“I’m going to have a look around,” he said, and he walked out the door. Deputy Marshal Bud McPherson waited in the office and watched as Charlie nodded politely to a man walking by on the sidewalk. A few minutes went by.
“You’re under arrest!” Charlie thundered. Bud ran to the door. Charlie was crouched like a wrestler in front of a man he’d noticed before. The man was carrying a batch of office equipment under his arm. The veins were standing out in Charlie’s neck. “Don’t move!” he shouted. “You’re under arrest!”
“You can’t arrest me,” Charlie’s suspect sniffed with calm indignation. “Who are you, anyway?”
“That’s my office,” said Charlie, pointing to the building, “and that’s my partner’s Dictaphone,” pointing to the machine the man was carrying. “I’m making a citizen’s arrest!”
The suspect tensed visibly. “You haven’t got the power to arrest me.”
Charlie shrugged and backed off a few steps. “You’re going to be mighty surprised, friend,” he drawled amiably. “’Cause there’s a thirty-eight revolver about seven inches behind your head.” Charlie looked thoughtful, then: “Maybe ten inches.”
The suspect rotated slowly so as to keep an eye on Charlie, but he was shortly staring down the barrel of McPherson’s gun. Bud was in the classic arrest pose, knees bent slighty, feet spread, arms stretched out, both hands steadying the gun. The suspect went pale and limp as sheets in a laundry bin. Later he pleaded guilty to breaking and entering.
September 3, 1974
“John, you’re not going to like this, but there’s been a change in the plan,” Bud McPherson said grimly. He and Terry Walters, his partner, had been protecting me for six months. Their last assignment was to deliver me to prison.
“What’s happening now?”
“Well, Marshal McKinney says you have to surrender to his office instead of the Special Prosecutor’s office. He ordered us to bring you in to him at the courthouse.”
“Goddam, Bud, I don’t want to do that. Can we go in the back door?”
“Yeah, I think so. We’re supposed to rendezvous with two of McKinney’s deputies at DuPont Circle. They’re making a big deal out of this.”
“More bad news,” Bud said later as he climbed back into the car at the rendezvous. “Those guys say we have to follow them right to the front door. They won’t let us go in the back.”
“Oh, no,” I moaned. “I don’t like any of this. Why do we have to follow those bastards? Can’t we just slip in the back when we get there?”
“Afraid not,” Terry lamented. “We’re from the L.A. office, and we’re in McKinney’s jurisdiction. He’s like the Sheriff of Nottingham in his territory. We can’t buck him.”
I slumped down in the seat, hiding behind my sunglasses. There was a lump in my throat. My mind was brimming with memories of my leavetaking from Mo just a few minutes earlier. A hug and a brief kiss, as if I were going to the office. I couldn’t have made it through anything more intimate. I was already daydreaming, I realized, living in memories. Like a prisoner.
“Oh, shit!” cried Bud. “Look at that!”
I snapped up and looked out the window. Several dozen reporters were milling in front of the courthouse. “I knew it,” I said. “I’ll give you a hundred to one McKinney tipped them off. No wonder he’s making sure we go in the front door.”
“It figures,” said Terry. “His men up ahead have got on their Sunday duds.”
“Keep your chin up, John,” Bud encouraged. “Let’s go. We’ll fight our way through.”
The horde surrounded us before we could get out of the car. Questions came at me one on top of the other: “What’s your reaction to Nixon’s resignation?” “You’ve been vindicated as President Nixon’s chief accuser. Any comment?” “How do you feel about going to jail?” I forced a smile and muttered, “No comment.” McKinney’s men were cheerfully official; I thought they lingered a bit before the cameras. Bud and Terry made a flying wedge for me all the way to McKinney’s office, where the District of Columbia marshal was waiting proudly.
“Good work,” he said. “You’re right on time.” He accepted my surrender formally. It took all my willpower to control my temper. But I was McKinney’s prisoner, and he could make life difficult for me.
I was spreadeagled against the wall in the cellblock beneath the courthouse, frisked, fingerprinted and then posed for mug shots. Down the hall into a cell. A huge door clanged shut behind me. “The slammer.” Just like the movies. I turned around in panic and looked back at sixteen feet of greenish iron bars.
Only a few minutes—I was talking fast to myself—then I’ll be taken to some “safe house” jail. Don’t count on it, I cautioned myself. I hadn’t counted on this, surrendering at the courthouse and being locked in its basement cellblock, and I still didn’t know where I was going, or when. I was learning.
There wasn’t much to inspect in the cell. Iron bars, three very solid tile walls, a toilet with no seat, a sink high enough so that prisoners couldn’t urinate in it, and a long steel bench. It was clean. I sat down on the bench and read the graffiti. There was no window. I glanced at my watch. I had been there ten minutes. I thought about time. Chunks of it. Ticking sounds of it. Vast clouds of it. Circles, infinite numbers, endless waves.
One of my jailers came to check on me. He handed me the sports section of the Washington Post and left. I tried to read. Suddenly, I felt it coming. My pulse began racing. I tried to breathe deeply to relax, but that seemed to make it worse. The stale musty air coming into my lungs was so stifling that I tried to forget about breathing. The room was closing in. Claustrophobia. I kept telling myself I’d always been able to suppress it. I walked around the cell several times. That helped some. I forced myself to read the paper.
The deputy returned with a chair and sat down outside my cell. “Damn hot today,” he observed.
“Sure is.” I was glad he was there. But I was annoyed that he thought he could just talk at me.
“You remember me?”
I gave a weak nod.
“Up in Connecticut,” he prodded. “The big demonstration at Yale.”
“Oh, sure.” The memory pushed the claustrophobia back a few degrees. He and I had shot the bull one afternoon back in 1970 when I was covering a pro-Bobby Seale demonstration for the Justice Department.
He wanted to reminisce, but I was spent and nauseated. I went over to the tall sink, cupped my hand under the spigot, but there was no water. The deputy brought me a cup of ice water from the cooler. Then he lectured me about how President Ford had vetoed a pay hike for the Marshal’s Service. I said enough to keep the conversation going. Each time I glanced at him one of his eyes was cut off by a cell bar. It was disconcerting at first, but then I found a game in it: I would look around the cell quickly and try to guess which of his eyes I would see when I turned back. I was batting just over .500 when he left.
“Hey, Joe! Bring him out!” A guard’s yell echoed down the cellblock, and soon my door was rattling open. I was escorted out of the courthouse basement and into a car by more marshals.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Fort Holabird.”
The Marshal’s Service ran a small prison at Fort Holabird, near Baltimore; it was used mainly for Mafia witnesses with contracts on their heads. Magruder, Colson and Kalmbach had been transferred there in preparation for the cover-up trial. I was surprised to be joining them. Neal had told me I wouldn’t be, because he was worried that the defense lawyers might charge us with concocting false testimony if we were together. I hadn’t talked with my old colleagues for nearly a year and a half, and I presumed none of them would be happy to see me. My apprehension was overshadowed by relief. Two hours in the cellblock had felt like an eternity. It was a bad omen.
“Dean, I’m the site supervisor,” announced a frail, colorless man with a surprisingly strong voice. He avoided looking at me and sat fidgeting at his desk, appearing uncertain about what to say. “We
’re crowded here,” he said. “This is a small place. We can barely handle the twenty-one men who are here, so we have rules that must be followed.” He paused again, and then something else jumped into his mind. “Listen, Dean. I don’t want you signing a lot of autographs around here. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied. I was bemused and disoriented. The idea of autographs in prison was to baffle me until deputies started asking me to sign copies of Magruder’s book; he sold them to all takers.
“Good,” the supervisor said. “Now, if everyone follows the rules here, we all get along pretty well. You will be treated fairly. All the men are called ‘principals,’ not prisoners. Understand? This is a special facility. It’s no hard-core prison. All principals are allowed two personal phone calls every week. Collect only. They have to be placed by the supervisor on duty. Understand? Now, you are allowed unlimited calls to and from your lawyer, of course. Your wife is not your lawyer. Don’t try to cheat. Okay. Once a week you will be paid a witness fee of eight dollars a day, but half of it goes into our general house fund here for food and supplies. And you are not to keep any of it in your room or on your person. We don’t want any trouble, and we’ve got a lot of fellows in here with sticky fingers. Understand? Just see the supervisor if you want to transfer some money. Okay. Now, the principals are responsible for all cooking, housekeeping and chores. They assign their own duties. You’ll get the hang of it. That’s about it. You’ll pick up the rest. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” I nodded.
“Now, one other thing. I have been directed by Washington,” he declared with emphasis, “that you’re to be confined to your quarters and not to talk to anyone here. You will be segregated from the other principals. You will eat your meals in your room, and there will be a deputy posted outside your door at all times. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied mechanically. The prosecutors wanted me to have no contact with the other Watergate witnesses. It was just as well.
A deputy took me down to the grimy pit of a kitchen after I’d unpacked the Second World War-vintage supplies in my room, which was in a dilapidated Army barracks. It seemed almost plush after the cellblock.
Kalmbach and Colson appeared, and I eyed them tensely. Then Herb came over, shook my hand firmly and looked me in the eye. “I’m glad to see you, John.” I knew he meant it, and I felt immense relief. Herb had lost weight. I would have thought he looked chipper but his eyes told me otherwise.
“Hi, John,” Chuck said nervously. “Would you like to borrow my radio or something?”
“No, thanks. I’m fine, Chuck.”
“The food is damn good here.” He was making conversation. “We rotate the cooking every day, and some of these fellows are terrific. You’ll find beef Stroganoff in the refrigerator from dinner, and I highly recommend it.”
“I’ll try it, but I’m not too hungry tonight.”
“After you get some dinner, I’ll take you around and introduce you to some of the men here,” Herb said brightly.
“Well, I’m not sure we can do that …” I eyed the deputy next to me. I had already changed my mind about the restrictions on me, feeling miserable that I couldn’t talk to Herb and Chuck. They had touched me with their efforts to be friendly. Our old grudges and battles seemed to have happened years ago.
“He can’t talk to anybody,” announced the deputy, twitching his neck in my direction. “He’s on restriction. No contact with the other principals.”
“Oh, I see,” said Herb with disappointment. I explained the special rules. Herb nodded and then put his hand on my shoulder. “Everything’s going to be fine,” he said sincerely. “Just fine. Don’t worry.”
“It doesn’t get any better, but you grow used to it,” added Chuck.
“Thanks, Chuck,” I said. “Thanks.” I felt gratitude welling up and I wanted to express it, but I had to keep a grip on myself. I thought about Chuck’s last remark. I was loaded down with sensations that were going to take a lot of getting used to. The smell of soured kitchen grease and body odor. The sight of the other principals wearing everything from Bermuda shorts to tailored suits. Thoughts about hoarding my phone calls. An anxiety which I couldn’t attach to anything except loss of freedom.
As the deputy and I returned to my room with dinner, we ran into Magruder.
“Welcome to the club, John,” Jeb said. “This place looks almost like the White House with all of us here.” He leaned over and whispered, “But we wouldn’t be here if we’d used a few of the guys here to pull off Watergate. They think we’re a bunch of amateurs, and they’re right. Talk to you later.”
“…You motherfucking, cocksucking two-cent bitch! You just wait till I get out of here! Nobody whores around on me with no goddam shit-ass greasers! I’m gonna shoot your ass full of holes and cram your tits down your fucking mouth!…”
It was one of the principals, a Mafia killer, yelling on the prison phone outside my door. I was lying in my bunk, my eyes were rolling around in my head. They felt as big as oranges.
“… What do you expect Richie to do, you stupid slut! He’s not gonna give you any dough! How do you think I feel! I’ve got a goddam fucking hundred-thousand-dollar contract out on me! I’m marked, baby, and so are you.…”
For all the rough language I had heard and used in my life, I was still stunned to hear a man talk that way to his wife. The Mafia men tended to have trouble with their “old ladies,” who were cut off from the normal financial support the syndicates provided. Holabird was indeed a special prison. It was full of “rats” in big cases. The authorities took elaborate precautions to keep their organized-crime witnesses from being hit in jail. The man on the phone was a tinderbox—friendly and humorous one moment, then suddenly maniacal. The deputies tried to keep him pumped full of tranquilizers.
Every sound in the hallway seemed amplified a thousand times, and my mind was racing. Howard Hunt’s money demands. My son. Counsel to the President. Nixon going to jail. When the tirade on the phone finally ended, the building quieted down. My ears were then assaulted by a constant squeaking. The deputy posted outside my door was rocking slowly in his chair. I was too intimidated to complain, and I tried to escape by thinking. Then I would see little sparks of light flying about on the inside of my eyelids. Nervous energy. I tried to drive thought from my mind so that I could sleep. When I did, the squeaking returned, as if the deputy’s chair were floating toward my head. My thoughts danced around to loud carousel music. The night inched by in a haze.
September 4, 1974
“How you doing?” Neal asked, smiling. “You surviving?”
“I’m okay,” I managed, bleary from the ordeal of the previous night. The marshals had returned me to Jim’s office.
“You don’t look so good,” he allowed. “Didn’t they treat you right up at Holabird?”
“Well, I’m a little shellshocked. Holabird’s no country club, but I’ll get used to it. The thing that unglued me yesterday was spending a couple of hours in the slammer down in the courthouse basement. I didn’t exactly feel like Jimmy Cagney.”
“In the slammer?” Jim exclaimed incredulously. “You’re kidding!” He was surprised, and I was surprised that he was surprised.
“No, I’m not kidding. Old Marshal McKinney made Bud and Terry parade me right up to the front door of the courthouse, where he had the press waiting for a big show.”
A thundercloud came across Jim’s face, and he lurched into his pace around the office.
“Goddammit,” he fumed. “This keeps happening. I’m going to have to knock those damn marshals’ heads together. First they threw Kalmbach in the county jail in Los Angeles! Then they put Magruder out in the Arlington County Jail—not that I really care where they put him—still, they did it, and now you. Goddammit, I’m gonna put a stop to this! I don’t want any of my witnesses in jail, ’cause it’s gonna rattle the shit out of all you guys! You’re not used to it. And until this trial is over I’m not gonna let you ge
t in those hellholes. You’ve got my word.”
“Thanks, Jim,” I sighed.
“All right. Now let’s get going on the witness book. We’ve got a long way to go to get you ready.”
September 7, 1974
“I used to have trouble reading the Scriptures, too. But I found something that helped me. Start with John in the New Testament. Don’t start with Genesis. And get yourself a modern version.” It was Chuck Colson talking religion late at night with the deputy outside my door. The deputy was an old man, a Southerner, and he was confiding in Chuck.
“Maybe that’ll help, Mr. Colson,” he said. “But I don’t know. I’m a good, God-fearing Christian, but I’ve never been able to read the Bible.”
“It’s hard to get started,” Chuck said gently. “It took me forty years. I’ll tell you what, though. You can come down to my room and read with me any time you want. Be glad to have you.”
“I might just do that, if you don’t mind.”
There was something real about the new Chuck Colson, I decided after a period of skepticism. He was different, but his faith did not erase his old zest or wit. “Sometimes I don’t think there’s much ministry for me to do in here,” he twinkled one night. “All these Mafia guys say they’re already good Catholics.”
September 8, 1974
“Boy, have I got some news, good and bad, for you,” announced Neal as he swaggered into my working office at the prosecutors’ office with Jill Vollner and Larry Iason on his heels. He was trying to look serious, but I saw salty mischief in his face.
“The good part first, please,” I said.
Neal put his hands behind his back, rocked in his shoes, looked up at the ceiling, pursed his lips, and then spoke like a town crier: “The former President of the United States, the Honorable Richard Nixon, has announced from San Clemente, California, that you—good ole John Dean—are responsible for the entire Watergate matter. Therefore, President Gerald Ford has seen fit to pardon him for all crimes he may have committed as chief of state.” Neal grinned.
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