The Wars of Watergate (61 page)

Senator J. William Fulbright, Chairman of the Committee on Foreign Relations, appeared on a television interview program on April 15, about the time Nixon was meeting with Kleindienst and Petersen. Fulbright grasped the President’s growing weakness and the debilitating effects of Watergate more readily than Phillips. The Senator thought the scandal might provide an opportunity to restore balance between the executive and legislative branches by offering a focus on such questions as impoundment of appropriated funds, presidential war powers, and executive privilege. Still, Fulbright recognized that the President retained great authority. If he “decided to bomb Burma tomorrow, I don’t know how we could stop him from it.”
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For the next several weeks, Richard Nixon confronted a different challenge—this time in handling Henry Petersen, one of the pursuers, not one of the pursued. The President spoke to Petersen in intimate tones, seemingly open, cooperative at every turn, and eagerly solicitous of his advice. First, Nixon prodded Petersen to persuade Ervin to suspend his operation, suggesting
that the hearings could not avoid jeopardizing the government’s case against Mitchell and Magruder. He then moved to seal off another compartment; he told Petersen that he was to talk only to the President and no one else on the White House staff except special counsel Richard Moore. Nixon coyly asked whether he should accept Dean’s resignation at once or wait until he made his deal with the prosecutors.

While asking for his advice, Nixon did not hesitate to urge Petersen to let the White House announce Magruder’s cooperation with the Justice Department so the President could have proper credit for breaking the case. He also wanted “to keep ahead of the curve” by publicizing Petersen’s role, but the latter thought that would reveal a lack of confidence in Kleindienst. Finally, the President asked for advice on his chief aides. Petersen urged that they leave, particularly Haldeman, who had knowledge of the break-in budget proposals. Nixon vehemently denied this—“all Mitchell,” he said, and insisted that Haldeman had no campaign authority “whatever.”

The conversation ended with the President’s primary concern: what had Dean said about him? Petersen assured Nixon that Dean had turned only on Haldeman and Ehrlichman. Nixon then noted that the prosecution had a problem with what kind of deal to offer Dean. If he received more than others, the fact would sacrifice his credibility. More important, the President reminded Petersen to keep him posted of any further breaks.

Like the President, Dean still had hopes that things might work out in his favor. His charges against Haldeman and Ehrlichman had prompted Petersen to see Nixon. The resulting dialogue might have enabled the President to handle things favorably to himself—and to John Dean. But to think so was to cherish a naive hope; as Petersen later explained, “The Son of God could not have turned off that investigation in April 1973.”
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Dean reappeared for another brief session with the President late in the afternoon of April 16th. Again, he urged Nixon to take the lead on breaking the story and relieve Haldeman and Ehrlichman. Dean told the President he would not be a scapegoat for the White House as Magruder had been for Mitchell. Nixon sparred tentatively with Dean, challenging his contentions that the President’s aides had been guilty of an obstruction of justice. Dean reiterated that he found it “painful” to be the first White House aide to testify. “Just tell the truth,” the President said, reassuringly. “That’s right. That’s what I am going to do,” Dean replied.
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John Dean was history for the President, who now focused his energies on Petersen. Perhaps Nixon remembered Dean’s March 21 characterization of Petersen as a “soldier,” one who “believes in this Administration.” Nixon called Petersen at nine that evening, again urging him to share information. He wanted grand-jury information, promising not to pass it on to anyone else—“because I know the rules of the Grand Jury.” They discussed some particulars about potential defendants, but the President learned nothing
really new. He ended as he began: “[I]f anything comes up, call me even if it is the middle of the night.”
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Henry Petersen had become the Henry Kissinger of Watergate Security Affairs.

By the end of the President’s long weekend, the White House was in disarray. But Richard Nixon understood the worst-case scenario better than anyone else; therefore, in a curious way, once again he was in command. Following his initial talks with Petersen, Nixon realized that John Dean belonged to the prosecutors. There would be no aid and comfort from Dean’s quarter. He would not, as he had told the President earlier, go to his fate alone. (On April 19, Dean’s secretary telephoned reporters to make public his determination not to “become a scapegoat in the Watergate case.”)

Haldeman and Ehrlichman, the President’s most vital extensions, were not prepared to fall on their swords, either. They believed they had served the President and that he could and should save them. Nixon realized this, it appears. He understood the limits of their loyalty; they would not save him, but he could save himself. He would sacrifice Haldeman and Ehrlichman as readily as he had been prepared to offer John Mitchell. For the last two weeks in April, Haldeman and Ehrlichman underestimated the President’s resolve. They joined him in finger-pointing sessions to lay the blame at the feet of others (Magruder, Mitchell, Dean, Gray), conjuring up explanations, skewing memories—all designed to rationalize their behavior and impugn that of others. The idea of “getting out in front of the story” disappeared in a wash of recriminations and excuses.

Richard Nixon had to save his presidency—and himself. He had engaged in a criminal conspiracy since June 1972 for that very purpose. Nixon had been prepared to sacrifice Mitchell, his good friend, former partner, and close adviser; Haldeman and Ehrlichman certainly could not be denied their opportunity to be used for so high a purpose. Leonard Garment’s recommendation that Haldeman resign in order to allow the President to “move ahead of the game” undoubtedly lodged in Nixon’s mind. He had a great deal of personal ambivalence toward Secretary of State William Rogers, yet throughout the years, he regularly turned to Rogers in delicate situations. He did so now. Rogers, too, said that the aides must resign. The President had his purposes in cultivating Petersen, who after all remained privy to the latest investigation news. When Petersen recommended that Haldeman and Ehrlichman resign, the President listened. He knew his aides had to go. Undoubtedly he was loath to dismiss them, but Richard Nixon’s antennae of self-interest left him no choice. He realized this by April 16: for the rest of the month, however, he played out the string, hoping that his advisers would leave quietly and of their own accord.

The White House charade eventually cost the President dearly. Those crucial
April days offered him opportunities to “get out in front” and take control of the situation, although in order to do so he would have had to expose his own involvement. At the time, the risk still was affordable for him. Watergate was breaking out of its Washington cocoon. Containment no longer was possible, but the President’s public standing still gave him the benefit of the doubt.

Nixon recognized the growing seriousness of the problem. On April 17 he acknowledged that “major developments” had resulted from “intensive new inquiries” he had made into the affair. His Secret Service agent remembered that the President sobbed after his statement. Later that afternoon Press Secretary Ron Ziegler decisively transformed the story. Ten months earlier he had contemptuously dismissed any significance to the Watergate burglary. On April 17, with one unforgettable word, Ziegler declared all his previous remarks on Watergate “inoperative.”
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That dramatic concession clashed with Nixon’s reluctance to act decisively in his own house. He had told Petersen that he was “so sick of this thing. I want to get it done with and over.” But he did not. Richard Nixon prided himself on his decisiveness. Thoughout this period, he proudly referred to his firm, bold actions in Cambodia and the Christmas 1972 bombing in Vietnam. That President Nixon had disappeared by April 1973.

During a nearly two-hour session with Haldeman and Ehrlichman on the afternoon of April 17, the President discussed the implications of Petersen’s charges. Haldeman insisted that he had done nothing illegal and that he had told Dean that the blackmail path was a dead end. He joined with Ehrlichman to lay the obstruction of justice on Dean’s doorstep. Dean, they contended, had meant to protect his friend and original patron, John Mitchell. Charitably, Haldeman allowed that Dean might have worn himself to a “frazzle,” “past the point of rationality.” Desperately, Haldeman thought that Dean would not do anything “un-American and anti-Nixon.” He was “an unbelievable disaster” for the White House; perhaps, too, the nation would find him unbelievable. Someone expressed a concern that Colson and Strachan would corroborate Dean in exchange for immunity. Finger-pointing was fully in style.
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Afterward, the President spoke to Ehrlichman on the telephone to prime himself for a meeting with Petersen. Nixon had rejected immunity for any of his top aides. Ehrlichman tried to stabilize the President’s position on resignations. When Nixon asked if the agreed-upon policy was resignation on charges or indictments, Ehrlichman insisted that the procedure be suspension on indictment and resignation only on conviction. The President amended that formula to include resignation “on refusing to cooperate.”
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Meeting Petersen afterward, Nixon shamelessly manipulated the Justice
official. The President asked if it were “legal” for him to know specifics—for example, what charges the department would bring against Mitchell. Petersen had little choice but to agree. After all, Richard Nixon had sworn an oath to “take care that the laws be faithfully executed.” How could he be denied information? The President assured Petersen that he was “just trying to do the right thing.” Petersen dutifully replied, “Mr. President, if I didn’t have confidence in you—I wouldn’t be here.”

Petersen graciously gave Nixon details of the stories that Dean had told the prosecutors regarding Ehrlichman, Gray, and the suppression of evidence. Nixon later discussed this with Ehrlichman. The President pressed Petersen to cooperate in the effort to stop the Ervin Committee, again using the pretext that the committee’s activity might jeopardize Mitchell’s trial. He effectively persuaded Petersen at the time that his concern centered on the need to bring wrongdoers to legal account. Nixon questioned the propriety of granting Dean any immunity. (Without immunity, perhaps there was a chance that Dean would limit his cooperation with the prosecutors.)

Most important, Nixon learned for certain from Petersen that Haldeman and Ehrlichman would be named as unindicted co-conspirators, a fact that confirmed his determination to separate himself from his aides. He told Petersen that such a charge justified presidential dismissal. It was as if he would use the weight of Henry Petersen and “the law” in order to stand above his closest collaborators. He knew on April 17 what his course must be. But he was desperate. At one point, Nixon thought Petersen signalled that if Haldeman and Ehrlichman resigned, they would not be indicted. Petersen quickly corrected the President. “Have a good day, Mr. President,” Petersen said, as he left, apparently without intended sarcasm.
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One minute later, Nixon offered Haldeman and Ehrlichman some details of his conversation. He told them that Dean’s lawyers had promised to make a case against the Administration. When talk of the senior aides’ resignation or leave of absence briefly surfaced, Haldeman aggressively argued that such a course would not necessarily serve the President. Meanwhile, the two aides were seeing a lawyer that afternoon. The three agreed on a statement regarding immunity, testimony before the Ervin Committee and executive privilege, and the President’s discovery of “serious charges.” Ron Ziegler knew that he would face hostile questions, but he agreed to state simply that this now was the “operative” statement. “Don’t [expletive deleted] on Dean,” the President cautioned Ziegler, apparently still hoping to cut a deal in that quarter.
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William Rogers met the President shortly afterward. He agreed with Petersen that Haldeman and Ehrlichman would have to resign. Nixon went through some proclamations of resistance, but clearly his mind was set. He insisted that his aides were “not guilty of a damn thing”; their involvement was “only tangential.” Ehrlichman had had his domestic chores, and Haldeman
“was working with me at the time.” They had no campaign connection, Nixon said disingenuously. He berated Mitchell for not “tending the shop.” Mitchell, he contended, “was—in this whole thing—and frankly, Dean was handling it for the White House.” But curiously, he admitted that “our people” were aware of Dean’s connection—“we,” as he also put it.

After Rogers left and Haldeman and Ehrlichman had returned to the Oval Office from their appointment with their lawyers, the President admitted “Dean had handled a lot of stuff well.” Haldeman agreed, and Nixon thought he might have an opportunity to “make our deal or not with Dean within a week.” He reminded his aides that Dean alone could sink them. Ehrlichman knew that flirting with Dean was futile, and he favored provoking Dean into a slanderous public statement. The President liked that. They then would get the “most vicious libel lawyer there is. I’d sue every [expletive deleted]….” It was now clear between the three men that the aides had to go. Nixon filled his men with promises of a rosy future. He acknowledged that they would not be able to come back to government even if found innocent. But “you are not damaged goods as far as I am concerned.” They would have jobs with his foundation—it would be “a hell of a big thing.” Haldeman wanted funding to clear his name, and then would spend the rest of his life “destroying what some people like Dean and Magruder had done to the President.”
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The future would have many “sores to rub.” But for the moment, Haldeman and Ehrlichman still thought they could turn the tide.