The Wars of Watergate (49 page)

“There are no sacred cows,” the President remarked in an interview published just after his re-election. “We will tear up the pea patch.” On
November 8, one day after the election, the President assembled the White House staff and Cabinet, thanked them for their efforts, said (again) “there would be no sacred cows,” and talked vaguely about new directions and goals for a second term—reiterating that his government would not consist of “exhausted volcanoes.” Thereupon, he left the room, turning the meeting over to Haldeman, who promptly demanded everyone’s resignation. The intention was clear: there would be new directions and new managers, ones who would swear fealty to Richard Nixon. The program was summed up by a White House adviser active in what he called the “plot” to advance the administrative presidency and the President’s power: the new team was “to take on the Congress and take over the bureaucracy.”

The taste of triumph quickly soured for the Administration’s celebrants and stalwarts as they contemplated the President’s wholesale demands for resignation. The record showed one significant area of resistance. Richard Helms told his CIA deputy, Vernon Walters, that they would not submit the usual post-election courtesy resignations. Alexander Haig had assured Helms that he could continue for another year, until he reached retirement age. But Helms was forced to resign in late November and received the dubious prize of the ambassadorship to Iran. It was a time of revenge for the victorious President.
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The President’s desire for loyal subordinates reflected his conviction that executive officers in each agency must respond to his focused policy concerns rather than conforming to the agency’s inertia or its interest in aggrandizing its own power. As the second term approached, Nixon sensed that after four years, the more things had changed, the more they had remained the same. Congress, the bureaucracy, and the media, as always, “worked in concert to maintain the ideas and ideology of the traditional Eastern liberal establishment” that had animated the New Deal and the Kennedy-Johnson years. Just as he had in his 1968 campaign, he ignored or sought to bypass Congress to forge an alliance between himself and the New American Majority—his new label for the hitherto Silent Majority. Nixon was prepared to reform, replace, or circumvent institutions that had become “paralyzed by self-doubt.” Government, like so much of American life, he believed, had become infected with a “fashionable negativism” and “underlying loss of will.” Now, he would lead; he would “provide America with a positive and … inspirational example of leadership that would be … an impetus for a new rebirth of optimism.” He told Haldeman that he was “going to wear the flag, come hell or high water.”
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Charles Colson knew exactly what the President wanted. Just after the election, he forwarded private correspondence of Solicitor General Erwin Griswold to Ehrlichman to prove that Griswold “belongs in his overdue retirement.” Colson also recruited New York labor leader Peter Brennan for the post of Secretary of Labor. In a three-hour meeting he “clarified” matters
for Brennan. Colson warned him that he might have to defend Administration policies, in opposition to organized labor. Brennan assured Colson he would be a “team player” and would abide by Administration decisions. Colson “explained” the “pre-eminent” role of Teamsters’ Union President Frank Fitzsimmons, implying that “Fitz” was not to have any trouble. Colson then told Brennan just who was in charge of the Labor Department: the President would appoint the Under Secretary and Assistant Secretary, and Brennan would clean out “holdovers, enemy bureaucrats and deadwood, replacing them with loyalists.” Colson reported that Brennan, a Bronx Democrat, wanted to help the Republicans gain labor’s “permanent allegiance.”
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Ehrlichman’s office offered some shrewd advice early in 1973 for reducing confrontational politics with Congress, quite in contrast to the long-prevailing style of the Nixon Administration. The basic strategy, it was argued, should be to “deinstitutionalize” conflicts and instead present them as confrontations between the President—elected as he was by over 60 percent of those voting—and the New Minority, deeply entrenched in Congress, the media, and the academic world. This so-called New Minority represented interests quite alien to those of Richard Nixon’s New Majority and easily could be identified with those who served unlikable special interests—such as Senator Edward Kennedy on labor policies; Senator William Proxmire on banking affairs; Senators J. William Fulbright and Frank Church on dovish peace and defense policies; the broadcast networks and their personalities, including Walter Cronkite, Roger Mudd, Dan Rather, and John Chancellor; the
New York Times
and the
Washington Post
; the liberal foundations; and those with no “fixed address,” such as Ramsey Clark.

The document marked a significant maturation from the reflexive anti-congressional statements of the 1970 campaign and the crude, even boorish concept of “enemies lists.” What it also represented was a recognition that the Administration had to respect and bargain with Congress. The Democrats remained in solid control; Republicans, meanwhile, were none too happy with Nixon’s preoccupation with swelling his 1972 vote totals while failing to seriously contest more congressional races.
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Nixon told Haldeman shortly after the election that Congress would be “mean and testy,” but he would keep it “off balance” by shifting personnel in and out of the White House and the executive agencies. The President later rationalized his action in poker terms, a metaphor much to his liking. He thought that the Democrats had “all four aces” in Washington: Congress, the bureaucracy, the media, and the lawyers and lobbyists. He was determined to keep the “fifth ace” for himself in the form of a vigorous opposition party.
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In an August 3, 1972, meeting with John Ehrlichman, the President talked of gaining control with new appointments in such areas as the Treasury, Internal Revenue Service, and Federal Bureau of Investigation. Nixon wanted
all appointed Treasury officials, including the Commissioner of Internal Revenue, dismissed after the election and a Nixon loyalist installed as deputy to Treasury Secretary George Shultz.

The IRS post particularly interested Nixon. It was another “sore” he rubbed because he believed that the agency had harassed his family and friends. Repeatedly, he insisted to his aides that he wanted a Commissioner to faithfully do his bidding. In a “talking paper” prepared for the President’s meeting with George Webster, a prospective IRS Commissioner, Nixon indicated that the post was “one of the most sensitive” jobs in government, and he expected Webster “to track” with Shultz on day-to-day matters and with Ehrlichman “on matters of political significance and sensitivity.” The President also was to tell Webster to clean out entrenched “deadwood,” and that he was to work with White House aides on this matter. At the last moment, however, Nixon chose not to tender the position.
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Richard Kleindienst’s direction of the Department of Justice left the President annoyed and disenchanted—“RNK is a total waste,” he told Haldeman a week after the election. A few days later, he instructed the Chief of Staff to call Mitchell and have him secure Kleindienst’s resignation. But Mitchell reported back that the Senate Judiciary Committee leaders (and Nixon supporters), James Eastland and Roman Hruska, had advised the President to wait until “the situation was cleaned up”—presumably a reference to Watergate. Nixon then called in Kleindienst. They discussed wholesale dismissals of the Attorney General’s subordinates, but Nixon insisted that the Criminal Division head, Henry Petersen, be “an exception.” Still, the President maintained an ill-disguised contempt for his Attorney General, complaining that he had become “a creature of the department” and would not make satisfactory personnel changes. The Watergate affair may have forced Nixon to retain Kleindienst, yet he urged Ehrlichman and Dean to superintend Justice Department matters.
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The position of FBI Director figured prominently in the President’s poker game. Few positions fascinated him and occupied his attention more, given his experience with the power and ways of J. Edgar Hoover. At a November 14, 1972, meeting, Haldeman, Ehrlichman, and the President discussed the possibility of appointing Washington, D.C., Chief of Police Jerry Wilson to head the Bureau and moving Acting Director L. Patrick Gray to the State Department as Under Secretary of State. Egii Krogh was also suggested for the FBI post, probably by Ehrlichman.

Filling the FBI slot and finding a job for Gray continued to be troublesome. The President seemed determined to place his loyal retainer—whether out of fondness or fear is not clear. On November 22, Nixon and Ehrlichman discussed Gray for the NATO ambassadorship or as head of the Office of Emergency Planning. John Mitchell apparently had advised the President not to send Gray’s nomination as FBI Director to the Senate, and on November
30, the President instructed Ehrlichman to ask Kleindienst to submit four names for the President’s consideration as Director. But two weeks later, Gray remained a possibility despite Kleindienst’s warning that his nomination would provoke a bloody confrontation in the Senate.

Apparently, the President could not settle on a trustworthy FBI Director. Ehrlichman floated several suggestions, including Cook County (Chicago) Sheriff Richard Ogilvie and Federal District Judge Matthew Byrne (a Democrat). But Nixon seemed reluctant to abandon Gray. Kleindienst sensed the President’s wishes and decided that Gray might not be perceived as too “political.” It was important, the President warned, to name someone who would “survive EMK [Edward M. Kennedy].” Meanwhile, Watergate hung like a cloud. Kleindienst told the President at the November 22 meeting that John Mitchell’s troublesome wife, Martha, had calmed down, and the President replied—not for the first or last time—that his friend could have prevented Watergate if he had not been distracted by her.
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Just after the new year, Nixon again was inclined to nominate Gray for the FBI post but worried whether he had the strength to withstand the inevitable fire. By mid-January, the President seemed to downgrade Gray’s chances, thinking he always would be suspect as too much of a Nixon loyalist. Nixon indicated a preference for former Assistant FBI Director Cartha DeLoach, who had been the conduit for information from J. Edgar Hoover to Nixon. DeLoach was a highly respected professional with the weight of tradition and much of the FBI hierarchy behind him. But Nixon passed him over for reasons that are not apparent; perhaps he thought he could not wholly trust DeLoach to serve as he wished. By February 13, Nixon told Haldeman he was prepared to nominate Gray, but as the Bureau’s second-in-command he wanted William Sullivan, Hoover’s former deputy, a chief instigator of the abortive Huston Plan and apparently a Nixon loyalist. The Gray nomination went to the Senate on February 17. It was the President’s most fateful and disastrous decision in this crucial period, for Gray’s confirmation hearings offered the Democratic Congress an immediate opportunity to raise questions about Watergate.
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Nixon, Haldeman, and Ehrlichman discussed Watergate at length in early December 1972. They apparently agreed that Donald Segretti and his dirty-tricks campaign had no connection to the break-in. (Nixon later told John Dean that he thought Segretti was “clownish,” and that he did not understand “how our boys [laughs] could have gone for him.”) It was a time for lamenting. Mitchell had failed him, but Nixon wanted it known that he would stand by his own “loyal retainer [Dwight] Chapin” (who had recruited Segretti), even though Chapin was going to leave “voluntarily.” Nixon noted that Haldeman’s aide, Gordon Strachan, also must go—
“he
knows everything,”
said Haldeman, and suggested that Strachan be given a good job to keep him quiet. Nixon himself laid out the Administration’s counterstrategy to minimize the effect of embarrassing revelations. He wanted Dean to emphasize how demonstrators had sabotaged the President’s campaign. McGovern, he said, must take responsibility, and he ordered his aides to prepare a list of disruptive events.
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On the subject of the Paris Peace Accords, recently completed with North Vietnam, the President was openly belligerent. He “took off his gloves,” as he said, and in a January 31 press conference baited his longtime media critics regarding the Vietnam war. He bluntly charged that the leading peace advocates were the most outspoken critics of his efforts to end the hostilities. But Nixon was determined to have the last word: “as far as this administration is concerned … we finally have achieved a peace with honor. I know it gags some of you to write that phrase, but it is true.” Meanwhile, Nixon told Henry Kissinger to emphasize to Joseph Alsop, a friendly columnist, “the lonely & heroic courage” of the President.
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Well aware of his own vulnerabilities, Nixon urged his aides to press the media to portray the Administration favorably and to expose his enemies’ misdeeds. The President pushed Dean again in January to get hard evidence that his campaign plane had been bugged in 1968. He suggested that Dean secure details from DeLoach at the FBI. With that information, Nixon was certain that Lyndon Johnson could “turn all this off”—meaning that the former President could persuade his fellow Democrats to cease their attacks lest they embarrass him. Nixon instructed Haldeman to speak to Connally in an attempt to reach Johnson. Meanwhile, he wanted Dwayne Andreas, who had contributed heavily to both Nixon and Hubert Humphrey, to “go in & scare Hubert.” Johnson died on January 22, two days after Nixon’s second inaugural. In a post-election telegram, Johnson had promised that he would “do anything … to ease your burden and help you make a good president in the days ahead.” The President had lost a possible ally, but one of doubtful influence at that point.
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The public bravado disguised the continuing cover-up, which had mustered the proverbial bodyguard of lies to protect the truth. Actually, there were two cover-ups: one to conceal the involvement of CREEP in the Watergate break-in, the other to protect the President. They eventually converged, ostensibly to “protect the presidency,” as Nixon liked to say; what he meant, of course, was to protect himself.