The Wars of Watergate (60 page)

The President asked Kleindienst if
he
knew of the break-in or the cover-up. Defensively, the Attorney General denied any knowledge. Clearly, Kleindienst was sympathetic. He thought that there were two “overriding” considerations: “one is yourself and your Presidency and secondly is the institution.” Both, he believed, had to be “protected and preserved by the institution of justice.” Nixon carefully guided the Attorney General away from any immediate appointment of a special prosecutor and, in view of Kleindienst’s close relationship with Mitchell, the two agreed to let Petersen handle matters.

Kleindienst was struck by the President’s calm reaction to the news of Mitchell’s complicity in the break-in. Petersen, who accompanied Kleindienst to another meeting with the President later that afternoon, recalled being “a little exasperated perhaps considering the man’s station, perhaps even a little bit rude in consideration of the calm with which he accepted what I thought was shattering information.” The President, of course, knew the facts, and he understood how Petersen had learned them. Later, Petersen bitterly chastised himself for not being skeptical or cynical enough. “Maybe people in power have different rules, but they certainly are not straightforward, certainly not honest.… I credited this guy with more character than he obviously had.” Richard Nixon liked to give surprises; he did not relish receiving them.
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The President realized the importance of the appearance of justice. Although he had been persuaded against naming a special prosecutor, just after
his early meeting with Kleindienst he told Haldeman that he would accept a special prosecutor to oversee the case through indictments, but not necessarily to prosecute. He said that he was leaning toward Charles Alan Wright, a University of Texas Law School professor; earlier, he had suggested Circuit Court Judge Edward Lumbard to Kleindienst. Nixon and Haldeman seemed to have their confidence rejuvenated. They no longer had to manipulate Mitchell into a confession: he would be indicted, and, as “a hell of a big fish,” the President said, he would “take a lot of the fire out of this thing on the cover up and all that sort.” Haldeman readily agreed. They also concurred with Secretary of State Rogers’s contention that the Ervin Committee would have to close down once indictments came forth.
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John Dean still had some White House cards to play. He called Haldeman on April 15 to relay some messages to Nixon. Dean wanted the President to understand that he remained loyal; “if it’s not clear now,… it will become clear,” Dean said. He refused to meet Ehrlichman, but he would meet the President at any time. Finally, he urged Nixon to counsel with Petersen, “who I assure you does not want the Presidency hurt.” Although Nixon seemed unsure about Dean, Haldeman and most emphatically Ehrlichman had turned rather sharply on him. Sometime in this period, Ehrlichman suggested that Dean sign two letters to put in the President’s hands, one resigning, the other requesting a leave of absence. If Dean maintained the cover-up and protected the White House, he would be on leave of absence pending the outcome of his trial. Clearly, this was designed to entice Dean with promises of future support if he remained loyal. Still, Ehrlichman could not resist whacking away at Dean and the beleaguered John Mitchell. He claimed to have told Dean not to bother with Hunt’s payments, because he no longer cared if Hunt went public on the Plumbers. That matter, Ehrlichman said, was covered by “national security.” Furthermore, for the first time Ehrlichman informed Nixon that he had urged Dean to reveal everything in the summer of 1972, but that Dean had refused, ostensibly because doing so would hurt the campaign. Dean in fact, Ehrlichman argued, had been protecting Mitchell.
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Nixon scheduled another meeting with Petersen for April 16. But the night before, the President placed at least four calls to Petersen, obviously anxious to establish a comfortable relationship in advance. Direct calls from the President of the United States spanning fifteen minutes—and on such an important matter—had to be heady stuff for Petersen, but the attention was all manipulative on Nixon’s part, for he used the opportunities to determine what the prosecutors knew and how he might use that information to thwart them.

From Petersen the President learned that Dean’s lawyer thought it would be a “travesty” if Haldeman and Ehrlichman were not indicted; without that, he insisted, Dean would plead not guilty and go to trial. Clearly, Nixon
had to reach Dean. But he told Petersen he needed to see Dean because he wanted the whole truth, and he was “not going to screw around with this thing.” Seven minutes later, Nixon called again, saying that Dean was in transit to the White House. He took the occasion to indicate his desire that Liddy cooperate. Why not? Liddy could only reinforce the case against Mitchell, a point that remained essential for the President. Within a half-hour, Dean met the President. He remembered later that Nixon asked him “leading questions which made me think the conversation was being taped.” Specifically, he recalled Nixon’s remark that his March 21 statement about raising a million dollars to sustain the cover-up had been merely a joke. Dean pointedly assured the President that he would not discuss national-security matters with the prosecutors. But most intriguing of all, Nixon emphasized that he first learned the facts of the break-in and cover-up during their March 21 meeting. Dean knew that the President was “posturing,” but he still “couldn’t tell which way he was going.”

Nixon then called Petersen, claiming falsely that Dean was not in the room. The call was trivial and simply repeated Nixon’s desire that Liddy talk. Apparently, he sought to impress Dean with his comfortable working relationship with Petersen. Two hours later—near midnight—the President phoned Petersen again. The relationship seemed to be becoming intimate. Nixon anxiously tried to give Petersen the impression that he was deeply involved in the case and interested only in pursuing the truth. “The main thing, Henry, we must not have any question, now, on this, you know I am in charge of this thing. You are and I am. Above everything else and I am following every inch of the way and I don’t want any question … of the fact that I am … way ahead of the thing. You know,” he emphasized, “I want to stay one step ahead of the curve.” Petersen then revealed which principals would be questioned in the next several days. When the President slyly, almost parenthetically, asked about Haldeman and Ehrlichman, Petersen indicated that they might have to resign. He promised to give the President “all the facts with respect to them into a pattern.” Unwittingly, but understandably, Petersen had informed the wrong man of his plans.
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The President’s record for April 16 at first glance seemed frantic and disorganized, as if he had proceeded through the day on an
ad hoc
basis. But in fact Nixon was very much on top of matters. Meeting with such disparate principals as Haldeman and Ehrlichman on the one hand, and then with John Dean, followed by Henry Petersen, Nixon conducted a virtuoso performance of his own. Appropriating the ideas of others, feigning ignorance, expressing incredulity and bewilderment, manipulating subordinates for his own protection, and typically, concerned about the public-relations aspect of the case, the President struggled for survival. That he eventually failed is no adequate measure of his effort.

Nixon met with Haldeman and Ehrlichman briefly before seeing Dean at
10:00
A.M.
He told them he would present Dean with two alternative letters, one offering resignation, the other a leave of absence. The latter was designed on the basis for establishing a bargain, a bargain that eventually would include presidential clemency or a pardon. The aides urged the President to turn on Dean and give evidence to Petersen if Dean refused to cooperate, but all of them knew that was empty talk. Nixon quickly turned the conversation to whether Dean might reveal the Plumbers’ operations or any other bugging enterprises. Not to worry, Ehrlichman said: “They’re all national security”—and Nixon quickly added: “privileged.” But Ehrlichman soon learned that the prosecutors had informed Petersen of the Fielding break-in.

Nixon then asked his aides to give worst-case scenarios for their own problems but promised not to make “any God damn hasty decisions.” The three also agreed that Dean had failed to provide a report and that Ehrlichman’s report of April 14 was the one that broke the case. Finally, Nixon urged them to concentrate on “the PR thing.” Incredibly, but typically, he wanted personal credit for the breaking revelations. As the men sought to coordinate their accounts, John Dean clearly emerged as the principal “enemy.” Dean “stonewalled,” he “shot down” White House attempts to make a clean breast of things in 1972, and “he dug in his heels.” Haldeman and Ehrlichman desperately made the case against John Dean. Of course, Haldemen conveniently chose to ignore his control of Dean and his praise of the Counsel’s work at the September 15, 1972, meeting with the President. The praise that all of them earlier had lavished on Dean was now a mere echo. Confident he was speaking for historical judgments that would applaud him, the President concluded the conversation: “I can say that the Watergate case has been broken.”
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Haldeman and Ehrlichman passed Dean on their way out of the Oval Office, “laughing like college pranksters,” Dean recalled, until they saw him. Dean realized they did not look like men who had been told to resign. When he sat down, the President immediately confronted him with the alternative letters that Ehrlichman, apparently, had prepared. Dean balked, insisting that Haldeman and Ehrlichman, too, must resign. The President then baldly lied, claiming that he had similar letters from them. Dean warned Nixon against believing that the aides had no problem. “I’m telling you, they do,” he declared. Nixon then seemed to agree.

The President feared the damage Dean could inflict. Almost deferentially, he asked Dean how he could stay “one step ahead of this thing” and “what the hell can I say publicly?” Despite his disparaging Dean in the presence of his aides a few minutes earlier, Nixon apparently believed that Dean could still do magic for him. The conversation revolved around the President’s knowledge of the Watergate break-in and when he gained it. Nixon once
more tried to sidestep the September 15 meeting, at which he had met Dean and discussed the case and the cover-up: “Remember[,] I didn’t see you until after the election.” Dean had his own deferential game: “That’s right,” he replied. Nixon instructed Dean that he could not claim executive privilege on matters that involved “wrongdoing,” but hastily added that the wiretap policy involved national security and hence was privileged. Dean seemed to look for some glimmer of hope. He emphasized that he had persuaded Magruder to come forth with the truth—ignoring the fact that he had first coached him for perjury. In that fashion he could buttress Nixon’s claim that the White House broke the case.

Who was using whom? Nixon asked Dean to stress that the President had fully investigated the case. “Shit, I’m not going to let the Justice Department break this case, John.” But he remembered the need to please Dean: “We triggered the whole thing. You know what I mean?… You helped to trigger it.” Dean replied with his vision: “When history is written,… and you put the pieces back together, you’ll see why it happened. It’s because I triggered it. I, I put everybody’s feet to the fire because it just had to stop.”

The President’s treatment included fatherly advice on truth-telling. “John, I want you to tell the truth,” the President said. “I have told everybody around here, said, ‘God damn it, tell the truth.’ ’Cause all they do [when they lie], John, is compound it.” The experienced Nixon offered his advice, resurrecting Alger Hiss’s perjury. “[D]on’t ever lie with these bastards,” Nixon emphasized. He reminded Dean that right clearly could be distinguished from wrong, but when Dean agreed, the President added: “perhaps there are gray areas.”
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Shortly after noon, the President discussed public-relations questions, appropriately, with Haldeman, who also relayed some advice from presidential aide Leonard Garment. Haldeman and Ehrlichman had little fondness for Garment, and they had sniffed a bit when they earlier learned that he had become involved in the case—another compartment for the President, it seemed. Haldeman quoted Garment as advising the President that “you are in possession of knowledge that you cannot be in possession of without acting on.” Garment also initiated a refrain he was to beat steadily for the next two weeks: the President must make a clean cut of things and remove Haldeman and Ehrlichman. No wonder Ehrlichman had urged the President not to see Garment. The President was wary. Garment had briefed Kissinger and Haig, clearly believing that he could help the President. “[W]hat the hell did he do that for?” Nixon demanded. Nixon did not want Garment involved in the day-to-day business of crisis management. Haldeman considered Garment “the panic button type,” but sheepishly added, “that doesn’t mean he isn’t right this time, incidentally.” Garment had proposed a dramatic gesture, such as a presidential television address, but Nixon dismissed
the idea, certain it would only magnify what was still a minor story. Haldeman was not so sure. “We are going to have one hell of a time,” he concluded.
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Garment’s advice actually was more pointed. In a draft memo to the President (the ideas were conveyed, if not the actual language), he warned that saving the presidency and the President conflicted with the goal of saving Haldeman and Ehrlichman. The notion of a leave of absence was ambiguous and unacceptable; the media would close in and interfere
“grossly.”
Leaves of absence would demonstrate that Nixon either loved or feared his aides, more likely the latter. Garment considered it “worthless” to deal with Haldeman and Ehrlichman: “They will never keep their word. They want to save themselves now.” A “clean sweep,” he told the President, was the only way to save his presidency.
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Outside the White House, others sensed the shifting fortunes and power of the President. Howard Phillips, Acting Director of the Office of Economic Opportunity, a prominent conservative dedicated to the dismantling of New Deal–Great Society programs, pleaded with Haldeman to continue the fight to abolish the legal-services aspect of the poverty program. “Everything Richard Nixon stands for will continue to be opposed at public expense, as we continue to subsidize advocates of busing, abortion, welfare rights, prison rights, gay liberation, lettuce boycotts, and the like, ad nauseam,” Phillips complained. Republicans had won the election; why, he asked, should the President’s opponents dictate policies? “We hold all the cards,” Phillips said. But he did not see the President’s hand.
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