With only five days to complete my draft, I rushed my pace considerably. If there were going to be any mistakes, they had better be on the side of omission. I was clear on the main points of my meetings with the President, but I figured I had to take two things into account: the possibility that the President had recorded our conversations, and my commitment to be willing to take a lie-detector test on anything I said in my testimony. I would tell only what I knew for a fact. To cross that line by an inch would be foolhardy.
For example, I believed that the President had probably known that Liddy was operating an intelligence program at the Re-election Committee long before the June 17 break-in. I could not imagine that Haldeman had kept anything of such magnitude from him, nor could I believe Bob had not known, though I had never asked him directly. Nothing that cost that kind of money, or that raised that kind of risk, or offered a potential for the type of intelligence so beloved of the White House could have escaped Haldeman’s attention. Still, I could hardly hazard such a speculation in my testimony.
As I was drafting the sections on my last meetings with the President, I wondered whether to mention my sensation that I was being taped. The President himself had raised the issue by telling Henry Petersen he had me on tape, but when Charlie had pressed Petersen to get a copy, the President had deflected Henry, claiming it was a Dictabelt of notes which had been misplaced. Later, when I was going over my records at Bethany, I found this notation on a list of things to discuss with Charlie:
Information re tapes of JWD conversation with P.
—determine if Oval Ofc is wired:
Butterfield (now FAA Administrator):
Bull (W/H staff)
Gen. Albert Redman (WHCA)
Translation: Alexander Butterfield, Steve Bull and General Albert Redman, head of the White House Communications Agency, should be questioned about whether the President’s office was bugged. Later I had mentioned to Dash that I thought I’d been recorded, and he had expressed but passing interest.
Now, as I was drafting my testimony about the April 15 meeting, should I insert my suspicion about being recorded? It would violate the rule against speculation; on the other hand, my suspicion had been real, and the President’s claim to Petersen made it more than pure speculation. I resolved the matter by deciding to mention my sense of being taped only in the course of recounting the conversation during which it had occurred to me. I mentioned the leading questions the President had asked and my dismissal of the thought that he might be taping me. Then I wrote:
The most interesting thing that happened during the conversation was, very near the end, he got up out of his chair, went behind his chair to the corner of his Executive Office Building office and in a nearly inaudible tone said to me he was probably foolish to have discussed Hunt’s clemency with Colson.
I added that I felt that the committee should seek such a tape if the conversation had indeed been recorded. I thought the mere suggestion of taping would produce cross-examination. It did not.
Charlie and Bob came to the house to review my draft when I finished it. They liked it; but Charlie had some strong criticisms.
“This is your testimony, I understand that,” he began, sitting on the living-room sofa with a stack of the testimony beside him. “And it’s good. In fact, it’s a great statement of what happened. But you’re asking for trouble in some places.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that goddam self-serving crap you’ve got in there.”
“I don’t think the statement is self-serving, Charlie. I confess a lot in there,” I replied defensively.
“Well, generally that’s true, but you’ve got a self-serving twist here and there,” he persisted. “And listen, you’re not going up there to win friends, or a popularity contest.”
“Specifically, what are you talking about?”
Charlie flipped through some pages and read: “I had never heard Mr. Magruder’s story in full detail until just before his Grand Jury appearance, in mid-August 1972 when he asked me if I would be a devil’s advocate and question him before he went before the Grand Jury. Magruder came to my office, as I recall, the day before his second appearance before the Grand Jury.”
Charlie looked up and took off his reading glasses. “Now, listen, the next sentence is the kind that’s trouble. This is what I’m talking about: ‘When he came in I told him I could not tell him to lie before the Grand Jury.’”
“That’s true, that’s exactly what I told Jeb.” I was getting very defensive; this was exactly the kind of self-protective statement I’d been so careful to construct all through the cover-up.
“I don’t give a shit if it’s true or not,” Charlie declared. “You might have told him to consult with his wife, his conscience and the Pope himself before he lied. But so what? You sat there with him and helped him prepare the lie. You helped him practice, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” I sighed.
“Well, that’s what’s important, dammit. So say it, and don’t try to make it look like something nice you did. Otherwise they’re going to tear your statement apart up there.”
We worked our way through the statement, knocking out most of the apologies. I met the next morning with the staff of the Watergate Committee for a preview of my testimony. I had decided not to give them anything from my prepared statement; instead, I just answered questions for five hours, mostly from Republican staffers.
That night I got a call from one of my new friends in the press. “John, those guys you met with today are passing out your executive-session testimony to any and all takers.”
“Who’s doing it?” I asked.
“The minority staffers. They damn near put out a press release on it. They’re trying to destroy it before you even give it. What they are really pushing is the stuff you gave them about your using the money that was in your trust for your wedding and honeymoon expenses.”
“It figures. I’m glad I refused to talk about the President. I think that pissed them off.”
“I know it did, but you were smart not to do it.”
“Did they mention what I told Baker?” Senator Baker had opened the session and then left, but not before I had given him a little message.
“What did you tell Baker?”
“Well, I don’t think I should get into the details right now, but someday I’ll tell you about Baker’s secret dealings with the White House. I mentioned it to him in the session today. Baker was shocked that I knew about his meeting with Nixon, but he played it cool as a cucumber. He’s a damn slick fella.” I had reminded Baker that I knew the Watergate Committee was a political proceeding, and that I knew how the White House had tried to influence the senators. I had worked that side of the street myself.
On Monday, June 18, 1973, I was scheduled for a private session with all seven senators. On Tuesday I would present my public testimony. As the time drew closer, I began veering wildly from one state of mind to another. I have never been an emotional person—quite the opposite—but I found myself trembling at odd times for a few seconds, feeling that I might be on the verge of breaking down, and then I would swing back to a lucidity and calmness I had rarely known. I felt as conflicted as I had during the worst moments of the cover-up, but in a different way. At certain moments I would dread the ordeal by national television so much that I would stop writing and ponder running away. At others I would actually look forward to it, yearn for it. I would swell with the confidence that I could remember every fact, every small detail—what people were wearing on certain days, where everybody was seated at a meeting—like a computer. Then one fact would slip out of place and the whole edifice would crumble. One moment I would dismiss my fears with the thought that I would simply be telling the truth. My mind would lock on the facts, and I would recite them as easily as people recite their names or birthdays. I had no cover stories or complicated lies to keep straight. I thought of the ordeal that someone like Mitchell or Ehrlichman would endure, and counted
myself lucky. The next moment I would freeze at the thought that I was the guy who had given his heart, body and mind to be treated as little more than an artifact in the Oval Office. Wasn’t I still that person deep down? It was impossible that I would go alone in front of millions of people and call the President a criminal. Anger, duty, fear, guilt, truth. The emotions blew hot and cold. I had risen so high and fallen so low. If I were believed, I might put myself back together, I would have something to start with. If I were not, if I were rolled over by the power and deceit I had seen in politics, things could get even worse. I would begin to crack up, maybe go crazy. I was not only playing for the Presidency and the Congress and the networks and the respect of millions of people, I was playing for myself, and the odds were against me. I would feel the little trembling again. Back to details, calculations. What did the President say next? Return the call to Charlie. Run back through the virtues and hypocrisies of each senator on the committee: this is politics. I’ve got the strategy. Finish the sentences, think of everything. What should I be thinking of at the last minute? How should I look? Cosmetics are important for something like this. I’ve got everything else under control. On track.
I thought about how I wanted to look. I had watched some of the others testifying, seated at the witness table, flanked by lawyers who whispered in their ear. I decided to sit alone—to dramatize the fact that I was comfortable with my own words. Neither Bob nor Charlie argued with this decision, although both of them seemed disappointed that they would be out of the spotlight.
I reviewed the notes I had made on my interview with Cronkite.
“Eyes blinking.” I had been oblivious to the fact that my eyelids were flickering in a nervous twitch, but I found that my contact lenses had scratched my right cornea badly. I stopped wearing the lenses and fished out an old pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Sam Dash said he liked what they did for me: “You look more studious and distinguished.”
“Voice inflection and gesturing/trying to impress people.” It would be easy to overdramatize, or to seem too flip about my testimony. I knew from speech-making and from appearances before Congressional committees that there was a lot of ham in me. I would, I decided, read evenly, unemotionally, as coldly as possible, and answer questions the same way. When I told Mo I was going to use a monotone, she worried that I would put everyone to sleep.
“Laughter sounds insincere.” No forced laughs. If something funny did happen, which I doubted, a genuine laugh might push its way to the surface. Laughing to be polite, or to make light of something, as I had tried to do on the Cronkite show, was bad. It looked and sounded insincere, and it was. People tend to think that somebody telling the truth will be calm about it.
“Too many ‘you knows.’” These came from starting to answer before I had thought out what I was going to say. “You knows” are sound fillers. Think, I told myself. Don’t answer a question until you know the answer you’re prepared to give.
“Shaggy look.” I needed a haircut when I did the Cronkite interview. I always needed a haircut, it seemed. I would have to get my hair trimmed.
The executive session on Monday, June 18, was held in a Capitol office. We had just started over procedural matters when the buzzer signaled a vote on the Senate floor, and the senators had to leave. Charlie, Bob and I waited in a small, windowless hideaway office. Thirty minutes later the session resumed, but we were soon asked to step out of the room again. Another thirty minutes passed as Charlie, Bob and I took shifts pacing the floor. Then Sam Dash called Charlie and Bob out of the room and explained that the committee was voting to postpone my appearance for a week. Leonid Brezhnev, the Russian head of state, was coming to Washington, and the White House had passed word to the Senate leadership that my appearance might not be convenient for the President.
Suddenly the postponement seemed very attractive. I was ready for the inevitable, but I did not want it to happen. That night I took Mo out to dinner, to a restaurant near our home, something I hadn’t done in many months. Bob used the extra week for more press-relations work, and I did several on-the-record interviews. Charlie discussed with his friend Jim Neal a worry that he did not wish to discuss with me. Then he asked if Mo and I had any objections to having U.S. marshals live in our house and guard me during my testimony. It was not until they arrived that I thought about the implications of protection. I would live with the marshals night and day in the years to come.
Late Saturday, June 23, I remembered the haircut. After scouting out three different shopping centers in suburban Virginia, I found a barbershop.
“Cut it nice and clean, please.”
“Yes, sir.” The barber busied himself at the task as I sat silently. “What do you think of these Watergate hearings?” he finally asked.
“They’re pretty interesting, but I haven’t been able to see much of them.”
“I’ll say they’re interesting. I’m bringing my TV set to the shop next week. I want to see this guy Dean get his butt kicked.”
“Yeah, that’s going to be something,” I said. “We’ll find out what the squealer has to say for himself.”
“Right. You know, I can’t imagine a guy lying that way about President Nixon. The guy is crazy, maybe?”
“Could be.”
The barber finished the haircut. “See you soon,” he told me in a friendly manner.
“Sooner than you think, probably Monday!”
* On March 18, 1973, Attorney General-designate Elliot L. Richardson picked former Solicitor General Archibald Cox as the Special Prosecutor for the Watergate case.
Chapter Ten
ON CAMERA
Capitol Hill policemen led us in a processional through the subway passage that joins the two Senate office buildings—Sam Dash and his deputy James Hamilton first, Mo and me right behind, then Charlie and Bob, flanked by two marshals from my protection detail, with a plainclothes police officer following. We walked silently and in formation, like soldiers. I felt as if I were being led to the electric chair.
When we arrived at the old Senate Caucus Room, shortly before ten o’clock, it was packed with people, television cameras and klieg lights. A buzz passed through the room as we entered. I tried to block it out. I heard my heart pounding hard and I felt that tingling sensation run up and down my spine; it was alternately pleasant and excruciating. I was worried that I would have to go to the bathroom every five minutes. Behind my plastic smile, I had to keep reassuring myself that the first day would be easy. All I had to do was read a short book—my 245-page opening statement. The work was already done. I was thankful that I would not have to do any thinking.
Senator Ervin administered the oath, and it was time to begin. I had planned to offer a few ad-lib remarks before diving into the dry narrative, but the words did not come easily. “First of all, Mr. Chairman and Mr. Vice-Chairman and members of the committee,” I said, scanning the faces of the seven senators before me, “I sincerely wish I could say it is my pleasure to be here today, but I think you can understand why it is not.” I had intended this as an ice-breaker, and I waited for a senator to make some lighthearted welcoming comment, but there was no reaction, not even an understanding look. Sam Dash leaned forward soberly and told me to speak louder into the microphone.
I started again, haltingly. “It is a very difficult thing for me to testify about other people. It is far more easy for me to explain my own involvement in this matter. The fact that I was involved in obstructing justice. The fact that I assisted another in perjured testimony. The fact that I made personal use of funds that were in my custody. It is far easier to talk about these things myself than to talk about what others did. Some of these people I will be referring to are friends. Some are men I greatly admire and respect. And particularly with reference to the President of the United States, I would like to say this: it is my honest belief that while the President was involved, he did not realize or appreciate at any time the implications of his involvement. And when the facts come out, I hope t
he President is forgiven.”
I paused. This time the words had spilled out. I was apologizing for what I would say about the President. The squealer’s fear was still very much on my mind, and so was Charlie’s admonition against self-serving testimony. I realized, however, how difficult it would be to give a convincing account of my motivation. Even confession seemed self-serving. My conflicting emotions bounced off each other like balloons. It was a relief to turn to the facts, to my prepared text.
Sustained by a diet of throat lozenges and water, I droned on for nearly three hours before the lunch break. Our group trooped through the crowd back to Dash’s office, where I lay down and breathed like a fighter between rounds. Dash appeared a few minutes later with a glowing report on the soundings he had taken about my testimony. No one was going to sleep, he said. Several senators’ offices had sent word that their staffs had suspended work for the day to listen. Sam was excited. He painted a picture of millions of viewers doing the same thing, as if I were FDR delivering one of his fireside chats. “Everything looks great, John,” he concluded, “but I wanted to ask what you were trying to say at the beginning. It sounded to me, you know, like you were—”
“Like he was pulling his punches,” Charlie interrupted bluntly. His mouth was full of cheeseburger, which he had picked over like a health inspector before daring a bite. Charlie hates junk food.
“Eat your lunch, Charles,” I retorted. Buoyed by Sam’s report, I was in no mood for one of Charlie’s sermons. “Sam, I said what I felt. It’s that simple.”
Sam looked skeptical. “You don’t mean to tell me you think Nixon didn’t know the legal implications of what he was doing, do you?”
“No, I was talking about how he slipped into this mess like everybody else …”
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