Blind Ambition

by Dean, John W. ;

  Charlie’s bargaining put the prosecutors in an awkward spot. They didn’t know what to do with me, while Sam Dash, the chief counsel of the Senate Watergate Committee, had no doubts: he wanted my testimony. But he told Charlie he was worried that the members of his committee, who were reading heavy doses of anti-Dean material in the newspapers, would need more detail about my testimony in order to make a decision about whether to grant me immunity.

  Charlie continued to play the Senate committee against the U.S. attorney’s office for my testimony, and the negotiations dragged on. Each conversation I had with Bob McCandless and Charlie ended up at the same point: it was inevitable that I would soon testify somewhere, but my story was anything but organized. “Goddammit,” Charlie said. “You’ve got to quit worrying about everything else and focus on that testimony. You let McCandless worry about the press, and let me worry about your legal problems.”

  When I protested that daily distractions made it impossible for me to focus, Bob McCandless arranged for Mo and me to use a beach house in Bethany, Maryland, that belonged to a friend of his. Late on the night of May 7, as neighbors turned off their lights to darken the alley, we slipped from our house through Fielding’s house and into Pete Kinsey’s waiting silver BMW, while Pete went in the other direction from Fred’s house through our house and down to our garage, revved up my Porsche and took off. The reporters scrambled to follow him as he roared up the street into his own garage, closed the door and went to bed.

  The oceanfront house was marvelous, even in gusty, overcast weather. There were no televisions or newpapers or reporters. The beach was deserted. Mo looked happier than I had seen her for weeks, and I began the task I had put off so long: recapturing nine months of complex detail. The highlights were easy, so I began with a rough outline. Reading old newspaper clippings helped call to mind what had been going on simultaneously inside the White House. My memory operates something like a movie projector when I hit the right switch. I knew I had to be very careful. Sometimes the pictures in my mind were out of focus, and sometimes I could not hear the accompanying words; when I tried to force my memory, it resulted in greater confusion.

  The process was slow, but I made good progress for the next two days. Then McCandless called. “Johnny, I hate to bother you,” he began, “but I told you things were going to get a lot rougher, and it’s happened. Daniel Schorr is going on CBS tonight with a story that the reason you’re fighting for immunity is that you’re afraid to go to jail for fear of homosexual attacks.”

  “You’re shitting me! Aren’t you?”

  “Nope. I tried to get him to kill the story. I told him it was the most preposterous thing I’d ever heard, but he’s still going with it.”

  I was stunned, then angry. “For Christ’s sake, Bob, I can’t believe Schorr’s going with that garbage. He’s been around a long time, and he sure as hell must know a smear when he sees one.”

  “No way to turn him off. I’ve tried. He’s attributing the story to one of your lawyers. Shaffer may choke the son-of-a-bitch, if I don’t do it first.”

  “Well goddammit, try once more, Bob,” I said. “Tell him I’m not any more afraid of getting raped in jail than any other man. But I know enough to know that those guys in prison watch the news. If Schorr runs that story, they’ll lick their chops to test me my first day in prison. You tell Schorr that’s the dirtiest goddam stunt I ever heard of.” I hung up, fighting a small suspicion that Bob himself might have faked the story in order to force me out in the public with my story.

  “Mo,” I said, as she watched a stray dog wander down the beach, “how do I counter the image of an unethical, President-deceiving, fag-fearing squealer whose wife, it is rumored—and according to Bob it’s still only a rumor—has quietly left him because she unwittingly married the scum of the earth?”

  “That’s really sweet,” she replied.

  Daniel Schorr’s story was one of a mass of similar tales—all seemed designed to frighten me or impugn my motives. I knew that the White House was behind most of them. It was a rough game. The White House was taking advantage of its power, and betting that millions of people did not wish to believe a man who called the President a liar. It played upon emotions: no one likes a squealer, a Judas, an informant, a tattletale, especially one who is also guilty. Every base motivation was attributed to me: I had turned on the President for money, for publicity, for spite, because I was a perverted character. More commonly, it was stated that I was lying about the President to save my own skin.

  The stories stung me. I kept reminding myself that I was not lying, and that my loyalty to Richard Nixon had died a long, painful and justified death. But I winced defensively when reasonable commentators said that my record cast doubt on my right to accuse the Nixon White House of anything. I exploded in anger when I was called a liar. The statement that most infuriated me was columnist Joseph Alsop’s public declaration that I was a “bottom dwelling slug.” I didn’t even know what a slug was, so I went to the dictionary: “any of various slimy, elongated … gastropods related to the terrestrial snails.” Slugs live in mud, under rocks.

  McCandless called two to three times a day with rumors and intelligence he had picked up from reporters, and I soon had an unhappy baptism into the ways of the Washington press corps. Reporters who swore publicly that they’d rot in jail before revealing their sources were calling McCandless with stories that the White House was trying to plant on them. Some wanted to trade them for my stories on the White House. Colson was peddling a story that I had lied to the President about Howard Hunt. What dirt did I have on Colson? Pat Buchanan was putting out the word that I had taken part in wild sex orgies. What did I have on Buchanan? Maxine Cheshire, the Washington Post gossip columnist, was about to write a story that I had bought a new Mercedes, the implication being that my disloyalty had brought me ill-gotten riches. (I had been seen driving Charlie’s Mercedes.) Did I have a better story that we might offer for the one about me?

  McCandless called me in the wake of the Daniel Schorr story. “John, I know you’re working on your testimony, but you’ve got to stand up and punch back at these bastards in the White House. They’re killing you in the press, and the reporters wonder why you’re hiding.”

  “Talk to Charlie, Bob,” I replied. “He’s all over me to pin down my whole story, and it’s going to take months this way. I’m getting subpoenaed all over the place. I can’t focus on it. I can’t remember. I just don’t have time to deal with reporters. Nothing else matters if I can’t testify truthfully. When I go on the box and under oath, people will believe what I say.”

  “Come on now, John,” Bob said impatiently. “You know better than that. I know your testimony is important, but this truth stuff is not worth a damn if you don’t have any credibility. Goddammit, you’ve been around long enough to know that. Christ, John, LBJ lied through his teeth about Vietnam in 1964 and won in a landslide. McGovern told the truth about Watergate last year and got his ass kicked. You’ve got to start fighting to build an image! You’ve got to give these guys something to convince them.”

  “Okay, Bob. I tell you what. Why don’t you draft up a statement to denounce the malicious stories about me? Something tough, but general?”

  “All right. That’s a start. But these guys want to see you in the flesh. Get a feel for you. They say their asses are on the line about believing you.”

  “Well, let’s start with the statement. I’ll talk to Charlie.”

  Through early May, I stayed isolated at Charlie’s insistence. Bob had to handle the reporters himself in the “great war of leaks” after Watergate began to break open. I would see bits of my testimony—like Liddy’s offer to be shot or Ehrlichman’s order to “deep-six” the things from Hunt’s safe—on the front pages. I thought Bob had leaked them, but I never asked him. Charlie wanted me to be able to testify that I had not “tried my case in the press.” I could say under oath that I had not leaked stories and had not been told who did.
/>   Tension inevitably developed between Charlie and Bob, since their functions were almost diametrically opposed. Charlie protested whenever a story appeared that looked as if it had come from me; it hurt his negotiations with the prosecutors, who wanted my testimony kept secret with them. On the other hand, Charlie’s tough demands that I be granted immunity hurt Bob’s relations with the press; they made it seem that I was trying to get off scot-free, and they worsened my squealer image. I felt pulled and tugged between my two lawyers.

  On May 11, I had my first interview with a reporter since the White House had turned its guns on me. Bob had finally convinced Charlie that I had to go public. It would be a test, and only a brief diversion from my work constructing testimony. Bob arranged a clandestine interview with Newsweek correspondent John Lindsay at the Tidewater Inn in Easton, Maryland, halfway between Washington and my hideaway.

  Lindsay arrived accompanied by photographer Wally McNamee and immediately struck me as friendly, informed and understanding. “Your old friends at the White House are doing their damnedest to ruin you,” he said sympathetically. Then he smiled. “Of course, I’m not about to give up any of my sources, but I hope you don’t labor under any illusions that Chuck Colson, Ken Clawson and Ron Ziegler are still friends of yours.”

  “I don’t,” I said.

  “Okay. Now, Bob tells me that we can’t get into the areas of your testimony. I can see your reasons. But would you be willing to go off the record on a few points?”

  “John, I really can’t,” I told him. “Someday I’m going to be under oath and may be asked about my dealings with the press. Any statements I make I would like to be on the record.”

  “I understand perfectly,” he said immediately. I answered his questions guardedly, trying to skirt testimonial areas. Between questions, I found Lindsay telling me more than I was telling him. He told me the prosecutors had put out the word that they had concluded that the President was not involved in either the events before June 17 or the cover-up. He informed me that Sam Dash had been saying I was telling the truth and would be the most important witness the Senate could call. Lindsay felt that my best forum would be the Senate. I had thought it would be the grand jury. After several hours, I felt I had given him little of news value and learned much, including his prediction that a special prosecutor would be appointed as a result of Senate pressures, and that Nixon would find himself hinging his defense on national security.

  As we parted, Lindsay told me that he felt confident I would be pleased with his story and that maybe it would help reverse the tide of negative news about me. When I saw it three days later, I was horrified. The story was hostile in tone, and laced with derogatory tidbits:

  … Federal investigators let it be known that they were less than impressed with Dean’s story.… he seemed ready to offer at least tentative solidarity with anyone whose testimony has damaged the Administration.… reports cast doubt on his value as a pivotal witness whose testimony would be needed to hook bigger fish in the White House.… “He had refrigerant blood,” one former associate recalled last week.… He declined to say … he made it perfectly clear … he observed tartly … his story remained transparently designed to enhance his bid for immunity.

  Lindsay called to say that the Newsweek editors in New York had rewritten his story, and that he would understand if I never spoke with him again. When McCandless confirmed his account, I liked Lindsay even better, but Charlie did not miss the opportunity to make choice remarks about Bob’s press strategy.

  Although the press was now bearing down on the Watergate story, I found it difficult to trust even the most dedicated reporters. McCandless called with a proposition from Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward, the investigative reporters who had already won fame and prizes for their pursuit of the scandal.

  “John, the wonder twins from the Post are on me again. This time Bernstein’s got something that scares the shit out of me,” Bob said in a grave, low voice. “He said they’re picking up serious rumors that there may be attempts to rub you out, get rid of you.”

  “That’s nice,” I said dryly. I had been struggling to control my paranoia about this possibility.

  “Well, they’ve been right before,” Bob kidded.

  “Who does he say is thinking about that, besides a bunch of kooks and Ehrlichman? Are they going to run the story?”

  “No, I don’t think so. It doesn’t sound hard enough.”

  “Well, tell them I appreciate the warning even though it’s not very helpful,” I said wearily. “What do they really want, Bob?”

  “I thought you’d ask that. Carl says it’s a remote possibility, but one you should consider. Just in case, he says you should put everything you know on tape and give it to them for safekeeping. He promises they won’t even listen to the damn thing unless you pass on. He makes a pretty persuasive case about what might happen if you can’t ever testify. Anyway, I thought I would pass it along.”

  “Yeah, well, you tell them thanks for the suggestion.” I could tell that Bob wasn’t offering the idea with much enthusiasm. “Christ, Bob. Can you imagine what would happen if it got out that I had given my testimony to those guys on tape? I can just see myself explaining that the only reason I did it was because I was afraid the President of the United States would have me bumped off.”

  “Okay, okay. Like I said, I was just passing it along.”

  “You tell them I’m trying like hell to get everything I know down on paper, okay? And tell them to keep digging.”

  While Bob continued his campaign to rally reporters to my side, Charlie shuttled between the prosecutors and the Senate Watergate Committee. He arranged my first meeting with Sam Dash for the night after my interview with Lindsay. Dash took elaborate precautions to insure secrecy and came to Charlie’s office late at night. As was his custom, the first thing he did was to call his wife and leave a number.

  Despite his years as Philadelphia’s district attorney, Dash is more professor than prosecutor. Soft-spoken, scholarly, relaxed but intent, he viewed his undertaking as a complex and difficult research project. He wasn’t out to prosecute anyone, but he had strong gut feelings about where the facts would take him—and he saw Richard Nixon standing at the end of the corridor that he wanted most to travel down.

  “Only Chairman Ervin and I know about this meeting,” Dash began. “We were afraid to tell anyone else. It would get to the minority members, who would leak it and give us hell for negotiating with you. The chairman trusts my judgment, and I’m here to review your testimony. I have to make a recommendation to the full committee about whether to grant you immunity.”

  “You aren’t getting him without it,” Charlie said.

  “Look, Sam, I’m taking a hell of a beating about this immunity thing,” I said. “I agree with Charlie that I shouldn’t stick my neck out without some protection. You know from what Charlie’s told you that I’m going to confess to crimes when I testify. My own words will hang me. The others aren’t going to confess to anything, and it’ll be my word against the President, Haldeman, Ehrlichman and Mitchell. That’s a tough case to make, and if I’m not believed—”

  “I understand all that, John,” Sam interrupted. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Okay. But I want you to know something off the record. I know Charlie doesn’t want me to say it, but I’m inclined to testify before your committee with or without immunity. I wanted to testify before the grand jury, where my testimony would come out in trial, but now I tend to think it’s better to go public. Otherwise, what I say is going to get distorted as it leaks out bit by bit.”

  “I’m still pushing for my man’s immunity,” Charlie insisted.

  “I understand,” Dash replied to both of us. “I think you’re going to get it. But I’m glad to know you’re considering testifying without it, John. That’s important to me for personal reasons.”

  I leaned over and looked straight at Dash, deciding to try to get off on the right foot by leveling wit
h him. “I don’t want you to get me wrong on this, Sam. I’d love to get out of this damn thing without going to jail. It’s already ruined me. I’ve been ripped up by it. But I’m getting eaten up by the idea that all I want to do is save my own ass. The press has seized on it. The public seems to lap it up. I’m beginning to think about down the road, and I don’t want to be known just as the snitch of Watergate. You may not believe this, Sam, but I’ve been thinking about going to jail since last January and February. I’m beginning to think it’s worth it.” Charlie gave me a warning look, somewhere between sympathy and toughness, for being so emotional. “But I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to sit down and be the only one to go and take the whole rap for this thing. That’s where I want to know if you can help me.”

  “I think so, John,” Dash said sincerely. (Charlie had told me he worried that Dash was too sincere to be quick enough and tough enough to help me.) “But I’ve got to know how strong a witness you’ll be, and we don’t have much time. Our hearings open next week.” Dash was in a hurry, but then he launched into a long story about his troubles with the senators on the committee, especially Howard H. Baker, Jr., of Tennessee.

  “Tell the man your story,” Charlie interrupted to prompt me.

  “Okay,” I sighed, and launched into the highlights once again.

  Dash and I talked during several more sessions, and the idea of going before the Ervin Committee grew increasingly attractive. I mulled it over with Charlie and Bob and listed the advantages. For one thing, I was not as uncomfortable with a Senate forum as with grand juries and courtrooms. Capitol Hill was familiar ground from my days on the staff of the House Judiciary Committee. I had testified there many times, and I knew how hearings worked. Also, the televised proceedings would give me a chance to lay out my whole testimony before millions of viewers. I was not faring well in the written press. I could use a piece of the President’s own philosophy against him and “go over the heads” of the written press straight to the public. Finally, I was drawn to the technical ramifications of the Senate’s immunity powers. The Ervin Committee could grant me only what is known as “use immunity,” which meant that nothing I confessed to them could be used as evidence against me in court. But I could still be prosecuted on the evidence of others. Charlie was negotiating with the prosecutors for total immunity, known in the trade as “bath immunity,” which meant that I could not be prosecuted. I was familiar with the difference, because I had helped write the law establishing use immunity. The squealer image would be muted somewhat if I were granted use immunity by the Senate. There would still be a strong possibility I would go to jail; I would not be guaranteed a free ride. It might make me a more credible witness.