I interrupted defensively, “That is right, but I confuse some names often. I don’t pretend to have a perfect memory. I think I have a good memory, Senator.” Gurney was doing a hell of a job on me, I thought. Then I got a break.
During an interruption, Bob McCandless handed me a note: “The coffee shop at Statler Hilton is called the Mayflower Room.” Bob didn’t have to tell me what to do with this little gimcrack. I cleared my throat, got the attention of the committee and said, “I might go back over one point. The name of the coffee shop at the Statler Hilton is the Mayflower.”
The audience applauded. I’d explained my confusion with a plausible answer. The crowd’s support, which I hadn’t expected, did more to repair the dents Gurney had made in my credibility than anything I could possibly have said or done. Gurney was annoyed and tried to discredit my explanation. When he claimed it had come from my lawyer, Charlie jumped up and grabbed the microphone. “Mr. Chairman, that was Mr. McCandless,” he said, smiling and pointing at Bob. “I would like to give him credit for that.” This time the entire room, including Gurney, broke out in laughter.
“Bob, thanks for the note,” I said at the recess. “I was afraid I was going down the tube over that silly hotel thing.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank Dan Schorr. He handed it to me and told me he eats there all the time and is positive of the name.”
“I’ll be damned,” I responded. Schorr had run the nasty story, over our strong protest, that I feared going to jail because of homosexual attack. He had done me a dirty deed, but he had just evened the score as far as I was concerned.
It is difficult to keep track of time when one is testifying. The windows of the hearing room had been blackened for the television lights. There were no clocks visible, and I’d been busy concentrating on questions. By Friday afternoon, my fifth day, I could think of little else but what time it was. I kept checking my watch. I wanted to get out of there. I was weary, and when you’re tired you can make mistakes, I kept reminding myself. It was three o’clock. Four o’clock. Five o’clock. And the questions kept coming. I was getting upset and angry. The senators take a break whenever they feel like it, I thought resentfully; they interrogate only as long as they feel like it. Shit, I have to sit here while they take turns at me. It’s unfair. At five-thirty, I turned around to speak to Charlie. Fred Thompson was questioning me.
“Charlie, give Dash the signal,” I whispered. “I’ve got to take a leak, awful.” Charlie and Sam had devised a signaling system to use if I needed a break, but I had not yet called for one. I had sipped water all afternoon for my throat, and my bladder was sending a painful message.
“Can’t you keep going?” Charlie asked unsympathetically. “I think we can finish up this afternoon, but if you stop now they may call you back Monday for more. Dammit, just keep going.” The more I thought about my dilemma, the worse it got. It was interfering with my concentration, and Fred Thompson was hot and heavy after me. He was grilling me about something very embarrassing that I’d volunteered with considerable pain to both the prosecutors and the committee during its executive session—I had taken several thousand dollars of the money Gordon Strachan had given me after the break-in, to use on my honeymoon, and left an IOU in my safe. I had been in a pinch because of a particularly frenetic cover-up week, had failed to get the cash necessary for the trip and the wedding expenses and had taken an expedient loan. The “honeymoon money” had become a favored topic among my detractors, who were making me out a thief.
Thompson: “Did you subsequently get to Miami to spend a few more days on your honeymoon?”
“As I recall, we made several trips to Miami to try to have a honeymoon and were called back.”
“Did you leave for Miami on October twentieth, if you recall?”
“That is very possible. As I told you when we started this line of questioning, I have not sat down and tried to reconstruct this. I am perfectly willing to reconstruct it for the committee and turn it all over to the committee for the committee’s use. I just have not entered this area of reconstruction and I am sure—”
Thompson interrupted. “You will not test your memory on these particular points. Is that what you’re saying?”
Goddam him, I thought. I could take him day by day through my trips to and from Florida, but it would take more effort than I’ve got left in my condition. He obviously thinks he can show I never intended to go to Florida for more than a few days and will insinuate that I must have taken the money for some other reason.
I had run out of steam and I was in pain. I decided to let Thompson have it his way and renewed my offer to let the committee investigators go over all my finances. It wasn’t a very good way to handle him, I knew, but I no longer cared. Thompson, feeling sure he’d scored well, started toward the finish line. Chairman Ervin apparently thought Thompson had scored well also, and intervened on my behalf.
“If I could ask a question or so here, I might shorten some of this,” Ervin interrupted, exercising his chairman’s prerogative. “Mr. Dean, did anybody know that you had taken the $4,850 out of this money, except yourself?”
“No, sir, they did not.”
“If you had wanted to deceive anybody about it, what would have prevented you from getting $4,850 and replacing it?”
“Nothing.”
He was offering me the chance to say that I could have hidden it. In fact, the IOU was still in the safe when I told Charlie of the loan, which I then immediately redeemed.
Finally the chairman turned to the other members of the committee and asked if there were any further questions. Nobody asked anything. I was elated. It was over. It had been a wretched week. Now all I wanted was to get first to a bathroom and then out of Washington for as long as I could.
Mo and I talked about where we might go. We had to be careful with money, because I didn’t know when I would be able to work again. We decided to accept the invitation of Lance Cooper, an old prep-school friend, who had a beautiful little house on an isolated stretch of beach near Melbourne, Florida. It was so private that the deputy marshals who met our flight in Orlando felt they could leave us alone.
The trip to Florida made me appreciate the privacy all the more. People now recognized me instantly, and I didn’t like being infamous. I was ashamed to be who I was, even though people said nice things to me. I didn’t feel I could explain my new thirst for privacy to Mo. When we were packing I had ignored her question about why I was carrying Inside the Third Reich, by Albert Speer. I wanted to know how Speer had coped with guilt.
After a week of my refusing to go to the grocery store (except once disguised in sunglasses and a pulled-down tennis hat) or to restaurants or window shopping, Mo was getting annoyed. She wanted to get out and do something. I wanted to hide. To ease the tension, we invited some friends down. When Heidi and Morgan arrived, the party started. It went on day after day, almost nonstop. For the first time in years, I was having fun.
When Sam Dash called on Friday, July 13, 1973, I wasn’t surprised. He’d already called several times to ask me about John Mitchell’s and Richard Moore’s testimony before the committee.
“Can you come back to Washington?” Dash asked. The request took me aback.
“What do you need, Sam?” I moaned. “Can’t we handle it on the telephone?”
“Not really. It’s important, very important, John, that you return, so we can talk. I need to see you. Something has come up.”
“I should have known your call would be bad news today. Okay, I’ll make reservations and call you back,” I said unenthusiastically.
Sam was excited and a bit nervous. Most unlike him, I thought. I wondered what was up. Was he going to recall me as a witness? Whatever it was, it made me nervous, because he wouldn’t tell me. I hated the thought of leaving Melbourne. Mo had been enjoying herself more than I could last remember. This would not sit well with her. The taste of relaxation had made us both crave more. As I called to arrange a flight back, I decide
d I would not leave until the next morning. I was determined to have one more day off. Mo took the bad news without comment, and we all decided we would not let it spoil the last night. Out came the Monopoly board, the booze, a run to the grocery store by Morgan and the barbecue was stoked up, and we all assembled at the dining-room table for the first event of the evening.
“I’m going to build another hotel on the boardwalk,” I announced well into the Monopoly game. “But I’d like to make a small loan from the bank,” I told the banker. It was Morgan.
“You can’t do that,” Mo protested.
“Why not?” I asked.
“You’re already overextended,” she said, glancing at some of my choice properties, which had been costing the others dearly.
“Sure I can, if Morgan thinks I’m a good risk. Also I can mortgage some of this stuff.”
“Don’t you dare,” Mo said threateningly, “or I’m quitting!”
“I’m going to start dinner,” Heidi said, getting up from the table. She sensed what I knew—that Mo’s anger had nothing to do with the game. Both Heidi and Morgan knew we had serious financial worries. Lawyers’ fees and living expenses were eating our savings. Mo was worried about how we were going to make it. So was I, but I refused to admit it to her.
“Morgan, I’d like to borrow one thousand dollars for another hotel and I’ll give you a mortgage on the two existing hotels, which are worth double my loan.” I had decided to confront Mo’s threat; I was really telling her that our finances were my worry.
“Well, I don’t know,” Morgan said, stroking his chin. “Maybe we could work out a private deal and I’d give you a little loan myself.” He was being diplomatic.
“Oh, no. No, sir,” Mo said. “No charity for the kid over here.”
“Now, that’s an ugly attitude,” I told her, steering away from a clash with a mocking smile.
“I tell you what. After you take your turn, I’ll consider a bank loan,” Morgan announced. His strategy was good, both for the game and for the incipient argument between Mo and me. If I could survive a roll of the dice on the heavily owned board, I’d be in good shape.
“Okay.” I rolled. Eleven. I started counting as I moved my race car around the board. Go TO JAIL! Everybody cracked up, including me.
The game quickly ended, and Mo chided me with a dig that was fair game: “That’s why you’re a bad risk, sweetheart.”
After dinner it was backgammon time, and we played on two boards, until Heidi mused aloud, “I wonder if the turtles are out tonight.”
“Let’s check,” Mo said, but no one moved. “Who’s going to brave it?” she asked, excluding herself, since she’d been injured in earlier battles with the mosquitoes.
“I’ve got an idea,” Heidi said, and she disappeared. She returned soon with an armful of jackets, broad-brimmed women’s hats and other apparel. We all began bundling up. Mo, who refused to go out and risk another bite, assisted us. All exposed areas had to be covered. Rubber dishwashing gloves and potholder mittens served to cover the hands. Silk scarves, worn under our hats, served as mosquito netting.
Dressed like Arctic scarecrows, we three headed out of the air-conditioned house into the humid night air, off for the beach to see if we could find any turtles. Not fifty feet from the path leading to the beach, we found the flipper marks of the enormous female tortoises. I shone the flashlight along the tracks coming from the ocean toward the sand dunes. There we came upon a huge turtle digging a hole for her eggs. We watched in appropriate awe. She seemed oblivious to us and to our light. Soon she had dug a hole at least five feet in diameter, climbed in, laid hundreds of eggs, climbed out of the hole, and covered it again with sand so that the eggs could incubate during the warm summer days. Then she started back to sea.
“How much do you think she weighs?” I asked Morgan as she dragged her enormous hulk before us.
“I don’t have any idea,” Morgan responded.
The turtle stopped right in front of us. She looked at us as if to say, “See for yourself.” Without moving, she waited patiently as Morgan and I tried to lift her. We could not budge her an inch.
With that, the tortoise resumed her march to the sea without our help. We headed on down the beach, finding tracks but no more turtles. In the excitement of our pursuit I had paid little attention to the distance we’d walked in the soft sand, but we’d gone about a mile. We turned to head back and with the wind now behind us I realized how heavily I’d been perspiring under all the clothing. I also was short of breath. I had to stop.
“Here, Morgan, you take the light and go on with Heidi,” I said, and they walked on. I walked into the water, shoes and all, up to my knees, to cool off. I still couldn’t catch my breath, and I loosened my shirt. My chest was pounding. Heavier than it should be, I thought. I was glancing down the beach, after the flashlight with Heidi and Morgan, thinking I’d better get along after them, when—wham! A sharp pain, like someone had just pounded on my chest with a hammer. Jesus Christ! I’m having a heart attack! My lungs gasped for breath as some reflex took over. My mind raced and said, Get out of the water so you won’t drown if you faint. Slowly I staggered out and sat down. Maybe I should call for help, I thought as I glanced again at the light. I took a few more breaths, slow and easy. No pain, but the muggy sweat had turned cold. What in the hell’s wrong with you? I asked myself. A few more deep breaths, and I decided, nothing. No chest pain. My pulse seemed normal. I decided that it was not a heart attack, but that nature had sent me a warning.
I got up, took off the jacket I was wearing over a sweater, then the sweater. Who gives a damn about mosquitoes, I decided. Testing myself, I started down the beach, staying near the water, where the sand was hard and easier to walk on. I could hear Morgan and Heidi exclaiming about new tracks down the beach. Take it slow, make sure you’re okay, but get back to the house, I told myself. As I walked I decided there was no need to alarm anyone with what had happened. I would get a physical checkup as soon as I got home. I was nearly thirty pounds overweight from nervous eating and excessive drinking. I had been living under intense stress for several years and hadn’t exercised in a long time. I smoked like a potbelly stove and slept poorly.
Sam Dash came to the house within an hour of my return to Washington the next day, Saturday, accompanied by Jim Hamilton.
“What’s on your mind, Sam?” I asked as he wandered about the living room. I had sat down on one of the sofas, assuming that Sam would do the same. He always did. Obviously he was stirred up; neither he nor Jim sat. Sam paced; Jim stood in front of the fireplace, gazing at us.
“Something’s come up,” Sam said. That was obvious. He had a very serious look about him. “John, let me ask you this. Do you think it’s possible Nixon could have taped all of his office and phone conversations?”
“Sure it’s possible. You know my testimony about the—”
Sam cut me off. “I know, but you were talking about one conversation. You think he could have taped all of them?”
“Sure. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had.”
“Well, if he did,” Sam said, standing over me, arms folded, “how could we find out?”
“Find out if he taped his conversations?” I repeated, as I mused over something I’d thought about several times and had a ready answer for. “Sam, if he did, I’ll tell you who would probably know.” I suggested several names: General Al Redman, head of the White House Communications Agency, Steve Bull, Alex Butterfield, Haldeman and Ehrlichman.
“Who’s Redman again?” Dash asked. I explained that he had been assigned by the Army Signal Corps to head the White House Communications Agency, which provided communication support for the President.
“This fellow Butterfield. Would he know?” Dash asked.
“He might, but I think Redman would be more likely. Also Redman would not lie to you. He wouldn’t want to risk losing his—”
“Would Butterfield lie?”
“No. Never. Butterfield’s a no
-bullshit-type guy. You ask him and he’ll tell you.”
“Interesting,” Sam said, walking about again.
I wondered what all this was about. Certainly Dash could have asked me these questions on the telephone, and I would not have had to return.
Sam came back and stopped in front of me. “John, what would you say if I told you that we’ve learned from Butterfield that Nixon did tape all his conversations?”
“You’re kidding!” I said. I was on my feet: “Listen, Sam, that’s fantastic! Absolutely fantastic! Can you get the conversations?”
“You think Butterfield would know what was going on, do you?” Sam asked, ignoring my question.
“If Alex said the old man recorded his conversations, you better believe it. Sam, do you know what this means, if you can get those conversations?” I went on excitedly. “It would mean my ass is not hanging out there all alone. It means that you can verify my testimony. And I’ll tell you this, you’ll find out that I’ve undertestified, rather than overtestified, just to be careful. I always figured something like this could happen.” I was ecstatic.
Dash swore me to secrecy; he was going to put Butterfield on as a surprise witness on Monday, interrupting Kalmbach’s testimony. When Sam was ready to leave, I walked with him to the door. Standing on the front stoop, he reached out to shake my hand.
“John, I think I should tell you I came out here to test you. We weren’t sure how you’d react to the idea of a record that might contradict your testimony. I’m on my way to see Chairman Ervin right now and tell him that you passed the test with flying colors.”
“Professor, I don’t give a damn what kind of test I passed, but I do hope you can get those recordings.” Dash had been clever in his examination, I was thinking; better than when he questioned me before the committee.
Charlie called me later that afternoon and came on strong. “What in the hell do you mean meeting with Dash without your lawyer present?” he shouted into the phone.
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