Blind Ambition: The End of the Story (45 page)

On May 11, I had my first interview with a reporter since the White House had turned its guns on me. Bob had finally convinced Charlie that I had to go public. It would be a test, and only a brief diversion from my work constructing testimony. Bob arranged a clandestine interview with
Newsweek
correspondent John Lindsay
at the Tidewater Inn in Easton, Maryland, halfway between Washington and my hideaway.

Lindsay
arrived accompanied by photographer Wally McNamee
and immediately struck me as friendly, informed, and understanding. “Your old friends at the White House are doing their damnedest to ruin you,” he said sympathetically. Then he smiled. “Of course, I’m not about to give up any of my sources, but I hope you don’t labor under any illusions that Chuck Colson, Ken Clawson
, and Ron Ziegler are still friends of yours.”

“I don’t,” I said.

“Okay. Now, Bob tells me that we can’t get into the areas of your testimony. I can see your reasons. But would you be willing to go off the record on a few points?”

“John, I really can’t,” I told him. “Someday I’m going to be under oath and may be asked about my dealings with the press. Any statements I make I would like to be on the record.”

“I understand perfectly,” he said immediately. I answered his questions guardedly, trying to skirt testimonial areas. Between questions, I found Lindsay
telling me more than I was telling him. He told me the prosecutors had put out the word that they had concluded that the President was not involved in either the events before June 17 or the cover-up. He informed me that Sam Dash had been saying I was telling the truth and would be the most important witness the Senate could call. Lindsay
felt that my best forum would be the Senate. I had thought it would be the grand jury. After several hours, I felt I had given him little of news value and learned much, including his prediction that a special prosecutor would be appointed as a result of Senate pressures, and that Nixon would find himself hinging his defense on national security.

As we parted, Lindsay
told me that he felt confident I would be pleased with his story and that maybe it would help reverse the tide of negative news about me. When I saw it three days later, I was horrified. The story was hostile in tone, and laced with derogatory tidbits:

...Federal investigators let it be known that they were less than impressed with Dean’s story... he seemed ready to offer at least tentative solidarity with anyone whose testimony has damaged the Administration …reports cast doubt on his value as a pivotal witness whose testimony would be needed to hook bigger fish in the White House... He had refrigerant blood,” one former associate recalled last week.... He declined to say... he made it perfectly clear...he observed tartly... his story remained transparently designed to enhance his bid for immunity.

Lindsay
called to say that the
Newsweek
editors in New York had rewritten his story, and that he would understand if I never spoke with him again. When McCandless confirmed his account, I liked Lindsay
even better, but Charlie did not miss the opportunity to make choice remarks about Bob’s press strategy.

Although the press was now bearing down on the Watergate story, I found it difficult to trust even the most dedicated reporters. McCandless called with a proposition from Carl Bernstein
and Bob Woodward
, the investigative reporters who had already won fame and prizes for their pursuit of the scandal.

“John, the wonder twins from the
Post
are on me again. This time Bernstein
’s got something that scares the shit out of me,” Bob said in a grave, low voice. “He said they’re picking up serious rumors that there may be attempts to rub you out, get rid of you.”

“That’s nice,” I said dryly. I had been struggling to control my paranoia about this possibility.

“Well, they’ve been right before,” Bob kidded.

“Who does he say is thinking about that, besides a bunch of kooks and Ehrlichman? Are they going to run the story?”

“No, I don’t think so. It doesn’t sound hard enough.”

“Well, tell them I appreciate the warning even though it’s not very helpful,” I said wearily. “What do they really want, Bob?”

“I thought you’d ask that. Carl says it’s a remote possibility, but one you should consider. Just in case, he says you should put everything you know on tape and give it to them for safekeeping. He promises they won’t even listen to the damn thing unless you pass on. He makes a pretty persuasive case about what might happen if you can’t ever testify. Anyway, I thought I would pass it along.”

“Yeah, well, you tell them thanks for the suggestion.” I could tell that Bob wasn’t offering the idea with much enthusiasm. “Christ, Bob. Can you imagine what would happen if it got out that I had given my testimony to those guys on tape? I can just see myself explaining that the only reason I did it was because I was afraid the President of the United States would have me bumped off.”

“Okay, okay. Like I said, I was just passing it along.”

“You tell them I’m trying like hell to get everything I know down on paper, okay? And tell them to keep digging.”

While Bob continued his campaign to rally reporters to my side, Charlie shuttled between the prosecutors and the Senate Watergate Committee. He arranged my first meeting with Sam Dash for the night after my interview with Lindsay
. Dash took elaborate precautions to insure secrecy and came to Charlie’s office late at night. As was his custom, the first thing he did was to call his wife and leave a number.

Despite his years as Philadelphia’s district attorney, Dash is more professor than prosecutor. Soft-spoken, scholarly, relaxed but intent, he viewed his undertaking as a complex and difficult research project. He wasn’t out to prosecute anyone, but he had strong gut feelings about where the facts would take him—and he saw Richard Nixon standing at the end of the corridor that he wanted most to travel down.

“Only Chairman Ervin and I know about this meeting,” Dash began. “We were afraid to tell anyone else. It would get to the minority members, who would leak it and give us hell for negotiating with you. The chairman trusts my judgment, and I’m here to review your testimony. I have to make a recommendation to the full committee about whether to grant you immunity.”

“You aren’t getting him without it,” Charlie said.

“Look, Sam, I’m taking a hell of a beating about this immunity thing,” I said. “I agree with Charlie that I shouldn’t stick my neck out without some protection. You know from what Charlie’s told you that I’m going to confess to crimes when I testify. My own words will hang me. The others aren’t going to confess to anything, and it’ll be my word against the President, Haldeman, Ehrlichman, and Mitchell. That’s a tough case to make, and if I’m not believed.”

“I understand all that, John,” Sam interrupted. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Okay. But I want you to know something off the record. I know Charlie doesn’t want me to say it, but I’m inclined to testify before your committee with or without immunity. I wanted to testify before the grand jury, where my testimony would come out in trial, but now I tend to think it’s better to go public. Otherwise, what I say is going to get distorted as it leaks out bit by bit.”

“I’m still pushing for my man’s immunity,” Charlie insisted.

“I understand,” Dash replied to both of us. “I think you’re going to get it. But I’m glad to know you’re considering testifying without it, John. That’s important to me for personal reasons.”

I leaned over and looked straight at Dash, deciding to try to get off on the right foot by leveling with him. “I don’t want you to get me wrong on this, Sam. I’d love to get out of this damn thing without going to jail. It’s already ruined me. I’ve been ripped up by it. But I’m getting eaten up by the idea that all I want to do is save my own ass. The press has seized on it. The public seems to lap it up. I’m beginning to think about down the road, and I don’t want to be known just as the snitch of Watergate. You may not believe this, Sam, but I’ve been thinking about going to jail since last January and February. I’m beginning to think it’s worth it.” Charlie gave me a warning look, somewhere between sympathy and toughness, for being so emotional. “But I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to sit down and be the only one to go and take the whole rap for this thing. That’s where I want to know if you can help me.”

“I think so, John,” Dash said sincerely. (Charlie had told me he worried that Dash was too sincere to be quick enough and tough enough to help me.) “But I’ve got to know how strong a witness you’ll be, and we don’t have much time. Our hearings open next week.” Dash was in a hurry, but then he launched into a long story about his troubles with the senators on the committee, especially Howard H. Baker
, Jr., of Tennessee.

“Tell the man your story,” Charlie interrupted to prompt me.

“Okay,” I sighed, and launched into the highlights once again.

Dash and I talked during several more sessions, and the idea of going before the Ervin Committee grew increasingly attractive. I mulled it over with Charlie and Bob and listed the advantages. For one thing, I was not as uncomfortable with a Senate forum as with grand juries and courtrooms. Capitol Hill was familiar ground from my days on the staff of the House Judiciary Committee
. I had testified there many times, and I knew how hearings worked. Also, the televised proceedings would give me a chance to lay out my whole testimony before millions of viewers. I was not faring well in the written press. I could use a piece of the President’s own philosophy against him and “go over the heads” of the written press straight to the public. Finally, I was drawn to the technical ramifications of the Senate’s immunity powers. The Ervin Committee could grant me only what is known as “use immunity,” which meant that nothing I confessed to them could be used as evidence against me in court. But I could still be prosecuted on the evidence of others. Charlie was negotiating with the prosecutors for total immunity, known in the trade as “bath immunity,” which meant that I could not be prosecuted. I was familiar with the difference, because I had helped write the law establishing use immunity. The squealer image would be muted somewhat if I were granted use immunity by the Senate. There would still be a strong possibility I would go to jail; I would not be guaranteed a free ride. It might make me a more credible witness.

Bob had leaned toward the Senate committee from the beginning. It would enable him to cease playing games with reporters: he could tell them I would be going public soon. It would give me a chance to pump up my credibility, about which he was rightly concerned. Also, Bob had a string of contacts in the Senate, having once worked there, and he could help behind the scenes. Neither of us had to be reminded how much maneuvering would go on off camera.

Charlie also warmed to the Ervin Committee, even before I did, for hard, practical reasons. He knew that while use immunity in the Senate would not make it impossible to prosecute me, it would make it more difficult. The government would have to prove it got none of its evidence from my testimony. He could still fight to keep me out of jail. Also, by threatening to go to the Senate, Charlie knew he could increase the pressure on Silbert to give me total immunity. He made speeches to the prosecutors about how he didn’t need them anymore, because “my man” was going to the Senate. Charlie was turning the screws. The increasing likelihood that the President would be forced to appoint a special prosecutor gave him even more leverage on Silbert. Earl knew he was in danger of being taken off the case soon if he didn’t move fast. Charlie enjoyed reminding him of it.

The negotiations with Silbert and Glanzer were extremely complex, largely because they involved questions of trust. The prosecutors had a genuinely strong reason for not wanting to give me total immunity: it would make me a much less believable witness against Haldeman, Ehrlichman, and Mitchell. We suspected they also had another reason: their bosses were in the Justice Department and the White House might jump down their throats. The President had prohibited grants of immunity. He could appoint Silbert a U.S. attorney; I couldn’t. The prosecutors said they would move quickly against higher targets as soon as I pleaded guilty. We suspected they might merely claim triumph for having broken me and then find insufficient evidence for other cases. Charlie’s negotiations with the prosecutors boiled down to close judgments about strength and motivation, and we were both inclined not to cast our lot with them. After all, for nine months I had considered them partial allies in the cover-up, or at least not implacable enemies of it. In mid-May, as Charlie fired up his blowtorch under Silbert, I began to have doubts about whether I even wanted him to succeed. I pondered whether I would welcome total immunity if it came. It was close, but I admitted I probably would.

As our preference moved toward the Ervin Committee, it became more important than ever that I organize my presentation, and I was a long way from being prepared. We all knew I would be roasted for the slightest error. I coaxed my memory. Had I met with Kalmbach on June 28 or 29? Had O’Brien said that at this meeting or another one? Was I sure it was LaRue who said that, and not Parkinson? Was I exaggerating? Was I sure enough to say all this under oath? Was I ready to go on the box?