Blind Ambition: The End of the Story (42 page)

“Uh, what I would like to do,” I said, “is draft an alternative letter putting in both options, and you can just put them in the file.” Short and sweet.

The President nodded; he backed down as I had expected. “All right. Fine. I had dictated something myself, all my own, which... If you can give me a better form, fine. I just want you to do it, either way. Do you? Or do you want to prepare something?”

“I would like to prepare something,” I said quietly, putting off his second feeble attempt to make me sign the ones I held in my hand. I was struck by the President’s reiterated claim that he had drafted the letters himself. This, I knew, could not be true. I had seen too many of his dictations; I knew damn well Ehrlichman had written these.

The President and I then proceeded through a long and unproductive discussion on Watergate. My mind was not on the subject; all I wanted to do was get out. And when I did, I drafted a resignation letter and sent it to him. It did not mention Watergate; but it said that I was resigning arm in arm with Haldeman and Ehrlichman. I went home that night satisfied with my resistance and worrying about the President’s next thrust.

It came the next day. Nixon could no longer resist the public pressure to say
something
about Watergate; still, his aides were deadlocked, and he was on the fence. He played for time. That afternoon he walked into the Press Room and read an announcement, refusing to take any questions. The announcement said that “major developments” in the Watergate case had come to his attention, and that he was going to get to the bottom of it. He would now permit his aides to testify. Anyone indicted would be suspended; anyone convicted would be fired. This meant nothing. He could not have kept an indicted aide on the staff. The President closed with a surprise edict: “No individual holding, in the past or present, a position of major importance in the Administration should be given immunity from prosecution.”

I read the statement and immediately called Leonard Garment, one of the President’s advisers who had worked on the draft. “Len, tell me, was that no-immunity position in the draft you worked on?” I asked.

“No, it wasn’t, John,” Garment replied. “That was news to me, and I saw the draft after the speechwriters finished with it.”

“That’s what I thought,” I said. “Listen, Len. I think I already know the answer, but would you tell me who the draft went to after you cleared it?”

“Sure. It went to Ehrlichman, then to the President. I guess one of them made the addition.”

“Thanks, Len. That’s what I figured.”

Fielding walked in, curious, like most people, about the no-immunity position. “What was that bit all about?” he asked. “Well, Freddie, that’s a message to me from the leader of the Western world, who is in the clever hands of John Ehrlichman.”

“How so?”

“Well, the President thinks I won’t talk without immunity from prosecution. He thinks he can scare me back into the fold. But he’s wrong. I don’t have any choice now. It looks like the President is choosing his team, and it’s going to be me against the big guys. How would you like to be White House counsel?”

“That’s not funny.”

“I know. Listen, Fred, I’m not going to come in to the office tomorrow. I don’t want to be around here, and I haven’t been too much help to you anyway.”

I called Jane in, and together we gathered a boxful of Watergate press clippings. I needed the clippings to help trigger my memory. Charlie was urging me to begin preparing a detailed chronology of everything I knew—dates and statements I could swear to. The task intimidated me. As I drove home, I decided I would drink that night and begin in the morning.

The President’s statement renewed press interest in me, and my house was again staked out in full force. Reporters stayed near my door round the clock. A few had seen Mo leave a day earlier on a trip to Florida. I had devised an elaborate route to avoid the press corps and camera crews—I would slip in and out the back of the house, across a small alley running behind the row of town houses, and through Fred Fielding’s house.

I felt like a prisoner in my home the next day. My only link with the outside world was the telephone. Charlie and I spoke frequently. We were both in low spirits. In one particular call on April 18, he drove in another nail.

“John, I’ve just gotten a report from Glanzer,” he said. “It’s fourthhand information, but it’s serious. The President just told Petersen that you told him you
already
have immunity. At least that’s what Petersen’s telling Glanzer. You didn’t say that, did you?”

“Hell, no, I didn’t. When am I supposed to have said that?”

“Sunday night, when you gave the P your little impeachment warning.”

“Goddammit, Charlie, the President’s lying. I didn’t tell him I had immunity. And I wouldn’t have told him so even if I did have it. Hell, I was being the good guy that night. I was telling the President I would face the music along with Haldeman and Ehrlichman.”

“That’s what I thought. But Glanzer says the P claims to have you on tape. He says he can prove you said you have immunity.”

“Shit! I thought he might be taping me that night. I even looked around for the recorder. I tell you what, Charlie. You send word back to Petersen to ask for that tape. I guarantee you he’ll never get it. But if he does, what the President says on there will burn Henry’s ears off.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Charlie. “I’ll pass it to Glanzer.”

“No matter what, I didn’t say that to the President, Charlie. Why do you think he would tell Petersen I did?”

“Well, I’ll tell you, John. My guess is that the President didn’t clear his no-immunity statement with Petersen. It probably pissed Petersen off, because it’s direct interference in the prosecutor’s business. It robs Petersen of a way to force testimony. I think the P was trying to justify his statement.”

“Maybe so. And he got to call me a liar in the process.”

“Yep. For a guy who you say is sometimes a little loose upstairs, he looks pretty clever to me.”

“I’ll tell you something, Charlie. I’ve been thinking that maybe I should go public with something. Maybe I should let them know I’m not going to take this lying down. What do you think about a little statement to the newspapers that I refuse to be the scapegoat?”

“I doubt if you want to do that, John. You’ll sure as hell burn your bridges if you do that. You could never get back in their good graces.”

“What the hell difference does that make? Look, in the last few days the President’s tried to make me confess, blocked my chances of getting immunity, and called me a liar. I’m not going to be his buddy again no matter what.”

“Okay, okay. I was just testing you.
You’re
the one who keeps hanging on to the idea that the P won’t screw you. You’re the one who keeps thinking the President deserves your loyalty.”

“I know, Charlie. I’ve been thinking about that too. You know, I’ve always kind of laughed at the people I’ve seen leaving the White House. No matter what they say, it always rips them up. They come back begging for mess privileges and invitations and stuff like that. They just can’t let go. Now I know how they feel. But I’ll tell you, Charlie, what I’m hanging on to is this: I still think the President’s interests and my interests lie in the same direction. Even if we don’t think much of each other personally. If he lines up against me with Haldeman and Ehrlichman, I think he’s in big trouble, and I know I will be. Now, I see only two reasons why he’s doing it. One is that Haldeman and Ehrlichman have him by the balls so tight that he doesn’t have any choice. If that’s true, nothing I do will make any difference. But the other possibility is that Ehrlichman and Haldeman have him convinced that he can run over me. If
that’s
the reason, maybe a little public notice might do some good.”

“Okay, John. I never like to have my clients in public, but maybe you’re right. Talk to McCandless about it. Just make sure you don’t say anything specific in there about your testimony. Be general, but pretend you’re mean and tough like me.” Charlie laughed. “I’m going to call old Seymour back just to hear his voice when I tell him to go after that tape.”
7
*

I called Bob McCandless. He had come onto my legal team when Tom Hogan had been forced to drop out, and he was a good public-relations man. We worked over a number of drafts of a statement until we were both satisfied. I dictated it to Jane the next morning and instructed her to phone it to the wire services, the
Washington Post,
and the
Washington Star.
The message was in the last two sentences: “Finally, some may hope or think that I will become a scapegoat in the Watergate case. Anyone who believes this does not know me, know the true facts, nor understand our system of justice.” McCandless said it was a little stilted, but I told him I was still counsel to the President and I had my airs. The statement made headlines, and I received signals from the White House that it had made me a permanent
persona non grata
and the object of the nastiest possible epithets.

The next evening, April 20, I went home late from Charlie’s office. We had discussed the possibility of dealing with the Senate Watergate Committee, whose chief counsel, Sam Dash, was anxious to meet with me. Reporters were still all around my house, so I had to go home through Fred’s. He invited me to stop for a drink.

“Be careful what you say, because I’m worried that my phone might be bugged,” Fred said.

“Hell, I assume mine is bugged, and what they’re hearing they should find very thrilling. I just came from Charlie’s office, Fred. He’s concerned about my life, afraid someone might like to eliminate me from the scene. Can you believe that? Charlie doesn’t scare easy. He prosecuted Jimmy Hoffa.”

Fred looked incredulous. “Why would you fear for your life?”

“Because of what I know—” Fred pointed to the telephone, reminding me of his concern that his house was bugged. Our paranoia made us speak in hushed tones. “Freddie, do you have any idea where this thing might lead?”

Fred shook his head and reached for a piece of paper on a nearby table. I took a pen from my coat pocket and wrote the answer to our shared question: “Impeachment of the President.” I passed the note to Fred.

“Enough facts?” he wrote. “Probably so.”

“Are you sure you want the historic responsibility for that?”

“No! But I know enough to cause it.”

“So be it!” Fred wrote. We stared at each other for a moment as we sipped our drinks, and then we stared at the crumpled note, which Fred had ignited and put in the ashtray. We watched it burn.

With Mo still in Florida, and Charlie pushing me to remember more and more details, I began working late into the night. Saturday, April 21, I worked particularly late, drinking even more than my usual generous quantity of alcohol. I figured I’d sleep off a hangover, and believed the Scotch was loosening up my memory. That night I had recalled in detail most aspects of the cover-up that had been instituted to prevent the FBI from discovering the Ellsberg break-in. About 4 A.M. I went to bed, leaving my clothes heaped in the middle of the floor and piles of papers spread about on the easy chairs in our bedroom.

It seemed I had been asleep only minutes when the phone rang. With the shades drawn and the blackout draperies pulled, I had no idea it was eight in the morning. I tried to ignore the phone’s ring, but it didn’t stop. The phone was across the bedroom, buried under papers in one of the easy chairs. I rolled out of bed stark naked, made my way across the room, dug through the nest, and picked up the phone.

“Yes,” I hissed in a tone that fit my mood.

“Mr. Dean, it’s the President. Please hold on,” the operator said before I could say anything. I felt awful: my head was pounding, my mouth tasted and smelled as bad as the brimming ashtray I noticed when I turned on the lamp.

“Good morning, John.” The President’s deep, familiar voice was chipper. “I’m just calling to wish you and your wife a happy Easter.” I was still dazed. The President calling me? To wish me happy Easter? I sat down and found a place for the phone in the pile of papers on the ottoman as he continued, “It’s a lovely day here in Florida for Easter services.”

“Oh, uh, fine. Happy Easter to you, too.” This was too confusing, particularly in the condition I was in. Days earlier he had been asking me to resign and I had refused. I had issued my scapegoat statement and had managed to piss off almost everybody in the White House. Now the President was calling me to wish me happy Easter? Given the way I felt after too little sleep, wondering if my pounding head was from an internal hemorrhage, the next thought that came to me seemed logical: I wondered if anyone had ever said to him, “Mr. President, I think you’re full of shit!”

The President must have sensed something in my mood; he stepped in to stroke. “John, I just want you to know you’re still my counsel.”

“Uh, well, uh, thank you, Mr. President.” He was looking for my loyalty charge, and he ignited it. He was being loyal to me, I certainly wanted to be loyal to him. As we talked, it seemed as if nothing had happened. He asked my advice. We talked about immunity laws. Then I added, thinking about his April 17 statement on immunity, “Mr. President, I think you should talk to Henry Petersen about obstruction of justice and the statement you issued. You should be very careful, sir.”