by Jo Haldeman
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Howard Hunt pleads guilty, and two days later, McCord and Liddy are convicted of conspiracy, burglary, and wiretapping. When Judge Sirica says that there is still much that we don’t know about Watergate, I’m not sure what he means. With all that is going on right now, however, I don’t give it a second thought.
It’s overcast and windy on Inauguration Day, Saturday, January 20. As we did four years ago, everyone gets bundled up for a cold morning outside. Non and the children go in one direction; Bob and I, in the other. On the inaugural platform, the atmosphere is relaxed and friendly. We chat with some of the dignitaries and wave to others. It’s a familiar scene, and I enjoy myself.
Everything proceeds exactly on schedule. Looking presidential and proud, the president delivers his final inaugural address. “…We shall answer to God, to history, and to our conscience for the way in which we use these years.”
Once again, I’m aware of being a part of history on this special occasion. However, it’s different this time. I know Nixon is sincere, but for some reason his words don’t soar and sing as they did four years ago. I expect to catch a quotable line like, “Until he has been part of a cause larger than himself, no man is truly whole,” but there isn’t one. I miss the euphoric feeling that Bob and I experienced before, when we stood on the brink of the most thrilling adventure of our lives.
Following the swearing-in, Bob and I have lunch with Non and the children in Bob’s office. A steward from the White House Mess takes our order, and we eat at a small table that has been set up by the window.
Later, we attend the inaugural ball at the Kennedy Center. The music is loud, and the room is packed. I struggle to protect my black velvet ball gown from getting crushed, and Bob and I slip out early. When he climbs into bed, I ask him how he would describe this week of inaugural festivities.
“Flawless,” he says, turning off the light.
I am restless and can’t get to sleep. The execution may have been flawless…but the inauguration was missing something. What was it? It finally comes to me. The passion.
1,461 Days Left
On January 23, the president makes the announcement that everyone has been waiting to hear. In a brief statement at 10:00 p.m., he tells the world that a settlement has been reached in the Paris Peace Talks. In four days, a cease-fire will go into effect which will guarantee the return of our prisoners of war and the right for South Vietnam to determine its own future. Twenty-three years after the US first sent funding and military support to the French in Vietnam, this divisive war is over. The toll is great. So many lives lost, so many heartaches, so many tears. Now it’s over…
After the announcement, Bob’s mood is upbeat, and he is more relaxed than I’ve seen him since the election. He accompanies the Nixons to Florida for a long weekend of rest and relaxation. Peter, Ann, and I join him in Key Biscayne, where we attend a special service honoring the cease-fire on January 27. Seated in the local Presbyterian Church, I am overcome with emotion as the bells ring at exactly 7:00 p.m. (midnight Greenwich Mean Time), joyously proclaiming that the fighting has stopped. I feel so honored to be a part of this gathering at such a historically significant moment. There isn’t a dry eye when we stand and sing, “America the Beautiful.” At the end of the service, no one wants to leave. Sensing a special connection, we smile and warmly greet strangers as we walk out.
“It was neat to see the president so happy,” Bob says, opening the car door for me. “His only regret was that he wasn’t able to share this moment with LBJ.” Former president Lyndon Baines Johnson passed away five days ago.
The next morning, while the children study inside the villa, Bob and Larry work on the porch. Instead of unwinding and enjoying this moment in the sun, Bob is berating Larry over details related to the reorganization. As I lie on the beach in front of them, I can’t help but overhear his sharp words. I wince.
Later, when I run into Larry in the downstairs hallway, I decide to tell him frankly what’s on my mind. I’ve never done that before.
“I’m sorry Bob’s being so rough on you, Larry. As we both know, he probably doesn’t even realize how cutting his remarks are.”
“Don’t worry, Jo. I’m used to it, and I don’t let it get to me.” Larry smiles and seems to be at ease.
“I think he’s critical because you’re so capable,” I continue. “He has such high expectations, and he knows that he can depend on you. He’s just impatient to get things done…hang in there.”
“I will,” Larry assures me. “Bob’s an incredible guy to work for, and I have the highest respect for him.”
Before we leave Key Biscayne, Bob shows me a special calendar that the president plans to give to the members of his cabinet. It’s a countdown from January 20, 1973, to January 20, 1977, four years from now. Each date includes the corresponding number of days remaining in the Nixon presidency. The inscription inside the handsome leather cover reads, in part:
Every moment of history is a fleeting time, precious and unique. The Presidential term, which begins today, consists of 1,461 days…no more and no less. Each can be a day of strengthening and renewal for America, each can add depth and dimension to the American experience…
Although there has been a turnover in the staff for this second term, Bob seems entrenched in his position as chief of staff. One thousand, four hundred, sixty-one days remain. It seems like a very long time.
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On January 30, Dwight Chapin resigns from the White House. Although he has accepted the position of director of market planning for United Airlines, it must be a difficult transition after serving as deputy assistant to the president of the United States. I think of him and his family all day. It’s hard to face Bob this evening when he comes home. He never mentions the resignation.
Time magazine, April 30, 1973.
Part Three
Watergate
What’s Going to Happen, Will Happen
February 1973
In three weeks we will move, and my big concern is the lack of space in the townhouse. Our downstairs playroom overflows with bric-a-brac to give away. A few items have been put aside to donate to Ann’s school fair, and a junk dealer will pick up what’s left.
Although news of Watergate investigations continues, I have not seen Bob’s name in the paper for three months, and I hope that, with our new home and the beginning of Nixon’s second term, we are off on a fresh start.
On February 7, the Senate approves the creation of a seven-member committee to probe the Watergate allegations and report back to the full Senate within the year. It will be headed by Senator Sam Ervin.
The next morning is dark and stormy, and our dining room is dreary. Bob flicks on the lights as I bring in the coffee and fresh orange juice. He takes one slice of buttered graham toast, and it’s a bran muffin for me.
“Jeez,” Bob says under his breath. Holding up the front page of The Washington Post, he points to his picture in the center of the page. I stand motionless. The headline reads, “Senate Votes Watergate Probe,” and I wonder why Bob’s picture is there. A feeling of exasperation sweeps over me. After all that time, why now?
“Well, it looks like Woodward and Bernstein are back at it,” Bob says. “They’ve managed to tie me into their latest story.” Spreading the paper out in front of him, he continues. “According to them, sources say that I ‘actively assisted in efforts to get the Senate to shift the focus of the investigations away from the widespread allegations of a White House-led campaign of spying and sabotage in 1972.’”
Bob looks down and skims over the article.
“Is there more?” I hesitate to ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m mentioned again. They say Senator Ervin intends to probe into charges beyond the Watergate bugging, including Segretti’s activities. According to them, my assistant Gordon Strachan gave Segretti’s name and telephone
number to Liddy.”
Outside, the sky is black, and the rain is coming down in wild gushes. The bleak weather provides the perfect backdrop for the drama unfolding inside.
Bob continues, “The committee might call on White House aides to testify, and Ziegler says that the administration will cooperate if the investigation is handled in a nonpartisan way.”
My head jerks up. “Does that mean that you will have to testify?”
“I’m not sure.” Bob folds the paper back up. “It depends on whether or not we are covered by executive privilege.”
The panes of the bay window rattle as rain splatters against them. Glancing at his watch, Bob hurriedly pushes back his chair and stands. It’s late, and we don’t have Bertha to shout from the kitchen when the White House car arrives. The two of us rush out to the front hall, where he struggles to put on his raincoat. His left arm gets tangled in the sleeve, and I help him straighten it out.
Pausing at the front door to put up his umbrella, Bob turns to me. “No use worrying, Jo. What’s going to happen, will happen.” His voice is low and resigned.
What’s going to happen, will happen. The words stay with me throughout the day. I’m still turning them over in my mind when Ray, the used furniture dealer, loads my giveaways into his truck. For a fleeting moment, I wonder why we’re making this move. Newsweek is right when it describes Watergate as, “that great gummy fungus that refuses to curl up and die.”
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The “gummy fungus” continues to spread, and the stories about Bob keep coming. On February 13, his name appears on the front page of The Evening Star. In an article titled, “Top Nixon Bodyguard Ousted by Haldeman,” White House correspondent Helen Thomas writes that the chief of the White House Secret Service was fired, following a rift with Presidential Assistant H. R. Haldeman.
A subsequent article in Newsweek gives more details. At a campaign rally last summer, Robert Taylor of the Secret Service threatened to arrest Bob when he tried to lower a restraining rope to make the president more accessible. Taylor was replaced, and his supporters called his removal, “Haldeman’s revenge.”
In an emotional scene on Valentine’s Day, twenty former POWs return to the US after years of captivity. Watching on TV, I cry as Commander Jeremiah Denton steps onto American soil and states publically, “We are honored to have had the opportunity to serve our country under difficult circumstances. We are profoundly grateful to our commander in chief and to our nation for this day. God bless America.”
Although Bob is gone the first three weekends in February, he helps with the move when he can. He makes occasional runs to Georgetown with the car full of paintings, lampshades, and breakables, and he draws a grid of our attic to maximize its storage space. By numbering our packing cartons and designating them to correspondingly numbered places in the attic, he assures me that I will know exactly where everything is.
Thursday, February 22, is moving day. The bitter cold and the dark storm clouds don’t seem to faze the movers. Working fast and furiously, they get the job done before it starts to pour. Jeanne Ehrlichman and Nancy Ziegler drop by to see our new home and volunteer to make up the beds.
The townhouse has three stories, and we make use of every inch of space. Peter’s bedroom is on the first floor and looks out on the street. It has a brick fireplace in the corner and is roomy enough for him to set up a small indoor hothouse, which was a Christmas present from my parents several years ago. He tells us that he wants to grow wax begonias.
The living room, kitchen, and dining room are on the second floor. On the third level, there are three bedrooms. The master bedroom is the largest, and I claim the walk-in closet with a window overlooking R Street as my dressing room/office. Ann plasters the walls of her room with posters of African animals and baby seals. She puts her parakeet’s cage near the window so Amos can talk to the birds outside in the cherry tree. Bob uses the third bedroom as his office. In the attic, the movers arrange the boxes according to Bob’s grid.
After the peace and quiet of the suburbs, I’m surprised that our family has no trouble adjusting to the activity and noise of city life. There’s a constant stream of traffic on R Street, enhanced by police sirens and the wailing cry of ambulances. Western High School is a block away, and groups of boisterous students pass by our house every morning and afternoon.
Bob leaves for the White House fifteen minutes later than he did in Kenwood, and he only has to take three steps to get from our front door to the curb. To get to school, Peter and Ann have a two-block walk to Wisconsin Avenue and a short bus ride. With Montrose Park, Dumbarton Oaks, a Safeway, a delicatessen, and several restaurants nearby, there’s not much need for a car.
It’s wonderful to have Bob home with us for our first weekend in Georgetown. But when I hear that John Ehrlichman is at Camp David with the president, I am apprehensive. Why isn’t Bob with them?
On Sunday, February 25, Jack Anderson writes an article for The Washington Post titled, “Backstage With H. R. Haldeman.”
The man who manipulates the backstage wires at the White House, H. R. Haldeman, is becoming entangled in his own cross wires. Specifically, the Watergate case. Haldeman takes his orders, of course, from President Nixon… Haldeman exercises his power from behind the scenes, carefully staying in the darkest part of the president’s shadow… Senate investigators and FBI agents alike have followed the Watergate tracks right up to Haldeman’s door, but can’t get past his bright, young assistants.
Anderson cites Dwight Chapin, Jeb Magruder, and Gordon Strachan as being completely loyal to Bob, but they have ties to either Segretti or Liddy. He quotes a former White House aide as saying, “Haldeman is completely pragmatic. There is absolutely no idealism in this man’s soul.” Another aide is quoted, “Haldeman looks like a boy scout, but he’s a pirate.” “But,” Anderson writes, “all agree that Haldeman subordinates himself for what he considers to be the good of Richard Nixon.”
Chip, Chip, Chip
March 1973
After living in Georgetown for several weeks, I fall into a pleasant routine. I meet friends for lunch, play tennis, drive Ann out to Potomac for her weekly riding lessons, walk the pugs, and volunteer at the City Hall Complaint Center. Occasionally, Bob takes a break in the afternoon, and I meet him and the Higbys for tennis on the White House court. At night, we attend functions at the White House, as well as the State Department. At the annual Gridiron Club dinner, the press roasts the administration, and Bob reports that most of the jokes were about Watergate.
As the war winds down, the last American killed in the fighting is buried at Arlington National Cemetery. In his message to Congress, the president requests tax relief for the elderly, help for parents with children in private schools, compulsory health insurance, and better legal services for the poor. Occupying Wounded Knee, South Dakota, two hundred members of the Oglala Sioux Tribe demand a Senate inquiry into the government’s treatment of them. In New York City, a pornographic movie titled Deep Throat is ruled obscene.
The Senate Judiciary Committee holds hearings on the confirmation of L. Patrick Gray as director of the FBI. While being interrogated, Gray admits that John Dean sat in on FBI questioning during the Watergate investigation and that he gave Dean raw FBI files. Because of his ties to Howard Hunt, Chuck Colson resigns from the White House and returns to his private law practice.
The stain of Watergate keeps spreading, and when I see a close-up of Bob’s face on the March 19 cover of Newsweek, I shudder. With steely, gray-green eyes, he’s intently staring straight ahead. A diagonal, red banner at the top says, “Nixon’s Palace Guard.” I knew that Bob had been interviewed for the story, but I had no idea he would be so prominently featured. Five full pages are devoted exclusively to him, describing him as, “glowering out at the world from under a crew cut that would freeze Medusa… His admirers, who include most of the people who really matter in Richard Nixon�
�s government, regard him as a genius at a thankless trade—probably one of the best ever.”
The article is a mixture of good and bad. It opens with, “Harry Robbins Haldeman is, as he once cheerfully put it, Richard Nixon’s son of a bitch,” and concludes, “Mr. Nixon needs a Haldeman and without him would have to produce another… The hardest judgment of Haldeman is that he is sometimes loyal to a fault. ‘He’s earned every enemy he’s got,’ says one of them, a Republican congressman. ‘I’d say he’s a good man to have on your side.’”
I’m caught off guard when I read, “[Haldeman] would no doubt even leave Mr. Nixon if leaving would serve his interests—if, say—the Watergate imbroglio someday demanded another sacrifice and Haldeman happened to be in the line of fire.”
Bob leave the White House? I don’t know why Newsweek would even suggest such a thing. Is this really a possibility? It would be devastating for Bob. What would he do if he couldn’t serve his president? And what would his staff and the president do without him?
Chip, chip, chip. The press is subtly chipping away at Bob’s image. They want to bring him down. Patrick Anderson summed it up perfectly: “A president’s aide can attain power and glory, but the power is precarious, and the glory may become tinged with notoriety, for there are many dangers inherent in his position.”
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At a press conference, Nixon warns North Vietnam that there will be serious consequences if its troops continue to infiltrate South Vietnam. Although the cease-fire is in place, both North Vietnam and South Vietnam have violated it. In answer to questions about Watergate, the president states that no one in the White House was involved in the break-in. He has told his staff to cooperate with the Senate Select Committee on Presidential Campaign Activities by submitting their sworn statements in writing. They will not have to appear in person.