Six Crises

by Richard Nixon

  He ducked out and closed the door, without waiting for me to reply. I was glad that he had come in. His devil-may-care attitude, so uncharacteristic of him, had broken the tension and given me a needed lift.

  I quickly jotted down the final notes, stuffed the five pages into my pocket, and went across the hall to pick up Pat. We walked down the hotel corridor to the elevator together. No one bothered us or spoke to us. It seemed like the last mile.

  I rode in the front seat of the car on the way to the studio so that I could look over my notes again. No one spoke during the twenty-minute ride. We arrived at the stage of the El Capitan Theater in Hollywood just twenty-five minutes before broadcast time. Only the cameramen and electricians were onstage. As I had instructed, the 750-seat theater was empty. The newsmen were in another room with television sets and a battery of shorthand stenographers who would record the text as delivered. I even asked Chotiner, Bill Rogers, and Hillings to leave the studio so that I would have no possible distractions.

  Ted Rogers, our television and radio producer, took me to a dressing room where a makeup man insisted on applying some beard-stick to cover my five-o’clock shadow even though I had shaved less than an hour before. Ted had wanted me to come to the studio earlier in the day for lighting tests but I told him that I simply couldn’t spare the time from the preparation of my remarks. He consequently had taken full responsibility for selecting the set and preparing for the program. He used a salesman who resembled me as a camera stand-in when I had declined to come to the studio for rehearsal.

  Ten minutes before air time he asked Pat and me to come to the set so that the lights could be adjusted. We sat onstage for less than five minutes while these last details were attended to. The director asked what movements I would be making and I told him, “I don’t have the slightest idea, just keep the camera on me.”

  We moved back into the dressing room and Pat and I sat there alone for the six or seven minutes which remained before air time. I tried to read my notes again but by now the tension was too great. It had been a rugged six days since we left Pomona on September 17 and I think that if I had received one more jolt, like Dewey’s phone call, in those few remaining minutes, I would have announced my resignation.

  Three minutes before air time, Ted Rogers knocked on the door of the dressing room. I turned to Pat and said, “I just don’t think I can go through with this one.”

  “Of course you can,” she said, with the firmness and confidence in her voice that I so desperately needed.

  We walked together with Ted Rogers to the set. Pat sat in one armchair and I sat behind a desk with the five pages of handwritten notes in front of me. The big clock alongside the camera showed less than two minutes to air time. I watched the second hand go round and then the director brought his hand down and pointed to me.

  This was it.

  I began to speak. “My fellow Americans, I come before you tonight as a candidate for the vice presidency and as a man whose honesty and integrity has been questioned.” As I spoke, all the tension suddenly went out of me. I felt in complete control of myself and of my material. I was calm and confident. Despite the lack of sleep or even of rest over the past six days, despite the abuse to which I had subjected my nerves and body—some way, somehow in a moment of great crisis a man calls up resources of physical, mental, and emotional power he never realized he had. This I was now able to do, because the hours and days of preparation had been for this one moment and I put into it everything I had. I knew what I wanted to say, and I said it from the heart.

  I am sure that you have read the charge, and you have heard it, that I, Senator Nixon, took $18,000 from a group of my supporters. Now, was that wrong? . . . It isn’t a question of whether it was legal or illegal, that isn’t enough. The question is, was it morally wrong? I say that it was morally wrong—if any of that $18,000 went to Senator Nixon, for my personal use. I say it was morally wrong if it was secretly given and secretly handled. And I say that it was morally wrong if any of the contributors got special favors for the contributions that they made. And now to answer those questions, let me say this: not one cent of the $18,000 or any other money of that type ever went to my personal use. Every penny of it was used to pay for political expenses that I did not think should be charged to the taxpayers of the United States.

  I went on to explain the fund and its uses as I had so many times before. After only a few minutes, I found that I was speaking without looking at my notes. I finished my direct defense of the fund by reading from the independent opinions of the auditing and legal firms:

  It is our conclusion that Senator Nixon did not obtain any financial gain from the collection and disbursement of the funds by Dana Smith; that Senator Nixon did not violate any federal or State law by reason of the operation of the fund; and that neither the portion of the fund paid by Dana Smith directly to third persons, nor the portion paid to Senator Nixon, to reimburse him for office expenses, constituted income in a sense which was either reportable or taxable as income under income tax laws.

  Then I turned to my second job—a disclosure of my entire financial history so as to discredit any future smears:

  There are some that will say, “Well, maybe you were able, Senator, to fake this thing. How can we believe what you say—after all, is there a possibility that maybe you got some sums in cash? Is there a possibility that you might have feathered your own nest?” And so now what I am going to do—and, incidentally, this is unprecedented in the history of American politics—I am going at this time to give to this television and radio audience a complete financial history, everything I have earned, everything I have spent, everything I own.

  I proceeded to do just that. I listed everything I owned:

  —a 1950 Oldsmobile car;

  —a $3000 equity in my house in California in which my parents were then living;

  —a $20,000 equity in my house in Washington;

  —$4000 in life insurance, plus a G. I. term policy which would expire in two years;

  —no stocks or bonds; no interest in any other property or business.

  I listed what I owed:

  —$10,000 on the California house;

  —$20,000 on the Washington house;

  —$4500 to the Riggs National Bank of Washington;

  —$3500 to my parents;

  —$500 on my life insurance.

  And then I wrapped up my financial accounting in this way:

  Well, that’s about it. That’s what we have. And that’s what we owe. It isn’t very much. But Pat and I have the satisfaction that every dime that we have got is honestly ours.

  I should say this, that Pat doesn’t have a mink coat. But she does have a respectable Republican cloth coat, and I always tell her that she would look good in anything.

  One other thing I probably should tell you, because if I don’t they will probably be saying this about me, too. We did get something, a gift, after the nomination. A man down in Texas heard Pat on the radio mention the fact that our two youngsters would like to have a dog and, believe it or not, the day before we left on this campaign trip we got a message from Union Station in Baltimore, saying they had a package for us. We went down to get it. You know what it was?

  It was a little cocker spaniel dog, in a crate that he had sent all the way from Texas—black and white, spotted, and our little girl Tricia, the six-year-old, named it Checkers. And you know, the kids, like all kids, loved the dog, and I just want to say this, right now, that regardless of what they say about it, we are going to keep it.

  It isn’t easy to come before a nationwide audience and bare your life, as I have done. But I want to say some things before I conclude, that I think most of you will agree on.

  Mr. Mitchell, the Chairman of the Democratic National Committee, made the statement that if a man couldn’t afford to be in the United States Senate, he shouldn’t run for the Senate. And I just want to make my position clear.

  I don’t agree with Mr. Mitchel
l when he says that only a rich man should serve the Government, in the United States Senate or in the Congress. I don’t think that represents the thinking of the Democratic Party, and I know it doesn’t represent the thinking of the Republican Party.

  I believe that it’s fine that a man like Governor Stevenson, who inherited a fortune from his father, can run for President. But I also feel that it is essential in this country of ours that a man of modest means can also run for President, because, you know—remember Abraham Lincoln, remember what he said—“God must have loved the common people, he made so many of them.”

  And then I went over to the counterattack. I referred to Stevenson’s fund and to the fact that Sparkman had his wife on the government payroll. And I issued this challenge:

  I would suggest that under the circumstances both Mr. Sparkman and Mr. Stevenson should come before the American people, as I have, and make a complete financial statement as to their financial history. And if they don’t it will be an admission that they have something to hide.

  With Stevenson and Sparkman thus disposed of, I rose from my chair and walked to the front of the desk, leaving my notes behind, and for the last ten minutes talked directly into the camera and into the homes of millions of Americans.

  I know that this is not the last of the smears. In spite of my explanation tonight, other smears will be made. Others have been made in the past. And the purpose of the smears, I know, is this: to silence me, to make me let up.

  Well, they just don’t know who they are dealing with . . . I intend to continue to fight.

  Why do I feel so deeply? Why do I feel that in spite of the smears, the misunderstandings, the necessity for a man to come up here and bare his soul, as I have—why is it necessary for me to continue this fight?

  . . . I think my country is in danger. And I think the only man who can save America at this time is the man that’s running for President, on my ticket, Dwight Eisenhower.

  You say, why do I think it is in danger? And I say, look at the record. Seven years of the Truman-Acheson Administration, and what’s happened? Six hundred million people lost to the Communists.

  And a war in Korea in which we have lost 117,000 American casualties, and I say to all of you that a policy that results in the loss of 600,000,000 people to the Communists and a war which costs us 117,000 American casualties isn’t good enough for America. And I say that those in the State Department who made the mistakes which caused that war and which resulted in those losses should be kicked out . . . just as fast as we can get them out of there.

  And let me say that I know Mr. Stevenson won’t do that, because he defends the Truman policy. But I know that Dwight Eisenhower will do that, and that he will give America the leadership that it needs.

  Take the problem of corruption. You have read about the mess in Washington. Mr. Stevenson can’t clean it up because he was picked by the man, Truman, under whose Administration the mess was made.

  . . . And so I say, Eisenhower, who owes nothing to Truman, nothing to the big-city bosses—he is the man who can clean up the mess in Washington.

  I had become so wrapped up in my subject that I did something I had never done before or since in making a television broadcast: I lost track of the time. The director began giving me the last-minute cutoff signal just as I was asking my listeners to send their telegrams and letters to the National Committee:

  And now, finally, I know that you wonder whether or not I am going to stay on the Republican ticket or resign. Let me say this: I don’t believe that I ought to quit, because I am not a quitter. And, incidentally, Pat is not a quitter. After all, her name was Patricia Ryan and she was born on Saint Patrick’s Day, and you know the Irish never quit.

  But the decision, my friends, is not mine. I would do nothing that would harm the possibilities of Dwight Eisenhower to become President of the United States. And for that reason I am submitting to the Republican National Committee tonight through this television broadcast the decision which it is theirs to make. Let them decide whether my position on the ticket will help or hurt. And I am going to ask you to help them decide. Wire and write the Republican National Committee whether you think I should stay on or whether I should get off. And whatever their decision is, I will abide by it.

  But just let me say this last word. Regardless of what happens, I am going to continue this fight. I am going to campaign up and down America until we drive the crooks and the Communists and those that defend them out of Washington. And remember, folks, Eisenhower is a great man. Folks, he is a great man, and a vote for Eisenhower is a vote for what is good for America.

  But now time had run out. I was cut off just as I intended to say where the National Committee was located and where the telegrams and letters should be sent. I was, in fact, still talking when the red camera light blinked off, leaving me in the middle of an unfinished thought. I stood there for another thirty seconds while the announcer took the program off the air. Finally, the ordeal was over.

  I walked over to the camera crews to thank them for their work. There were tears in the eyes of many. Pat Hillings and Bill Rogers rushed onto the set. I said, “I’m sorry I had to rush at the last, I didn’t give the National Committee address. I should have timed it better.” But from what they said and the expressions on their faces, I knew that at least as far as they were concerned, the broadcast had been a success. Pat and I moved back into the dressing room. The makeup man took off the beard-stick with a towel. As he did so, he commented, “That ought to fix them. There has never been a broadcast like it before.” Ted Rogers came hurrying down from the control room. “The telephone switchboard is lit up like a Christmas tree,” he said. We went out to our car and started out the driveway to the street. A dozen or so Young Republicans who had been there to greet us as we came in were shouting at the top of their voices as we left. As we turned the corner into the street, a big Irish setter came bounding up to the car wagging his tail. I turned to Pat and said, “Well at least we got the dog vote tonight,” and we had the first good laugh since leaving Pomona six days before.

  We talked about the broadcast as we rode back to the hotel. Pat was particularly pleased that I had not stayed on the defensive but had needled Stevenson and gotten in some good licks on the campaign issues. Everyone in the car insisted that the broadcast had been successful beyond expectations. But I was not sure. I knew that the approval of my supporters was not what counted. I wondered about the millions of listeners sitting in small groups in their living rooms across the country.

  In the hotel lobby, we began to get a partial answer to this question. The long lobby which had been so quiet when we left for the broadcast an hour and a half before was now filled with people. Some I knew, but the great majority were complete strangers. They literally mobbed us, pounding Pat and me on the back, shaking our hands, cheering, characterizing the broadcast as “great,” “magnificent,” and with other superlatives. It took us almost a half-hour to make our way through the crowds to our room. In my suite there was a whirlwind of joyous activity as my staff moved about receiving telephone calls and telling me of reactions to the speech.

  Approximately sixty million Americans saw or heard that radio-television speech, it was estimated, making it the largest audience in television history. That record lasted until 1960, when I appeared on radio-television again, in my “first debate” with John F. Kennedy.

  Wires and calls came in from friends and strangers, Democrats as well as Republicans. The hotel switchboard was jammed with incoming calls. When Jim Bassett reached the room, I asked him about the press reaction. It had been mixed, he reported. Many of the reporters felt put out because they did not have an advance text: some paid little attention to the telecast, waiting for the copies of the text being made for them by the stenographers. But Bassett made a perceptive comment at this point. He said, “What the reporters think about the content of the speech is not important now. That’s an old story anyway. The big story now is not the speech it
self but the public reaction to it and on that one we can’t help but win.”

  Because I had not given the address of the Republican National Committee in the telecast, there has never been an accurate count of the responses to it. Listeners wired and wrote to the Republican Committees in Washington and in their state capitals. They sent wires to me in Los Angeles, to Eisenhower in Cleveland (where he was that night), to his headquarters in Denver and New York, and to the stations to which they were listening. The response had been immediate. Thousands of people went out of their homes that night and lined up at Western Union offices. It was recorded as the greatest immediate response to any radio or television speech in history. The letters flowed in after the telegrams, and enough small contributions came in by letter and wire to more than cover the $75,000 cost of the telecast. The unofficial count was something between one and two million telegrams and letters containing more than three million names. The response overwhelmingly was “keep Nixon on the ticket.” The effect was to lift my name to national prominence and to give me a national political following which helped in the years ahead to give new stature to the office of Vice President.

  All this, of course, I did not know on the night of the broadcast. And as reactions poured in from Congressmen, Senators, and various Republican officials, it occurred to me that I now had heard everything except the verdict. There had been no word from Eisenhower. Jim Bassett brought the first word, a wire service report on Eisenhower’s reaction in Cleveland where he had listened to the broadcast.

  The General, Mrs. Eisenhower, and about thirty in his party watched the telecast from the manager’s office of the Cleveland Public Auditorium where Eisenhower was scheduled to address a rally after the telecast. The reaction in the room was overwhelmingly in my favor, I was to learn later. As Eisenhower walked from the office to the auditorium he remarked to Allan Lowe, the manager of the Cleveland Hotel, who was walking with him, “I would rather go down in defeat fighting with a brave man than to win with a bunch of cowards.”