Blind Ambition

by Dean, John W. ;

  “I didn’t have time to find you. You were off riding in some damn steeplechase or whatever it is you do as a country gentleman,” I answered, not falling for Charlie’s phony bluster. “How did you find out about the meeting, anyway?”

  “I know everything about my client,” he said, shifting tone. “Listen, I called to tell you that Sam called me. He and Ervin met this afternoon after he left your house. Dash told me all about the meeting with you, and you damn near floored him when you told him to get the tapes. You know, I don’t think old Sam totally believed you, but now he and Ervin sure as hell do.”

  “Charlie, it’s a new ball game now. If they can get the tapes of the President’s conversations—” Before I could finish Charlie interrupted.

  “What do you think Nixon’s going to do when Butterfield reveals this?”

  “I don’t know, for sure. He’ll probably say it’s true. In fact, he’ll have to admit it, because I’m sure a lot of people had to be involved in putting such a system in. But he’ll say those are conversations protected by executive privilege. He sure as hell isn’t going to turn them over. That’s what I told Sam, that Nixon would probably go to court, and Sam said he was ready to go to court after them.”

  “Who’ll win? You’re supposed to be an expert on executive privilege.”

  “Who knows, Charlie? There’s really no law on it. But what worries me is Nixon might screw around with those tapes—change them, splice them or something.”

  “Naw, how in the hell could he? Who would do it?”

  “Some technical expert.”

  “Yeah, and that some technical expert and everybody between him and the President would own Richard Nixon for life.”

  “I guess you’re right. I hope you’re right.”

  “Yeah, but it’s still your word against Haldeman, Ehrlichman and Mitchell, as far as your dealings with them.”

  “Well, I suspect they’re on the tapes, too.”

  “Don’t get too encouraged, son. You’ve got a rough road ahead.”

  But we both knew it would be different. Now, as far as the President’s fate was concerned, I was no longer the sole accuser. The tapes themselves were the best evidence, and I began long and complicated calculations on whether they could ever be obtained. There was, at least, a glimmer of hope that my own future was not so closely intertwined with the President’s. I felt the pressure ease as the battle for the tapes began, and I began to focus more closely on a settlement for my own crimes.

  * More than a year later, after the President resigned, a lawyer in the Special Prosecutor’s office told me that the President’s lawyers had wanted the Watergate Committee Republicans to push me for additional details about the President’s involvement. He and Haldeman had been listening to tapes of his conversations with me, and the lawyer reported that the President said he would nail “that son-of-a-bitch Dean” for perjury and “end the ball game.”

  JOURNAL

  July 1973–January 1975

  Late July 1973

  Mo and I went to California to be near her mother, who was dying of cancer. I ignored the Ervin hearings. I was worried about my own health, and that I was becoming an alcoholic. I quit drinking, cold turkey. Twenty-five pounds came off my body with a crash exercise regimen and a diet. I jogged around the UCLA track in sunglasses and a floppy tennis hat.

  Early August 1973

  Charlie called long distance from Washington. “How is my favorite health nut? I guess you’re fit as Tarzan by now.”

  “Totally reformed,” I joked. “It really feels good, Charlie. I only wish I could be about three thousand more miles away from Washington.”

  “Well, don’t you forget about us back here. I need your help, I’m having trouble getting in to see the P. He won’t return my calls.”

  “Try Rose Woods,” I suggested. “Tell her Jimmy Hoffa wants to give the Teamsters’ yacht to the President. Maybe that’ll get you in.”

  Ever since Butterfield had revealed the Presidential taping system, Charlie had been declaring that he wanted to see the President eyeball-to-eyeball in the Oval Office and demand all the tapes of his conversations with me. It was a running jest. Charlie’s rehearsals of those confrontations were executed with his usual flair.

  “Listen, John,” he said when the fun had died down, “I was down to see those fellows at the Special Prosecutor’s office today.”

  Here comes the business, I thought. I went on guard. “Did you talk to Cox?”

  “No. I ran into him, but I met with Neal and a young fellow by the name of Richard Ben-Veniste. He’s a bright little kid from the Southern District up in New York. And I tell you, Ben-Veniste and old Neal are really something together. They’re as different as molasses and vinegar. I wanted to see what’s on their minds down there, so I went into Neal’s office and said, ‘Jimmy, I guess maybe you’ve lost track of my man now that you’re all balled up trying to get those tapes.’ And he laughed and said, ‘Shaffer, I never lose track of you.’ He said he’d been thinking about calling me, because he wants to know what we’re going to do. He says he can feel it in his bones that you’re going to plead guilty.”

  “Maybe he’s got pretty good feelings,” I said quietly.

  “Maybe so,” said Charlie. “We’ve got to talk about that. But I decided to ruffle his feathers a little bit. I told him it makes no sense for my man to plead, because the government can never get a conviction against him. I told him he’s got a big bag of problems, and the first one is that we’d destroy his case with a taint motion.”

  “What did he say about that?” Charlie was convinced that Silbert and Glanzer had made extensive use of the evidence I had given them in our off-the-record meetings. He thought the government could never prove that its case against me was not “tainted” by my confessions.

  “Well, he said he’s not worried about any taint motion,” Charlie replied. “But he’s bluffing. He knows he’s in trouble.”

  “Charlie, do you really think a taint motion would prevail?”

  “You’re goddam right I do!” Then he paused, sighed, and lapsed into a less confident tone. “But who knows what will prevail in this kind of case? I just think we’ve got a good shot. I don’t risk predictions.”

  “But Neal’s worried, you think?” I became unsettled whenever Charlie’s bravado waned.

  “Yes, sir,” he replied firmly, his spirits reviving. “And I gave him another reason to worry. If he indicts us I’ll put a motion for the tapes right on top of the taint motion. I told him there’s no way you can get a fair trial without those tapes.”

  “It sounds like you leaned on him pretty hard.”

  “I did, and let me tell you why. These guys need you as a witness, and they need you bad. They still want you to plead to a one-count, five-year felony for the cover-up. They’re leaning hard, too. I want you to put down your barbells out there and do some thinking. If you want to go to trial, fine. I’m ready. It will cost you a couple hundred thousand bucks, but I’ll give you as long as you need to pay me. We might win, we might lose. If you want to plead, on the other hand, that’s fine too.”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  “That’s not my decision. It’s yours. And you should start deciding.”

  September 1973

  Mo was opposed to my pleading guilty. People beat raps in Washington all the time, she argued, and I should give myself a fighting chance. Charlie waxed hot and cold, and so did I. When he leaned in one direction, I leaned in the other. We stayed on the fence. But in my mind the question was more when than whether I would plead.

  October 1973

  Charlie called one afternoon. “Big news today, son,” he began. “A little good and a little bad. The Court of Appeals finally had to bite the bullet. They upheld Sirica’s order to hand over the tapes. What do you think Nixon will do now?”

  “There’s no question what he’ll do,” I said. “He’ll fight it. He’ll take it to the Supreme Court. That’s wher
e he wants it, anyway.”

  “Well, if he does I think Cox is going right up there after him. It looks good for Cox.”

  “I’m pulling for him.” I paused, caught between hope about Cox and anxiety about the other part of Charlie’s news. “What else, Charlie?”

  “You’ve got to come back to Washington right away,” he said tersely. “If you’re going to plead, it’s now or never. And if you don’t plead now, they’re going to the grand jury and have you indicted.” There was finality in Charlie’s voice.

  “What’s the rush all of a sudden?” I stammered. “Why right now? Why can’t we wait until the tapes case is settled? Christ, Charlie, Nixon is still a long way from giving those things up. Can’t you get Neal to hold off? What’s eating him?” I felt panicky and off balance. Frightened. I would have given anything for a week’s delay.

  “I don’t know what’s going on for sure. Neal kind of hinted that Cox and the White House are going after each other pretty hard now, and something’s going to give. Neal says it’s vital that you plead now. He’s getting his horses in the gate. It’s post time. I can’t budge him, John.”

  “Charlie, that’s what Silbert said in his goddam letter,” I protested. “I could be walking into a trap.”

  “Cox is not Silbert,” Charlie replied. He was being gentle but firm. “This is a new game. Look, I can delay all sorts of things, John. Afterwards. But you’ve got to decide whether you’re going to throw in with Cox. And if you are, you’ve got to come back here right away.”

  “How soon?”

  “Tomorrow. The next day at the latest. Neal says they’re going to wrap it up this week, one way or the other. They’re going to court with your plea or they’re going to the grand jury without it.”

  There was a short silence. I felt my throat tighten. “Okay, Charlie,” I sighed. “I’ll fly back in the morning. And I’ll bring Mo back with me so I can break it to her. I don’t think she thought this day would ever come, either.”

  “I’ll make the arrangements,” Charlie said briskly. “I’ll call Neal and set up an appointment. We still have some leverage for the details. He’s got to give us some room. We’re not going to cave in right off the bat. But you’ve got to understand that Neal will know damn well what it means that you’re showing up.” Charlie was nervous, jumping right into the arrangements to avoid the tension.

  “All right, I’ll call you when we get in.”

  “I’m with you, John. And for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing. You know that.”

  “I know, Charlie. Thanks.” I fought against a swell of emotion. “I think it’s the right thing to do, but so did Custer.” I laughed weakly.

  “Those were less civilized times, my boy. If you get scalped, you’ll have due process and the best damn lawyer money can buy. I’ll talk to you soon.” He hung up.

  I made several runs at telling Mo what had happened. It came out hesitatingly, in bits and pieces. We latched on to distractions. That evening we avoided the subject by watching a political spectacular on television. With great fanfare, the President announced his choice of a successor to Vice-President Spiro Agnew, who had resigned in the face of criminal charges.

  “That’s very shrewd,” I said when Gerald Ford’s name was pronounced. “The President just bought himself an insurance policy.”

  “What do you mean?” Mo asked.

  “Well, he’s just made sure there won’t be any Republican ground-swell for him to resign. There won’t be a big push to put Jerry Ford in the White House.”

  “Why not?” she protested. “I like Jerry Ford. He was very nice to me over at Pat Golubin’s. Remember? He didn’t know me at all, but he said nice things.”

  I remembered. Ford had been on crutches that evening, recovering from some sort of accident. “I know, sweetheart. He’s the kind of guy who’s a nice neighbor, but that doesn’t mean he’s the kind of man Republicans will want as President. He’s not well known, and everybody in Washington considers him a lightweight. Christ, Mo, you know more about foreign policy than he does.”

  “Well, he’s still better than Agnew and Nixon,” she insisted.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I admitted. “I’m just worried that he’ll strengthen Nixon. And anything that strengthens Nixon hurts me.”

  October 19, 1973

  “Mr. Dean, you have heard the charges against you, how do you plead?” Judge Sirica asked, peering down at me from the bench.

  “Guilty, your honor.”

  It was over. And I felt nothing. Or refused to let myself feel. Maybe it was easier because there were no immediate consequences, I thought, as Charlie, Mo and I walked out of the courtroom.

  “Well, I’m not going to be with you the rest of the way,” Neal said. He was announcing his resignation. “You’re my best trophy, and now that I’ve brought you to Archie, I’m going back home and make some money.”

  “I look forward to talking with you, Mr. Dean,” Archibald Cox said to me in the elevator as we rode down from Judge Sirica’s courtroom. “I’ll give you a call early next week, and see if we can arrange a meeting.”

  “I’d like that, Mr. Cox,” I said. When the elevator door opened, he stepped out briskly ahead of me, his briefcase tucked under his arm. Boy, do I wish that was filled with the tapes, I thought. I visualized Cox walking down the courthouse corridor with me under one arm and a briefcase of tapes under the other, like two big loaves of bread, heading for the grand-jury room.

  October 20, 1973

  The evening news had been heavy: reactions to my guilty plea; the President’s compromise proposal to have a summary of the tapes verified by Senator John C. Stennis of Mississippi; Cox’s refusal to accept the compromise. I was delighted when Mo found a variety show on the television. Time to tune out.

  WE INTERRUPT THIS PROGRAM FOR A SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT.

  NBC reporter Carl Stern flashed onto the screen. He was standing in front of the White House, breathless. His voice was filled with emotion, which was highly irregular. The President had fired Cox! The Special Prosecutor’s office had been abolished!

  “My God, what in the world …?” I shouted at Stern, who continued, oblivious to my protest.

  Attorney General Elliot L. Richardson had resigned. Deputy Attorney General William D. Ruckelshaus had been fired. The FBI had been sent to seal off the files in Cox’s office. The FBI had also been dispatched by the White House to seal Richardson’s and Ruckelshaus’ files. Stern said he’d report any further developments, and disappeared from the screen. I was motionless.

  “What does that mean?” Mo asked with a frightened look that mirrored my alarm.

  “It’s bad. Nixon’s fighting back. He’s going to play rough.” I got up and started to pace. I brought the telephone over to the ottoman in front of the television, sat down, got up again.

  “I’d better call Charlie.” I sat down again. My hands were trembling as I dialed. It felt like the night Nixon had fired me.

  “Is Charlie there?”

  “No, sorry. He’s over at some friends’ house at a party,” his daughter told me.

  “This is John Dean. Could you get a message to him, and tell him to call me? It’s very important.” As I put the receiver down, the phone rang. I was so jittery it felt like an electric shock. “Hello.”

  “John, this is John Lindsay,” the Newsweek reporter said.

  I assembled my composure. “How are you?”

  “Well, that’s not very important. I guess you’ve heard what your former leader has done.”

  “I sure have. I can damn near hear the boots of marching FBI troops. It’s a little terrifying,” I said.

  By the time Charlie called, I’d settled down. I told him what I was thinking about. “Listen, I’ve given up everything by pleading, and I got nothing. All I’ve got is a letter from Cox saying I can still be prosecuted for perjury. And if it’s my word against everybody else’s, what’s to stop Nixon from telling his next Attorney Gene
ral to prosecute me? Charlie, I’ve been screwed.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Can I withdraw my guilty plea?”

  “Nope. You voluntarily pleaded. It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference that you pleaded because you like Cox. Let me think about this. I can’t really talk now, but I’ll call you tomorrow.” Charlie had little comfort to offer, and I badly needed some. Rick Ben-Veniste had given me his unlisted number. I fished it out of my wallet and called him. He had replaced Jim Neal as the assistant special prosecutor in charge of Watergate.

  “What are you guys going to do now?” I asked Rick. “I’ve got, or I had, a lot riding on your office.”

  “I don’t know what’s next.”

  “Have you talked to Cox? Or have you all met or something to see about blocking Nixon’s move? Or is it over?”

  “I’ll give you a call tomorrow,” he said. Rick seemed preoccupied, and as stunned as I. I continued calling people. And I drank more Scotch than I had drunk in months.

  October 21, 1973

  It had been a sleepless night. Rick called early.

  “I think we’re going to be absorbed into the Department of Justice. We just don’t know, but the reason I called is we’d like to meet with you tomorrow, about one-thirty. I’ll call you tomorrow morning and give you the details. Please don’t mention this to anyone, other than Charlie, of course. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  October 22, 1973

  Monday morning I tried not to stare at the telephone as I waited all morning for Rick’s call, so I read and reread the newspaper. At 11:04 he called.

  “Can you come downtown to the Statler Hilton at twelve-thirty?”

  “You bet.”

  “Remember, that’s not the Mayflower,” he quipped.

  I laughed. “I’ll never confuse them again in my life. But where in the hotel? The coffee shop?”

  Rick laughed, too, which made me feel better. “No, we’ll wait for you in the lobby.”