Blind Ambition

by Dean, John W. ;

  In the afternoon, we four met with the President and there were more jokes and further evasions. At one point, the President asked me what I really hoped to gain with the idea of opening up Watergate, lancing the boil.

  “What it’s doing, Mr. President, is getting you up above and away from it,” I replied seriously. “And that’s the most important thing.”

  “Oh, I know,” said the President. “But I suggested that the other day, and we all came down on—remember, we came down on the negative on it. Now what’s changed our mind?”

  “The lack of alternatives, or a body,” I said, meaning that no one was willing to risk jail, alone or in company. The whole group broke up in laughter—this time not nervous, pressured laughter, but guffaws.

  “We went down every alley,” said Ehrlichman, and he peered over his glasses at each of us in a mock search for a volunteer. More laughter.

  “Well,” said the President, “I feel that at the very minimum we’ve got to have the statement, and let’s look at it.” He meant some kind of Dean Report. “Whatever the hell it is. If it opens up doors, it opens up doors, you know.”

  “John says he’s sorry he sent those burglars in there, and that helps a lot,” quipped Ehrlichman, looking at Mitchell.

  “That’s right,” said the President.

  “You are very welcome, sir.” Mitchell took his pipe from his mouth and bowed graciously. More laughter.

  “Just glad the others didn’t get caught,” said Haldeman.

  “Yeah.” The President smiled. “The ones we sent to Muskie and all the rest. Jackson and Hubert, too.”

  So much for the idea of someone stepping forward, I thought as I went home that night. I had other things to worry about. Pat Gray had testified that day, in his endless confirmation hearings, that I had “probably lied” by telling FBI agents right after the break-in that Howard Hunt had no White House connections. I was furious at Gray. Ziegler told me I would be in the next day’s headlines, and the next morning I awoke to find my house surrounded by TV cameras, news reporters, a whole army. There was a banner headline in the Washington Post: DEAN PROBABLY LIED. I retreated to the kitchen to consider my choices, feeling like an outlaw: I could wade into the reporters and tell the truth, which would mean calling Gray a liar; I could really blow my stack and tell the reporters to ask Gray what he had done with the documents from Hunt’s safe; or I could go out and say, “No comment, no comment,” like a Mafioso. I rejected all the alternatives and decided to hole up at home, pulling the curtains, drawing the blinds.

  Then my private White House line rang. It was Paul O’Brien, with big news. Judge Sirica had just read in court a letter from James McCord in which McCord charged that there had been perjury committed at his trial, hush money paid, and higher-ups involved in the break-in. There was a rapid round of phone calls to assess what damage McCord might do, but we concluded that he knew nothing but hearsay, though his charges would give reporters a hook for stories they had been longing to write. The dam was cracking.

  The President called later in the morning. I offered my judgment of what harm McCord could cause—lots of heat, little foreseeable legal effect. The President said that I had been right when I’d told him something would break, and that McCord was a hell of a lot better than Hunt. I agreed. He took me by surprise by suggesting that I needed a vacation. He said he wanted me to go up to Camp David for a few days’ rest. I protested that Mrs. Nixon and Tricia were up there. Mo and I would be in the way. The President insisted. I wondered what the purpose behind this stroke was, but I gave in. In fact, I was eager to get away. When the press finally gave up and melted away from my house, I called my limousine driver and we headed straight for Camp David.

  As we rode, I sank deep into thought, far removed from Mo’s excited chatter about the thrills of being a guest at the Presidential retreat. I almost wished I were alone. I was, for all practical purposes, because Mo refused to let her gloomy husband dampen her anticipation. I looked out the window at the brown mountainsides of the Catoctins, and for the first time I thought about escaping from it all, running—about how it could be done. Mitchell could arrange it, he too might consider going to some country where we’d be safe from extradition. I would be presumed guilty if I fled, but so what? I would be free. I would not have to go to jail or testify against anyone. The cover-up could be blamed on me, and what had happened earlier on Mitchell.

  I could imagine Mitchell huddled with the President, plotting it out: the President calling his old friend General So-and-So and making a secret deal; a helicopter snatching Mo and me at Camp David and taking us to some little-used Air Force base, then on to Latin America; living in grand splendor as guests of some Latin businessmen, waiting for it all to pass. Maybe Bebe could help. What would Mo tell her mother and what would I tell my folks? How would our disappearance be explained? Would they say we had been killed in an accident? What kind of name would my son inherit?

  Now our White House driver announced that he was lost. The main road to Camp David was closed for repairs, and Mo was giving him advice, based on instincts, about which back road was the right one to a place she had never been. My thoughts settling back into reality, I suggested that the driver use his radio to ask for directions. But he was embarrassed to be lost and didn’t want to admit it on the radio. Mo might be right, he thought. In fact she was, and we soon arrived, were checked through and shown our cabin.

  The phone rang even before the driver could bring our suitcases in—long, irregular rings that told me the operator had an important call. When I answered, she said it was the President, but Haldeman came on the line. This meant that the President had placed the call but that Haldeman had suggested he do the talking. “How is Camp David?” he asked, as if calling for a social chat.

  “Fine. The sun’s out, and there are a few buds on the trees. It’s very quiet and peaceful after being surrounded by those goddam newsmen at my house. Thank God they won’t be allowed up here.”

  “While you’re up there, the President would like you to take a shot at writing up the report we talked about on Watergate.” I wasn’t surprised by this old and unwelcome charge, but I hadn’t expected to hear it from Haldeman, who had not pushed the Dean Report since I had spelled out the consequences to him.

  “Bob, are you talking about a report for internal use or for issuing publicly?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “Well, it makes a big difference in how I write—” I started to explain, when he interrupted.

  “Give it your best try and we’ll decide later,” he said.

  I assured him I would begin in the morning.

  I was sure Haldeman knew it was a setup, and I thought he felt some discomfort in doing it to me. I was bitter that he was beginning to turn on me. Yet if it would help the President, maybe it was the right thing to do. I escaped into a martyr fantasy. Everybody except the President was expendable, including me, and I knew exactly what would happen when it all started to crumble in toward him. With my report in hand, he would go before the cameras to report that his counsel had given him all this information, that he had believed him, and trusted his investigation, but that obviously he had lied, had misled and deceived him. Only Haldeman, Ehrlichman, Mitchell and the President would know I was making a sacrifice to keep the Nixon Presidency from being consumed by Watergate, and I would go to jail a disgraced scoundrel. I was sure financial arrangements would be made for Mo while I was in prison. Or was I? Probably Howard Hunt had been sure. Would LaRue add me to his list?

  It was not the time to try to sort all these things out. Mo was enjoying Camp David. Before I’d finished talking to Haldeman, she had donned one of the navy-blue Camp David windbreakers with the Presidential emblem and was modeling it for me. Now she was exploring our luxurious rustic quarters. It was too late to explore the grounds; it would be dark soon. It was time for the network news, but I didn’t want to hear it. I knew what it would be: McCord’s letter to Sirica would lead al
l three networks.

  The next day I began making notes of the pre–June 17 activities—notes that could incriminate no one other than Liddy. As I jotted down the highlights of the planning meetings in Mitchell’s office, I was able to make everyone at the White House come out well. What I wrote was true as far as it went, which wasn’t very far. When I arrived at the point where the “Dean investigation” was announced by the President on August 29, 1972, I was stuck. I went to find Mo.

  “I’m bored,” she said. “There isn’t even anything on television, and I didn’t bring a book with me. The books up here are all so dull.”

  “I know, sweetheart, but I’ve got to work on this damn report.”

  “Why right now?”

  “Well …” I didn’t have a good answer, so I suggested we tour Camp David in the electric golf cart that had been parked near our cabin for our use. It was chilly, so Mo bundled well and snuggled beside me as we drove about the woods. We soon arrived at the perimeter road, where we sped along under the watchful eyes of the sentries.

  “I’ve got the feeling someone’s always watching us up here,” Mo said.

  “Probably so,” I grunted.

  “Stop. Stop, John. Look over there,” Mo said, grasping my knee. A graceful long-eared fawn was standing at the chain-link fence, staring at us. “Isn’t she beautiful?” Mo asked, excited.

  “She sure is. I bet she’s wondering why that fence is in her woods.” As we talked, the fawn quickly disappeared into her part of the woods.

  Mo moved closer to me on the golf cart’s seat. She wanted to talk about what was in my head. “Why do you think you’re in such serious trouble?”

  “Well, sweetheart, it’s awful complex and I don’t really—”

  “You didn’t have anything to do with that stupid break-in, I hope.”

  “Not directly. That’s not my problem. It’s what happened after those guys got arrested.”

  “Is the President in trouble? I thought you were going to warn him.”

  “I did, but I was like Caspar Milquetoast going in to the boss for a raise. I went in there Wednesday and tried to paint a picture of what the problems were. I tried to be as dramatic as I could. He listened, but by the end of our meeting he had turned me around again. Out I went, almost thanking him for not listening to me. Just call me Mr. Milquetoast, dear.”

  “Are you afraid of the President?”

  I paused to think about the question. “Yeah, kinda. I’m not really afraid of the man who is President of the United States anymore. He’s really no different than anybody else. That was something that I had to realize slowly. But I’m afraid of who he really is and the power he commands as he sits in the Oval Office. If this cover-up goes on, he’s going to be in really serious trouble, and I can’t believe he doesn’t recognize that. He knows he’s got a problem, and he knows there is no easy answer, because I’m not the only one working for him who’s got a serious problem.”

  “You mean Haldeman is involved, too?” she asked.

  “Yep, and Ehrlichman and Mitchell and others.”

  “That’s awful, John. What are you all going to do?”

  “Let’s talk about it after I sort it all out. I’m thinking of getting myself a lawyer, some guy who really knows the criminal law, and having him tell me how serious my problem is.”

  As we came out of the woods near the helicopter pad, Mo asked, “That report you’re writing—is this what it’s all about?”

  “Not exactly. In fact, not at all. It’s an idea of Ehrlichman’s to protect the President by giving him a report that says everything is okay and no one in the White House has any problems. It says everything is just hunky-dory.”

  “That’s not true, though, is it?”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Then, John, you shouldn’t write that report. That’s not very smart.”

  She was right, but her innocence annoyed me. She seemed so far removed from all the shadings of lies that make up political life. How could she possibly understand the pressure to just do something when the President wants it, regardless of whether you think it’s dumb or wrong? Or that my doing such things had enabled her to enjoy Camp David and countless other White House privileges? Still, even though she knew nothing of the details of Watergate, or the rationale behind the report, or all that had gone on before, she had hit the mark intuitively.

  When we returned to our cabin I called Fred Fielding, told him I had been asked to write a report, and asked him to go through my files, pull out anything he felt might relate to Watergate and arrange to have Jane come up on Monday to do some typing. That evening I turned again to work on the report, but the assignment was increasingly repulsive. I went out to get some fresh air. The clear night air smelled sweet after the room I’d filled with smoke, puffing one cigarette after another. The paths were dimly lit at night from the scattered building lights. I headed out in no direction.

  My mind turned to another decision facing me: what would I do when called upon to testify? I couldn’t predict where or when, but I was sure it would happen. The President had tucked me under the wing of his office and said his counsel could never be called upon to testify in a Senate committee investigation. It would be different, however, should a grand jury call me. I wasn’t sure executive privilege or the attorney-client privilege would apply before a grand jury. Colson had already given testimony before the Watergate grand jury. Also, the fact that others had appeared before the grand jury would increase the sense that my refusal to testify was designed to hide something, which it would be. Mitchell and Kleindienst had lied to protect the President during the ITT hearings. Maybe he expected the same of me. Maybe I could take the Fifth Amendment.

  I walked deeper into the woods, thinking about the Fifth Amendment. It made you sound so damn guilty. PRESIDENTIAL COUNSEL TAKES FIFTH. It was worse than the headline from the Gray hearing: DEAN PROBABLY LIED. The thought started my blood boiling anew. Goddam that Pat Gray, up there lying to get confirmed, calling me a liar to help himself. I shouldn’t have let him get away with it. One thing I had not done was to lie and—

  “Excuse me, sir, are you lost?” a voice from nowhere said, startling me. I turned. It was a young Navy enlisted man, wearing a heavy Camp David parka, with the Presidential emblem on his jacket and deck cap.

  “No, not really, just out for some air. In fact, I might have just found my way.”

  “Fine, sir, have a pleasant walk.” He vanished as my thoughts finally headed down the path I knew I had to explore. The path of telling the truth if I was called upon to testify. Whatever else happened in the days, weeks and months ahead, I was not going to lie for anybody, even the President. Despite what I’d done for him, I would not take that step. I might go down the drain as Watergate burst its dams, but I would hang on to one piece of myself at least.

  By the time I reached the lodge, Mo was playing pool by herself, so I joined her. I decided I would not write the phony report. I would have my secretary type up an innocuous portion so that I could tell Haldeman and Ehrlichman I was working on it. What I would do would be to start preparing an honest report to the President. I had given him the highlights on March 21; now I’d give him the bloody details. Then no one could say I had lied to the President. To the contrary, I’d have told him what had gone on. In fact, the truth might persuade him, once he saw it written down.

  Early Sunday afternoon I began making notes. When I sat back and read what I’d written, I realized I was sticking the problem on everybody but myself. I was coming out as nothing but the simple tool of higher-ups. I was protecting myself, passing blame to others. I asked myself whether I should open up more and include my own involvement.

  I thought for some time and decided that it was time I started calculating my moves carefully. It was foolish to believe that Ehrlichman or Haldeman or Mitchell or Magruder would admit to anything wrong. If my notes should fall into the wrong hands, I would have confessed my own involvement in the cover-up. There wa
s something else that bothered me. While I could admit in my own mind what I had done, it still hurt to admit it openly, and putting it on paper made it open. This hurdle was one of the most difficult to jump.

  My newfound tranquillity vanished instantly with a phone call from Ron Ziegler late Sunday afternoon. Ron told me the Los Angeles Times was going to run a front-page story in the morning alleging that Dean and Magruder had had advance knowledge of the Watergate break-in.

  “Ron, that’s a goddam, outrageous lie. It’s not true. I’m speaking for myself, not Magruder.”

  “I’m not interested in Magruder, and I’ve already denied the story. The President wants to put out something in the morning. He knows it’s not true. So you think about what he should do, and I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

  “Listen, Ron, if they print that story I’ll have the first solid libel case to come out of all this Watergate crap. And I’m not feeling very much like sitting back and taking it quietly.”

  “Well, the Washington Post will be running the same story, so you’d better get busy.”

  I told Mo and began pacing around the sitting room. “Mo, I’m going to get a lawyer to put the papers who print the story on notice that it’s libelous. And someday, when this is all sorted out, I’ll sue the bastards.”

  “Why don’t you call Bob McCandless and see if he’ll represent you?” Robert McCandless was my former brother-in-law.

  “No, I’ve got someone in mind who knows the libel law better than Bob, Tommy Hogan. He was a classmate of mine at Georgetown Law. I’ll call him.” I tracked him down through the White House switchboard and explained the situation to him. His response went right to the point.