RN

by Richard Nixon

  Petersen said that Gray was going to accuse Ehrlichman and Dean of instructing him to destroy the papers, vowing that he had done it only because he had confidence in them. I was outraged. I knew from the genuine panic I had watched spread across Ehrlichman’s face when he talked to Gray on the phone that he had never ordered such a thing. I said that Petersen must tell Gray that he could not solve this problem with another lie. I asked that he and Kleindienst meet and give me a recommendation about what I should do in this situation.

  Ehrlichman wanted the White House to put out a statement saying that the story was not true. When I called Ziegler in and told him this, he said that he thought Ehrlichman should put the statement out in his own name. He was right: eventually these would all be testimonial areas, and we could not be in the position of vouching for one side over the other.

  “You must take a leave,” I told Haldeman and Ehrlichman. I said that they should prepare letters requesting leaves of absence by Saturday. I said that Haldeman and Ehrlichman should go first, so that it would be clear that they were not being forced to go as Dean would be.

  At 7:28 that night the Post called with another story: “sources” said that Haldeman and Ehrlichman had been told by Dean on March 20 that “the jig is up” and that they should be prepared to go to jail. The story was not true, but there was no way to fight Dean’s guerrilla tactics. The stories revealing that Gray had destroyed documents also indicated that among these materials was a forged cable implicating President Kennedy in the Diem assassination. This had evidently come from Dean, who apparently had seen the material before giving it to Gray.

  By the next morning, April 27, two new stories had surfaced about Ehrlichman on subjects unrelated to Watergate. The items were scurrilously false, and Ehrlichman tried valiantly to combat their effect on public opinion.

  I flew to Mississippi that morning for a ceremony dedicating a naval training center being named in honor of John Stennis. I invited Stennis to come with me on Air Force One. On the way down, as we sat alone in my cabin, this old friend said that he wanted to give me some advice. “The time is now,” he said. “We say down in our country that the rain falls on the just and the unjust. Time is running out.”

  When Stennis introduced me to the enthusiastic crowd at the dedication, he addressed me directly: “You do not panic when the going gets tough. I believe you have what it takes to tough it through. We admire that.”

  Pat Gray called while we were in Mississippi to say that he had decided to resign. William Ruckelshaus, head of the Environmental Protection Agency, agreed to take over Gray’s post temporarily.

  I asked Ehrlichman to make up a list for me of all the national-security-related activities that he thought Dean might be able to expose. On the plane on the way back to Washington he went over three of them with me: Ellsberg, the 1969 wiretaps, and the yeoman episode during the Indo-Pakistan war. Ehrlichman was not sure what else there might be, because Dean’s access to the files had been almost unlimited.

  Ziegler came into my cabin to report that the Washington Post had a new story from “reliable sources” to the effect that “someone” had talked to the prosecutors and had implicated me directly in the cover-up. When we got to Washington, the New York Times had called with information that Dean was implicating me. Later the Los Angeles Times would call to get a comment on the same report.

  I called Henry Petersen and asked him to come over. It was an emotional session. I demanded to know if the stories were true: had Dean implicated me? Petersen went out to check with his office, and a few minutes later he came back and said that the stories were not true. He said that earlier in the week Dean’s lawyer had said, “We’ll bring the President in—not on this case but in other areas.” At the time the prosecutors had thought that this was just bombast and posturing as a part of the effort to gain immunity for Dean. And indeed, they had not yet produced any evidence implicating me. I called Ziegler in and told him that the story had to be killed immediately.

  Before Petersen left, he said that he would like to recommend that I move on Dean now. He thought that the added pressure from me would be better for the government’s position against him. And he urged once more that Haldeman and Ehrlichman also leave.

  When Haldeman came in later, he told me that his lawyers felt that he and Ehrlichman were being taken advantage of because they were loyal and Dean was not. “They think Petersen and Dean are playing you.”

  I said that our plan should be that he and Ehrlichman would take leaves of absence beginning Sunday, or even Saturday. On Monday I would inform Dean that he was being fired. I asked that Ray Price begin preparing a speech for me, leaving open whether I would be announcing leaves of absence or actual resignations.

  HALDEMAN AND EHRLICHMAN RESIGN

  On Friday night, April 27, I flew to Camp David. On Saturday morning an early fog settled over the valley. I had breakfast on the porch and then went to the small library to work. About ten o’clock I walked into the living room looking for Manolo and a cup of coffee. I was startled to see the fire blazing and Tricia sitting on the couch in front of it.

  She said that she had been awake all night talking with Julie and David about Watergate and the decisions that had to be made. They had talked with Pat for a long time early in the morning, and they wanted me to know that they all agreed that there was no choice but to have Haldeman and Ehrlichman resign. The attacks on them had destroyed their ability to serve in their high positions. “I want you to know that I would never allow any personal feeling about either of them to interfere with my judgment,” she said. “You know I never felt that the way they handled people served you well—but I promise you that I made my decision carefully and objectively.”

  Tears brimmed in her eyes; but, unlike Julie, Tricia would seldom allow them to overflow. “I am speaking for Julie, David, and Mama as well,” she said. “That is our opinion. But we also want you to know that we have complete confidence in you. If you decide not to take our advice, we will understand. Whatever you do, just remember we will support you, and we love you very much.”

  I asked her if she would like to stay with me through the day, but she said she knew it would be better if she went back. I hugged her, and she was gone.

  Bill Rogers arrived at 11:30 and argued strongly that leaves of absence were no longer a viable answer—resignation was now the only choice. I valued his opinion because I had learned over the years that he had excellent political as well as legal judgment and that as a loyal friend he would tell me what I needed to hear and not just what I might want to hear. I told him I had come to the same conclusion. Otherwise we were just setting ourselves up for an even messier and more painful separation later on.

  I asked him if he would convey this to Haldeman and Ehrlichman for me. He said that he did not think his relationship with them was good enough to do that—nor even objective enough, as mine had been with Adams. There had been some bitterness between them after the election during the reorganization, and he was concerned that they might feel that he was bringing personal feelings to the task.

  That evening Ehrlichman called me. He was cordial but bluntly direct. He told me that he thought I should recognize the reality of my own responsibility. He said that all the illegal acts ultimately derived from me, whether directly or indirectly. He implied that I was the inspiration behind them and mentioned such things as the forged Diem cable. He also implied, I thought, that I should resign.

  I was sitting in the living room after his call when Ziegler came in. He had just learned that the next morning’s Washington Post had a story from “reliable sources” that Dean had evidence to prove that he was under the direction of Haldeman and Ehrlichman when he engaged in a cover-up and that he also had knowledge of “illegal activities” going back to 1969.

  I asked Ziegler if he would call Colson for me and find out what had happened on the Diem cable. He came back a few minutes later and said that Colson had sworn that he himself had not known abou
t the forgery. “The President,” Colson had added, “knew zero.”

  Early on Sunday morning I called Haldeman and asked if he would come up to Camp David. He said that he would, and so would Ehrlichman—but that they would like to have separate meetings with me. I knew then that he realized what I was going to say. I knew that he realized we had reached the end.

  Haldeman arrived in the early afternoon. We walked to the windows and haltingly attempted small talk. The fog and clouds had lifted by then, revealing the layers of green spring trees covering the mountainside.

  Then I said that I believed resignation was the right course for him. I said this was the hardest decision I had ever made. I meant it. He knew that I rarely spoke about religion, and I thought he looked somewhat surprised when I told him that from my first day as President on January 20, 1969, I followed my mother’s custom of getting down on my knees every night and praying silently for those in my administration who were going through difficult times, but most of all for guidance that I would do what was right the next day in meeting my responsibilities. I told him that when I went to bed last night I had hoped, and almost prayed, that I wouldn’t wake up this morning.

  I said that I knew this wasn’t fair, but I saw no other way. I told him I felt enormous guilt. I knew that the responsibility, and much of the blame for what had happened, rested with me. I had put Mitchell in his position, and Colson’s activities were in many cases prompted by my prodding.

  Even at this moment Haldeman’s effort was to reassure me. He was proud and secure. He said that he accepted this decision even though he did not agree with it, and that I must always feel I could call on him. “What you have to remember,” he said, “is that nothing that has happened in the Watergate mess has changed your mandate in the non-Watergate areas. That is what matters. That is what you do best.” He said that he would go to another cabin and write his letter of resignation.

  After he left I walked out onto the porch and was standing there looking down into the valley when Ehrlichman arrived. I shook hands with him and said, “I know what a terribly difficult day this is for you. I am sure you realize what a difficult day it is for me.” When I told him about my feelings the night before, he put his arm around my shoulders and said, “Don’t talk that way. Don’t think that way.”

  Back in the sitting room I told him that I wanted to be as helpful in any way that I could, including assistance with the great financial burden I knew he would now be carrying, not only because of the need to support his family but because of the mounting attorneys’ fees.

  His mouth tightened and he said quickly, “There is only one thing I would like for you to do. I would like for you to explain this to my children.”

  With controlled bitterness he said that the decision I had made was wrong and that I would live to regret it. “I have no choice but to accept it, and I will,” he said. “But I still feel I have done nothing that was without your implied or direct approval.”

  “You have always been the conscience of the administration,” I said. “You were always for the cleanest way through things.”

  “If I was the conscience, then I haven’t been very effective,” he said.

  Later that afternoon I had Kleindienst come up to see me. We both knew that his situation at the Justice Department had become intolerable. His close association with Mitchell now made it impossible for him to stay on. He had been the publicist of what he sincerely believed to have been the “greatest investigation since the Kennedy assassination,” and it had blown up in his face. We agreed that he should resign and be replaced by Elliot Richardson, who was then Secretary of Defense. I deeply regret now that Kleindienst’s departure was timed to coincide with the others; it falsely conveyed the impression that he was somehow involved in Watergate.

  After Kleindienst left I stood for a few minutes waiting for Haldeman and Ehrlichman to return with their letters, looking out the picture window and watching the day darken into evening. Ziegler was standing silently near the couch behind me.

  “It’s all over, Ron, do you know that?”

  “No, sir,” he said. He thought that I was referring only to the terrible events of the past few days and hours.

  “Well, it is. It’s all over,” I repeated.

  When Haldeman and Ehrlichman returned, they showed their letters to me and to Bill Rogers, who had now joined us. Ehrlichman asked me to use the specific sentence, “John Dean has been fired,” in my television speech. I knew how he felt. Ehrlichman had been loyal and would defend me and our administration. Dean was disloyal and would look out only for himself. By allowing Dean to “resign” I would be forcing Haldeman and Ehrlichman to share the same public disrepute as their accuser.

  We walked out to their car. They said bolstering things like, “Get up for your speech tomorrow night.”

  “I wish I were as strong as you,” I said. “God bless you both.” The car drove away.

  They had been my closest aides. They were my friends. I tried to make it up to them the next night by saying in my speech what I deeply believed: “Today, in one of the most difficult decisions of my presidency, I accepted the resignations of two of my closest associates in the White House—Bob Haldeman, John Ehrlichman—two of the finest public servants it has been my privilege to know.”

  They deserved the best possible chance to save themselves, and in asking them to leave I had ensured that they would never be able to prove that their motives had been innocent. I had done what I felt was necessary, but not what I believed was right. I had always prided myself on the fact that I stood by people who were down. Now I had sacrificed, for myself, two people to whom I owed so much.

  I stayed at Camp David to work with Ray Price on the final draft of the speech I was to deliver the next night, Monday, April 30. As I handed him the draft, I said, “Ray, you are the most honest, cool, objective man I know. If you feel that I should resign, I am ready to do so. You won’t have to tell me. You should just put it in the next draft.”

  He said that I should not resign, that I had a duty to complete the job I had been elected to do. He said he knew how heartbreaking my decision on Haldeman and Ehrlichman had been, but he tried to ease it for me by saying that I had done what I had to do.

  I felt as if I had cut off one arm and then the other. The amputation may have been necessary for even a chance at survival, but what I had had to do left me so anguished and saddened that from that day on the presidency lost all joy for me.

  My speech on April 30, 1973, was the first time I formally addressed the American people specifically on Watergate. All that most people understood of the complex situation that had precipitated the speech was that my two closest aides were being accused of participation in the Watergate cover-up, while one of my best friends, my former Attorney General, was being accused of having ordered the break-in and bugging.

  No matter how much we protested to the contrary, as soon as Haldeman and Ehrlichman resigned, people assumed it was because they were, at least to some extent, guilty of the charges against them. The spotlight automatically turned next to me: people were waiting for a yes or no answer to the question of whether I was also involved in Watergate. That was what they looked for from my April 30 speech. I made the decision of how I would answer this question less on the basis of logical calculation than on political instinct. I made it without stopping to realize that this speech would be a major turning point and that my answer, once given, would have to see me through whatever lay ahead.

  I believe that a totally honest answer would have been neither a simple yes or no.

  If I had given the true answer, I would have had to say that without fully realizing the implications of my actions I had become deeply entangled in the complicated mesh of decisions, inactions, misunderstandings, and conflicting motivations that comprised the Watergate cover-up; I would have had to admit that I still did not know the whole story and therefore did not know the full extent of my involvement in it; and I would have had to
give the damaging specifics of what I did know while leaving open the possibility that much more might come out later.

  I sensed that the inept way we had handled Watergate so far had put us so much on the defensive that there would have been no tolerance for such a complicated explanation from me at this late date. And the instincts of twenty-five years in politics told me that I was up against no ordinary opposition. In this second term I had thrown down a gauntlet to Congress, the bureaucracy, the media, and the Washington establishment and challenged them to engage in epic battle. We had already skirmished over the limitations of prerogative and power represented in confirmation of appointments, the impoundment of funds, and the battle of the budget. Now, suddenly, Watergate had exposed a cavernous weakness in my ranks, and I felt that if in this speech I admitted any vulnerabilities, my opponents would savage me with them. I feared that any admissions I made would be used to keep the Watergate issue—and the issue of my behavior in office—festering during the rest of my term, thereby making it impossible for me to exert presidential leadership.

  Given this situation and given this choice—given my belief that these were the stakes—I decided to answer no to the question whether I was also involved in Watergate.

  I hoped that, after the agony of the past weeks, a firm statement of my innocence, accompanied by the symbolic cleansing of the administration with the departure of Haldeman, Ehrlichman, and Dean and followed by an active rebuilding with new people along open lines, would convince people that the various Watergate probes could and should be brought to a quick conclusion. I was counting on the polls, which showed that the majority of people, even some of the 40 percent who already thought I knew of the break-in in advance, still agreed with me that the whole thing was “just politics.” I knew I was good at being President, at the really important things, and I was counting on people to become impatient with Watergate and exert pressure on Congress and the media to move on to something else and to get back to the things that mattered. I actually hoped that this speech would at last and once and for all put Watergate behind me as a nagging national issue. I could not have made a more disastrous miscalculation.