An hour later, I followed Rick and three of his colleagues to the elevator and on to a room they had taken. After checking to make sure no one had followed us, we went in separately, as if we were conspirators going to a cell meeting.
“It’s going to be announced today that Henry Petersen is now in charge of the Watergate investigation,” Rick began. “We’re going to be under the Department of Justice. How do you feel about that?”
“I think it shits,” I said.
“We’re not exactly overwhelmed, either. Why don’t you like it?”
“I think that’s obvious. Henry Petersen has been marching into the President’s office every time Nixon wants a look at the evidence, and he tells the President what it is. I doubt if Petersen will go after the tapes. So, if that’s the situation, you’re looking at all you’re going to get—me.”
“Didn’t you recommend Petersen to the President?”
“Right. I told the President that I didn’t think Henry would want to hurt the Presidency and he should take his counsel from him. It looks as if he’s following my advice. I like Henry, but he’s sure as hell not going to be very happy with me as a key government witness. I talked to him throughout the cover-up. How in the hell can he be the prosecutor when he’s had all those dealings with me?”
“We have some problems with that, too. Was Petersen part of the cover-up? We need to know.”
“Well, I don’t think I ever compromised him to the extent that he could be considered a co-conspirator. But he had to know why I was always calling him for information. Henry had to look the other way on some things, like when I told him Gray had received documents from Hunt’s safe before the first Watergate trial.”
November 1, 1973
In the wake of the now-famous firestorm, the fierce public reaction to the “Saturday Night Massacre,” and with an array of impeachment resolutions in the Congress, the President was forced to back down. He appointed a new Special Prosecutor, Leon Jaworski. He announced that he would comply with the Court of Appeals’ order on the subpoenaed tapes, although he continued to fight against turning over others.
“Christ, Charlie,” I moaned, “we’re on our third set of prosecutors. I can’t tell whether we’re going backward or forward.”
“Look on the bright side,” Charlie advised. “If Jaworski goes down the tube, we’ll just get another one, by God! Same disease, same medicine! Nixon’s getting eaten alive.”
November 16,1973
During one of my frequent meetings with staff members in the Special Prosecutor’s office, I inquired about Jaworski.
“It’s still too soon to tell, but Leon seems all right so far,” said Ben-Veniste.
“We’re keeping an eye on him,” echoed Jill Vollner. “We guarantee you we won’t keep quiet if he walks away from this thing.”
January 16, 1974
“Who do you think erased the tape?” Jill Vollner asked.
I was reading the report of the technical experts on the eighteen-and-a-half-minute gap that had been discovered in the tape of the President’s conversation with Haldeman on June 20, 1972; they had concluded that the gap was the result of five separate and intentional erasures.
“Somebody who is not very good mechanically,” I answered.
“Like?”
“Maybe someone I know who had trouble taking the top off his fountain pen, or somebody who hasn’t driven a car in years …”
“Yeah, but how do I prove it? I couldn’t break Rose Woods, even if she knows anything.”
February 13, 1974
Ben-Veniste’s office was crowded with the other members of the Watergate Task Force: Jill Vollner, George Frampton and Peter Rient. A chair had been placed in front of Rick’s desk for me, and another chair sat ostentatiously empty. Rick explained.
“We’ve invited Leon to sit in on this meeting,” he said smugly. “He’s got to go down to court tomorrow and vouch for your credibility.”
“I thought we were going to go over my conversations with the President for my grand-jury appearance tomorrow,” I said.
“Well, we are. But since Leon has never really dealt with you, he thought he ought to sit in as we go over this material.”
“Fine with me.”
Rick was grinning. “We want to show Leon how a prosecutor operates. You can give us a few of your ‘I don’t recalls’ to show him we don’t push you around.”
“We want him to see your credibility for himself,” Frampton added in a more serious tone.
“I’ll be happy to perform for him,” I said sportingly.
“After this show, you can vouch for Leon’s credibility in vouching for your credibility,” Jill cracked as the telephone rang. It was Jaworski’s secretary. He was tied up, but we were invited to his office when we’d finished. The prosecutors mumbled their disappointment. It was clear from their remarks that, while they trusted Leon, they didn’t think he understood what was happening.
Special Prosecutor Jaworski’s office was almost bare, certainly not furnished to the standard of his Texas law-firm offices. Rick, unaware that Jaworski and I knew each other, began to introduce us. Jaworski stopped him and came around from behind his desk to greet me.
“I haven’t seen you since I was in your office at the White House,” he said with a smile, extending his hand. When he was president of the American Bar Association Jaworski had visited me to argue against the nomination of Congressman Richard Poff to the Supreme Court; on another occasion he had come to lobby against no-fault auto insurance, which took business away from trial lawyers.
Adjusting the vest of his three-piece suit, Jaworski helped Jill with her chair and then seated himself. “I’ve managed to get myself dragged into this fight with the White House over your credibility,” he said. “Judge Gesell wants me in his courtroom tomorrow because of my statement on the television that you were a very believable and credible witness.”
“I want to thank you for your support,” I replied.
“Well, I felt I should. I’d said the exact same thing in court. Those reporters on the TV show were really grilling me, so I thought I might as well say it there. I don’t think it was fair of St. Clair to jump on me over that statement.” The statement had resulted in a motion by Dwight Chapin’s attorney to dismiss the case against Chapin in Judge Gerhard Gesell’s courtroom, and it had brought Jaworski a public blast from the President’s lawyer, James D. St. Clair of Boston.
“I thought you were very careful in not going beyond what you’d said in court,” Jill added, in a tone and manner that recalled to me how I used to try to please the boss.
“Thank you, Jill.” Jaworski smiled graciously. “I think the judge will understand it when I explain. I had a long-standing commitment to be on that show.”
“I’ve heard St. Clair is a pretty good lawyer,” I said. “Is he?”
Jaworski let my question pass. “The Los Angeles Times hit him hard for criticizing me. And his very own Boston Globe lambasted him. Even his home-town newspaper didn’t like it.” He repeated that several times.
“So St. Clair isn’t as good as they say?” I asked.
“Jim is in an impossible position over there. Buzhardt listens to all the tapes, knows all the problems.”
“So Buzhardt’s still running the show?”
“Yes, sir. In all the meetings I’ve attended over there, Buzhardt has made the decisions. He just blurts them out, and St. Clair goes along whether he agrees or not. I don’t think St. Clair knows what he’s supposed to be doing.” Jaworski shook his head with pity for St. Clair’s fix.
“Well, Buzhardt got there first and learned the ropes,” I suggested. Jaworski nodded his agreement.
“I told those people over at the White House not to try to destroy you,” he continued. “I told them they were asking for trouble with me, and I feel I made the point very strongly. I raised this with someone above Buzhardt, and—”
“Haig?” I interrupted. General Alexander M. Haig, Jr., had replaced Haldema
n as White House chief of staff.
“I’d rather not say, but I went to the top.” This confirmed my feeling that it must be Haig. “I’ll tell you this,” Jaworski said. “He assured me he was personally not involved in those efforts. I think I did some good in raising this matter with them. We’ll see.”
He sat thinking about what he had just said. Then he assumed a rather formal pose, as if he were sitting for a portrait, and told a story in his best Texas drawl. “Last Sunday I went to the Presbyterian church up on New York Avenue. It’s convenient to where I stay in Washington. As I went in for the service, I stopped to say hello to the deacon, who was greeting people at the front door. The deacon stopped me and said, ‘Mr. Jaworski, President Nixon is coming this morning.’ I told the deacon that was fine and went along to my seat. I opened my program and saw that the sermon was on ‘Moral Courage,’ which made me chuckle to myself.” Jaworski paused. But before going on, he erased the smile from his face and slowly shook his head. “During the service I prayed to rid myself of hate. Hate’s one of those evil things we’ve learned,” he said squeezing his eyes tightly and shaking his head hard, as if dispelling evil from his mind.
He relaxed. “When the minister began his sermon he was very nervous, and he had a rough time getting it together for about ten minutes. But once he got going it was a good sermon. I guess he was worried about what he had to say with the President there. Anyway, I kept thinking if the President only had the moral courage to admit his wrongs, this thing wouldn’t have gone as far as it has.”
Amen. We all agreed, and the conversation rambled on about the tapes, my grand-jury appearance, his able staff, my memory. Finally Jill said she had to get back to work, and the meeting ended. On the way back to Rick’s office, I asked him whether Jaworski often used hip phrases like “getting it together.” Rick only rolled his eyes. I asked whether Jaworski would permit the grand jury to indict President Nixon.
“What do you think?” Rick retorted.
“No.”
He smiled. “You know I can’t discuss that with you, but you’ve got a pretty good batting average for predicting what’ll happen.”
February 14, 1974
The deputy United States marshal stood near attention in front of the door to the grand-jury room. Usually he dozed in the chair beside the door. Something was happening inside. After about ten minutes, Jaworski emerged and nodded a greeting, but walked quickly by. Shortly, I learned what had happened. He had been concerned that the testimony I was to give concerning the President would precipitate the grand jurors into hasty action—a runaway grand jury, out of the Special Prosecutor’s control, that would indict a sitting President.*
March 9, 1974
“I think you ought to have protection again,” Charlie said.
“Why? Have you heard more threats?” I asked.
“Not directly. I don’t believe in that fortunetelling crap. But some woman who claims she’s never been wrong, which I doubt, wrote a letter to her senator telling him that your life is in serious danger. I don’t have the details, but I talked with the fellows down in the Special Prosecutor’s office. They would like you to have some protection, too, because you’re going to be back in the public eye when you testify in the Mitchell-Stans trial in New York and the Chapin trial.” †
“Do you really think it’s necessary? It’s a hell of a note having a couple of marshals around all the time.”
“I do. Otherwise I wouldn’t suggest it.”
When I flew back to New York for the Mitchell-Stans trial, I was met by two deputy marshals. A protective detail was assigned to me in New York, Washington and California. For the next six months, two marshals were with me wherever I went: out to dinner with Mo, to the supermarket, to courtrooms and hearing rooms, even to men’s rooms.
April 4, 1974
“Excuse me, John,” the deputy marshal said, “there’s a girl at the door who’d like to talk with you.”
“Who is she?” Mo and I had sold our house, and I was packing for the move to California. “Is she with the press?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve never seen her before, and I know most of those press people. I should have asked, but I figured she must know you.”
I went down to the front door, where an attractive dark-haired woman whom I didn’t recognize was standing silently. Another deputy stood guard. As I approached, she became visibly nervous and began biting her lower lip.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
She seemed stunned. He eyes blinked, and she could not get out whatever it was she wanted to say. Finally she asked me haltingly, “Are you my mummy?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Are you my mummy?” she repeated.
What in hell was she talking about? She looked perfectly normal, but she was either crazy or putting me on. I wasn’t sure. I answered politely, “I’m sorry, you must have the wrong house.”
“No, I don’t,” she said, slightly peevish, then turned and walked away.
The deputy marshals didn’t like what they’d just heard and seen. They followed her. She got into a late-model car and drove away. It was too dark to get her license number. They were agitated. “John, you’ve got to watch out for the nuts like her,” one said. And for a few weeks the marshals tightened security. Such weird episodes dotted the months ahead.
April 15, 1974
“Have you seen this, John?” asked the assistant U.S. attorney excitedly. I was in New York preparing for my testimony in the Robert Vesco influence-peddling case against Mitchell and Stans. The prosecutor handed me a newspaper, which was opened to an article on the latest Harris poll. Harris had sampled public opinion about the conflicts between my Watergate statements and President Nixon’s. Overall, he found twenty-nine percent support for the President, forty-six percent for me, with the rest undecided.
“Very interesting,” I murmured, trying to appear nonchalant. I was noting the breakdown. The President scored highest among Southerners, while I ran away with Jews and young adults.
“Interesting?” he exclaimed. “I think it’s fantastic! Hell, you’re more credible than the President of the United States! This makes me think you’re going to be a better witness than I thought you were going to be. I sure wish I could figure out some way to slip this in on the jury.”
My ego was getting a welcome boost.
April 25–27, 1974
Three days spent in Jaworski’s office listening to the White House tapes for the first time. I sat down in front of the recorder, put the cushioned earphones on and closed my eyes. I could see the meetings in my mind; the tapes provided the sound track. My senses synchronized, I floated back through time.
I felt excitement and anger as I listened, but the prevailing feeling was a fierce kind of embarrassment. It reminded me of being a teenager, when the thought of last month’s wisecrack made me shudder at how childish and out of style I’d been. I winced when I heard myself brown-nosing the President on September 15, and I was shamed by my weakness in the March meetings.
Several lawyers in the Special Prosecutor’s office seemed baffled that I didn’t get more of a charge out of the experience.
April 28, 1974
“I guess you’ve heard,” sighed the Southern District prosecutor. He was calling from New York, where the jury had just found Mitchell and Stans not guilty.
“Yeah, it’s on the radio down here,” I groused. “They’re playing me up big. They say the jury obviously didn’t believe Dean, star witness. Goddammit, I don’t know why they call me the star witness. I hardly knew anything about that damn case.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, we feel worse than you do,” the prosecutor replied. “It’s hard to take. The thing is, these juries are used to cops and judges getting cash under the table. We figure the jurors were impressed that Mitchell and Stans put Vesco’s money in the campaign instead of in their own pockets. Anyway, we’re sorry it didn’t work out, John. I hope it doesn’t hurt you too much.”<
br />
“Thanks. I understand.” But I didn’t. The press had made me the star witness, which I wasn’t. Now they were saying that no one believed me.
Once again, the reporters and camera crews staked out my house.
April 29, 1974
I had long ago learned to expect an unpleasant time whenever the President went on television about Watergate, but his speech when he released the edited transcripts of his tapes was the worst yet. It was especially infuriating since I’d just listened to the tapes themselves and knew how phony his version was. I didn’t know that I was reaching the apogee of my anger toward him, but I felt I was getting near it. I smirked at the huge display he made of the transcripts, gagged on his quotations from Lincoln, and seethed at his personal attacks on me: “John Dean charged in sworn Senate testimony that I was fully aware of the cover-up at the time of our first meeting on September 15, 1972. These transcripts show clearly that I first learned of it when Mr. Dean himself told me about it in this office on March 21, some six months later. His revelations to me on March 21 were a sharp surprise, even though the report he gave to me was far from complete, especially since he did not reveal at that time the extent of his own criminal involvement …”
June 27, 1974
“You know, I ran into one of your old friends the other day,” I told Jim Neal during a break in our session.
I was in Neal’s Nashville law office, along with Charlie and Rick Ben-Veniste. The meeting was tense. I knew Rick resented the fact that Neal had agreed to come back to the Special Prosecutor’s office and take back the reins of the cover-up case. And I resented having had to come all the way across the country just because Neal was worried that James St. Clair might ruin me as a witness during my upcoming testimony before the House impeachment inquiry.
“Oh, yeah?” Neal drawled, seeming pleased to get into small talk. “Who’s that?”
“Jimmy Hoffa,” I said. “I’ve been giving depositions in his suit against the government over his conditional pardon, and he showed up. It was a pretty weird deposition, I’ll tell you. Hoffa’s lawyer is Leonard Boudin, the guy who defended Ellsberg and the Chicago Seven. They’re quite a pair.”
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