passed over them. I stopped Haldeman in the aisle as he was putting on his personal Air Force One flight jacket, one of the highest White House status symbols. “You know, there’s no way we can get away from this goddam stuff. I just had a call from Paul O’Brien.”
“Oh?” Haldeman said curiously.
“Yes. Apparently one of our boys is off the reservation, and we’ve got some kind of serious problem.”
“You never seem to have any good news, do you?” he said, shaking his head.
I retreated to my seat and picked at my meal. About six hours later, I called O’Brien from my house.
“It’s Hunt, John. He’s all bent out of shape. He’s all screwed up since his wife died, and he doesn’t think he can stand trial. He’s pissed at the prosecution’s psychiatrists. He thinks the government has turned on him by declaring him fit for the trial. He’s mad at us for not helping him out more.” Hunt thought we owned the prosecutor’s office.
“Goddammit, Paul, you know I did what I could with Petersen on that. We did everything we could.”
“I know it, but Hunt doesn’t see it that way. Bittman says Hunt wants to plead guilty and get it over with, but he’s not going to do it if it looks like he’s going to spend the rest of his life in prison. Bittman has been trying to see Colson, but Chuck won’t see him. I tell you, he may blow.”
“Christ Almighty!” I said, then stopped. “Look, Paul, there’s nothing we can do about this right this minute. I’m going to forget about it one more night. Why don’t you come see me in the morning, okay?”
“Sure. I’ll be there. By the way, John. One more thing.”
“What’s that?” I snapped.
“Happy New Year.”
“Up yours!” I retorted, and then joined O’Brien’s laughter in spite of myself.
I needed a drink badly, feeling parched from the long ride with Haldeman. A Christian Scientist, like Ehrlichman, Haldeman regarded people who “used” alcohol as weaklings, so all his courtiers did their serious drinking on the sly. I climbed into my Scotch bottle in the safety of my home. As Mo unpacked I sat alone in company with my own weird thoughts. I heard Fielding instead of O’Brien warning me on a flight back East. Once again, a last night’s sleep before the holocaust. I was coming back from Manila again, as I had done six months earlier. This time I felt like an old man.
O’Brien walked into my office the next morning, threw his trench coat on a chair and sat down in his customary place in front of my desk. The trench coat always reminded me of something he’d said when we were looking for ways to help LaRue raise money abroad. He had said he might be able to help in Greece, because he had a law firm there that served as a front for the CIA. Ever since, I had thought of him as a “spy.” He had told me of having been in military intelligence and had tried to enlist my help to get promoted to general in the reserves. Now O’Brien looked pleasant and composed as he waited for me to start the conversation.
“Well, Paul,” I said wearily, “you’ve already ruined any rest I might have gotten from my vacation.”
He grinned. “Tough shit.”
“Let’s get on with it,” I said severely. I enjoyed O’Brien.
“John, you’re going to have to do something with your buddy Colson, or old Hunt is going to fly off the handle and the whole thing is going to go down the drain. Bittman’s got to see Colson. Hunt won’t take no for an answer.”
“That’s going to be tough. I don’t think Colson wants any part of meeting with Bittman. He’s been avoiding Hunt and Bittman like the plague.”
“Well, time’s running out. From what Bittman tells me, Hunt’s incredibly unstable now. He’s pissed and distraught, like I told you last night. I don’t think Colson has any choice. What do you think?”
“Well, I’ll see what I can do, but I’m not sure there’s anything. I’ll talk to Chuck and Ehrlichman and let you know.”
“Okay.” He smiled. “You’d better make it within the next few hours.”
&n
bsp; As he turned to leave I said, “Paul, there doesn’t seem to be any end to this goddam stuff. Just one day after another. The same stuff.”
“Well, maybe if we can get these guys through the trial, we’ll have ourselves a little breather.”
I called Colson. “Chuck, I’ve got good news for you. Bill Bittman wants to meet with you as soon as possible, and—”
“I’ll be goddamned if I want to meet with him,” he interrupted.
“Well, it may be pretty important that you do. Hunt’s apparently bent out of shape pretty bad since his wife died.”
“I know that. Haven’t you seen the letter I sent you yesterday?”
“No, I haven’t. I just got back to the office.” I reached over into my mailbox and sifted through for Colson’s memo. It was one line: “Now what the hell do I do?” Attached to it was a letter from Hunt to Colson, in which Hunt outlined his shaky mental condition and his feeling of abandonment. “Here it is, Chuck,” I said. “I guess you’re up on this stuff. What do you think we ought to do?”
“Shit, I don’t know. You’re supposed to be the lawyer.”
“So are you, Chuck.”
“Well, look, John. I want to stay as far away from this as I can. I don’t want any part of it.”
“I understand, but I’m going to have to raise this with Ehrlichman and get back to you.”
When I met with Ehrlichman, he responded very carefully to what I had to tell him. He said he thought Chuck should hear what Bittman had to say. I called Colson, then O’Brien.
“Paul, it’s all set up. Chuck’s going to meet with Bittman. So you can tell Bittman to call Colson and make his appointment. But I’ll tell you one thing. Colson’s damn reluctant to do it, and you better tell Bittman to hurry before he changes his mind.”
“Okay, I get you,” said O’Brien. “But if there’s one guy over there at the White House who ought not to be reluctant to meet with Howard Hunt’s lawyer, it’s Chuck Colson. That son-of-a-bitch is in this up to his teeth, and how he’s staying out of it I’ll never know.”
I wasn’t sure what O’Brien meant, but I assumed Bittman had been feeding him bits of ammunition from Hunt to get Chuck’s attention. “Paul,” I said somberly, “if Bittman has something to say to Colson, now’s the time. Because Chuck’s going to play the reluctant lady in this thing, and Bittman better tell Colson what it is that’s on his client’s mind while he has the chance. Otherwise, ain’t nothing going to happen.”
“I can assure you that Bittman will make Colson sit up and listen.”
Late that afternoon, Colson called in panic. “John, I’m going to meet with Ehrlichman. I’m on my way over. I think you ought to come over, too.” The hear-no-evil was gone from his voice. Bittman must have stuck it to him pretty hard. “Right away,” panted Colson. “It’s important.”
In Ehrlichman’s office, the three of us sat around his small semicircular desk. Ehrlichman doodled nervously on the desk rather than on his lap. The usual patterns were disintegrating.
Colson spoke in gasps as if he’d been doing his old Marine exercises. His halting report went through the familiar facts of Hunt’s near breakdown. “His ulcer,” Chuck sighed, “which is a bleeding ulcer, is giving him all kinds of trouble. The guy wants to plead guilty, but he’s afraid Sirica will stick him in jail forever. Bittman came at me like a train. The guy’s pretty shrewd too. He wants me to give some sort of assurances to Hunt that he’s not going to rot in jail. Bittman was cautious in his choice of words, but it was clear what the hell he was talking about. There’s no mistaking it. I don’t like this, but I’ve got to say I feel awful sorry for Howard Hunt. The guy’s in a terrible mess. With his wife dead and responsibility for all those kids. And they’re nice kids, too. I can see why he’s on the brink.”
Bittman must have pulled out all the stops, I thought.
Ehrlichman, ignoring the sentimental aspects, came straight to the point. “Chuck, I don’t want you to get into any specifics with anyone regarding clemency,” he said firmly. “I talked to the President many months ago about this whole problem coming up.” Ehrlichman’s jaw was set as he leaned back. He looked off. “I think it was back in July that I talked to the President about this out in San Clemente, and he told me he didn’t want to talk to anybody about clemency for these Watergate people. Here’s what I’m going to do. I’ll take this up with the President myself. And, Chuck, I don’t want you to talk to the President about it at all. You understand? You just wait until you hear back from me.”
His words echoed in the room. We all knew the dimensions. Anyone could pay money to the Watergate defendants. Only one man could grant them clemency. I thought, Ehrlichman is shrewd, he’s being protective of the President by insisting that he be the only one to speak with him about it; I wonder will he go the extra mile by not raising the matter with the President, assume the burden himself so that he can fall on his sword if necessary? No, I thought, that’s not the way Ehrlichman operates. He will raise it with the President. In the unlikely event that he needs to protect the President later, he will say he did not.
Ehrlichman, meanwhile, was glancing back and forth intently from Colson to me, telling us with his eyes that he meant business. Colson and I responded with understanding looks, and Chuck finally said, “Okay, I understand. But Bittman told me he wants to hear back as soon as possible about what we can do. So I’ve got to get back to him.”
Ehrlichman nodded, and the meeting ended.
The next morning, January 4, Ehrlichman called me early. “John, I’ve been thinking about this Hunt thing and I think it’s under control. And I’ve asked Brother Kleindienst to come over for lunch today to see if we can’t find some alternative that’ll satisfy Hunt. I’d like you to join us.”
“I’ll be there.”
Jack Caulfield walked in. I hadn’t seen him for several weeks, he was now working in the Treasury Department. He was upset; his eyes were bulging. “Did Fielding tell you about the letter from McCord?” he asked.
The question unleashed an unpleasant recollection I had suppressed in the panic about Hunt. Fred had told me that Caulfield had received a letter from McCord, in which McCord had laid down his threats poetically: “If Helms [CIA Director Richard M. Helms] goes and the Watergate operation is laid at the CIA’s feet, where it does not belong, every tree in the forest will fall. It will be a scorched desert. The whole matter is at the precipice now. Just pass the message that if they want it to blow, they are on exactly the right course.” I had been aware that McCord might be off the reservation, too; furthermore, Paul O’Brien had informed me about McCord’s deteriorating relationship with his lawyer. Hunt and the lawyers, said O’Brien, had planned to blame Watergate on the CIA by convincing “those dumb D.C. jurors that they were watching the Mission Impossible show.” McCord had balked at this. No one knew why. I wondered whether the Agency had reached him.
“Yeah, he told me about the letter,” I told Caulfield despondently. “When it rains it pours.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“Well, here’s the original letter. I don’t understand what the hell Jimmy’s up to, frankly. I met with him last summer, and he was all right then.”
“What were you meeting with him for?” This was news to me.
“Well, I wanted to keep track of him,” Jack sputtered. “I was worried about his family. We’ve got a code system worked out so we can communicate.”
“Well, thanks for this lovely letter, Jack. Let me know if you get any others from your pen pal. And keep in touch, okay? We might need to take some readings on Mr. McCord’s state of mind.”
I went down to the executive mess for lunch with Ehrlichman and Kleindienst. It was a hurried affair. Kleindienst announced that he didn’t have time to eat because he had to rush off to catch a plane.
“Well, Dick, I’ve been thinking about these Watergate defendants,” Ehrlichman said casually, as if the idea had wafted into his mind duri
ng late-night reading. “And I just wanted to ask you if there isn’t something we might do. Some way the Department of Justice might recommend that these wayward souls involved in this little caper could be treated with leniency when they’re sentenced. Some sort of official recommendation to the court to assure that they got leniency. What do you think?”
Kleindienst looked surprised, then puzzled, then uncomfortable. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I don’t have any idea about that, John. I’m no goddam criminal lawyer. But I’ll check with Petersen and let you know.” Now Kleindienst was even more anxious to leave, and he did.
I had just got back to my office when Petersen called. “John, I just rode out to the airport with Kleindienst,” he said, his voice rising. “Let me ask you something. Are you all nuts over there? The government can’t recommend leniency for those guys. That’s stupid. We’d be crucified. I don’t understand what goes through Ehrlichman’s head sometimes. It’s absolutely out of the question. In fact, we’re going to do just the opposite. We’re going to recommend that the book be thrown at them. And then we’re going to take them all back before the grand jury, immunize them, and try to force them to talk. That’s what we’re going to do. We don’t have any choice. And that’s what I told Dick, and he told me to tell Ehrlichman.”
“Uh, Henry, I don’t think it’s necessary for you to come over and deliver that message. I’ll pass it along.”
I called Ehrlichman and told him. The thought of the defendants going back into the grand-jury room broke one more thin straw I had been grasping—that all we needed was to get through the trial. “What do you want to do about Chuck?” I asked.
“I’ve already talked to him.”
“You have?” I was incredulous. Ehrlichman had actually anticipated Petersen’s response, I figured, and had acted accordingly. Still, it struck me as extraordinary that he had done anything before he absolutely had to.
“Yeah, he’s going to meet with Bittman. Chuck’s got him a plan.”
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