Blind Ambition: The End of the Story (52 page)

“Okay.” I rolled. Eleven. I started counting as I moved my race car around the board. GO TO JAIL! Everybody cracked up, including me.

The game quickly ended, and Mo chided me with a dig that was fair game: “That’s why you’re a bad risk, sweetheart.”

After dinner it was backgammon time, and we played on two boards, until Heidi mused aloud, “I wonder if the turtles are out tonight.”

“Let’s check,” Mo said, but no one moved. “Who’s going to brave it?” she asked, excluding herself, since she’d been injured in earlier battles with the mosquitoes.

“I’ve got an idea,” Heidi said, and she disappeared. She returned soon with an armful of jackets, broad-brimmed women’s hats, and other apparel. We all began bundling up. Mo, who refused to go out and risk another bite, assisted us. All exposed areas had to be covered. Rubber dishwashing gloves and potholder mittens served to cover the hands. Silk scarves, worn under our hats, served as mosquito netting.

Dressed like Arctic scarecrows, we three headed out of the air conditioned house into the humid night air, off for the beach to see if we could find any turtles. Not fifty feet from the path leading to the beach, we found the flipper marks of the enormous female tortoises. I shone the flashlight along the tracks coming from the ocean toward the sand dunes. There we came upon a huge turtle digging a hole for her eggs. We watched in appropriate awe. She seemed oblivious to us and to our light. Soon she had dug a hole at least five feet in diameter, climbed in, laid hundreds of eggs, climbed out of the hole, and covered it again with sand so that the eggs could incubate during the warm summer days. Then she started back to sea.

“How much do you think she weighs?” I asked Morgan as she dragged her enormous hulk before us.

“I don’t have any idea,” Morgan responded.

The turtle stopped right in front of us. She looked at us as if to say, “See for yourself.” Without moving, she waited patiently as Morgan and I tried to lift her. We could not budge her an inch.

With that, the tortoise resumed her march to the sea without our help. We headed on down the beach, finding tracks but no more turtles. In the excitement of our pursuit I had paid little attention to the distance we’d walked in the soft sand, but we’d gone about a mile. We turned to head back and with the wind now behind us I realized how heavily I’d been perspiring under all the clothing. I also was short of breath. I had to stop.

“Here, Morgan, you take the light and go on with Heidi,” I said, and they walked on. I walked into the water, shoes and all, up to my knees, to cool off. I still couldn’t catch my breath, and I loosened my shirt. My chest was pounding. Heavier that it should be, I thought. I was glancing down the beach, after the flashlight with Heidi and Morgan, thinking I’d better get along after them, when—wham! A sharp pain, like someone had just pounded on my chest with a hammer. Jesus Christ! I’m having a heart attack! My lungs gasped for breath as some reflex took over. My mind raced and said, Get out of the water so you won’t drown if you faint. Slowly I staggered out and sat down. Maybe I should call for help, I thought as I glanced again at the light. I took a few more breaths, slow and easy. No pain, but the muggy sweat had turned cold. What in the hell’s wrong with you? I asked myself. A few more deep breaths, and I decided, nothing. No chest pain. My pulse seemed normal. I’d decided that it was not a heart attack, but that nature had sent me a warning.

I got up, took off the jacket I was wearing over a sweater, then the sweater. Who gives a damn about mosquitoes, I decided. Testing myself, I started down the beach, staying near the water, where the sand was hard and easier to walk on. I could hear Morgan and Heidi exclaiming about new tracks down the beach. Take it slow, make sure you’re okay, but get back to the house, I told myself. As I walked I decided there was no need to alarm anyone with what had happened. I would get a physical checkup as soon as I got home. I was nearly thirty pounds overweight from nervous eating and excessive drinking. I had been living under intense stress for several years and hadn’t exercised in a long time. I smoked like a potbelly stove and slept poorly.

Sam Dash came to the house within an hour of my return to Washington the next day, Saturday, accompanied by Jim Hamilton
.

“What’s on your mind, Sam?” I asked as he wandered about the living room. I had sat down on one of the sofas, assuming that Sam would do the same. He always did. Obviously he was stirred up; neither he nor Jim sat. Sam paced; Jim stood in front of the fireplace, gazing at us.

“Something’s come up” Sam said. That was obvious. He had a very serious look about him. “John, let me ask you this. Do you think it’s possible Nixon could have taped all of his office and phone conversations?”

“Sure it’s possible. You know my testimony about the—“

Sam cut me off. “I know, but you were talking about one conversation. You think he could have taped all of them?”

“Sure. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had.”

“Well, if he did,” Sam said, standing over me, arms folded, “how could we find out?”

“Find out if he taped his conversations?” I repeated, as I mused over something I’d thought about several times and had a ready answer for. “Sam, if he did, I’ll tell you who would probably know.” I suggested several names: General Al Redman
, head of the White House Communications
Agency, Steve Bull, Alex Butterfield
, Haldeman, and Ehrlichman.

“Who’s Redman
again?” Dash asked. I explained that he had been assigned by the Army Signal Corps
to head the White House Communications
Agency, which provided communication support for the President.

“This fellow Butterfield
. Would he know?” Dash asked.

“He might, but I think Redman
would be more likely. Also Redman
would not lie to you. He wouldn’t want to risk losing his—”

“Would Butterfield
lie?”

“No. Never. Butterfield
’s a no-bullshit-type guy. You ask him and he’ll tell you.”

“Interesting,” Sam said, walking about again.

I wondered what all this was about. Certainly Dash could have asked me these questions on the telephone, and I would not have had to return.

Sam came back and stopped in front of me. “John, what would you say if I told you that we’ve learned from Butterfield
that Nixon did tape all his conversations?”

“You’re kidding!” I said. I was on my feet: “Listen, Sam, that’s fantastic! Absolutely fantastic! Can you get the conversations?”

“You think Butterfield
would know what was going on, do you?” Sam asked, ignoring my question.

“If Alex said the old man recorded his conversations, you better believe it. Sam, do you know what this means, if you can get those conversations?” I went on excitedly. “It would mean my ass is not hanging out there all alone. It means that you can verify my testimony. And I’ll tell you this, you’ll find out that I’ve undertestified, rather than overtestified, just to be careful. I always figured something like this could happen.” I was ecstatic.

Dash swore me to secrecy; he was going to put Butterfield
on as a surprise witness on Monday, interrupting Kalmbach’s testimony. When Sam was ready to leave, I walked with him to the door. Standing on the front stoop, he reached out to shake my hand.

“John, I think I should tell you I came out here to test you. We weren’t sure how you’d react to the idea of a record that might contradict your testimony. I’m on my way to see Chairman Ervin right now and tell him that—you passed the test with flying colors.”

“Professor, I don’t give a damn what kind of test I passed, but I do hope you can get those recordings.” Dash had been clever in his examination, I was thinking; better than when he questioned me before the committee.

Charlie called me later that afternoon and came on strong. “What in the hell do you mean meeting with Dash without your lawyer present?” he shouted into the phone.

“I didn’t have time to find you. You were off riding in some damn steeplechase or whatever it is you do as a country gentleman,” I answered, not falling for Charlie’s phony bluster. “How did you find out about the meeting, anyway?”

“I know everything about my client,” he said, shifting tone. “Listen, I called to tell you that Sam called me. He and Ervin met this afternoon after he left your house. Dash told me all about the meeting with you, and you damn near floored him when you told him to get the tapes. You know, I don’t think old Sam totally believed you, but now he and Ervin sure as hell do.”

“Charlie, it’s a new ball game now. If they can get the tapes of the President’s conversation—” Before I could finish Charlie interrupted.

“What do you think Nixon’s going to do when Butterfield
reveals this?”

“I don’t know for sure. He’ll probably say it’s true. In fact, he’ll have to admit it, because I’m sure a lot of people had to be involved in putting such a system in. But he’ll say those are conversations protected by executive privilege. He sure as hell isn’t going to turn them over. That’s what I told Sam, that Nixon would probably go to court, and Sam said he was ready to go to court after them.”

“Who’ll win? You’re supposed to be an expert on executive privilege.”

“Who knows, Charlie? There’s really no law on it. But what worries me is Nixon might screw around with those tapes—change them, splice them or something.”

“Naw, how in the hell could he? Who would do it?”

“Some technical expert.”

“Yeah, and that some technical expert and everybody between him and the President would own Richard Nixon for life.”

“I guess you’re right. I hope you’re right.”

“Yeah, but it’s still your word against Haldeman, Ehrlichman, and Mitchell, as far as your dealings with them.”

“Well, I suspect they’re on the tapes, too.”

“Don’t get too encouraged, son. You’ve got a rough road ahead.”

But we both knew it would be different. Now, as far as the President’s fate was concerned, I was no longer the sole accuser. The tapes themselves were the best evidence, and I began long and complicated calculations on whether they could ever be obtained. There was, at least, a glimmer of hope that my own future was not so closely intertwined with the President’s. I felt the pressure ease as the battle for the tapes began, and I began to focus more closely on a settlement for my own crimes.

Journal (July 1973 - January 1975)

Late July 1973

Mo and I went to California to be near her mother, who was dying of cancer. I ignored the Ervin hearings. I was worried about my own health, and that I was becoming an alcoholic. I quit drinking, cold turkey. Twenty-five pounds came off my body with a crash exercise regimen and a diet. I jogged around the UCLA track in sunglasses and a floppy tennis hat.

Early August 1973

Charlie called long distance from Washington. “How is my favorite health nut? I guess you’re fit as Tarzan by now.”

“Totally reformed,” I joked. “It really feels good, Charlie. I only wish I could be about three thousand more miles away from Washington.”

“Well, don’t you forget about us back here. I need your help, I’m having trouble getting in to see the P. He won’t return my calls.”

“Try Rose Woods
,” I suggested. “Tell her Jimmy Hoffa
wants to give the Teamsters’ yacht to the President. Maybe that’ll get you in.”

Ever since Butterfield
had revealed the Presidential taping system, Charlie had been declaring that he wanted to see the President eyeball-to-eyeball in the Oval Office and demand all the tapes of his conversations with me. It was a running jest. Charlie’s rehearsals of those confrontations were executed with his usual flair.

“Listen, John,” he said when the fun had died down, “I was down to see those fellows at the Special Prosecutor’s office today.”

Here comes the business, I thought. I went on guard. “Did you talk to Cox?”

“No. I ran into him, but I met with Neal and a young fellow by the name of Richard Ben-Veniste
. He’s a bright little kid from the Southern District up in New York. And I tell you, Ben-Veniste
and old Neal are really something together. They’re as different as molasses and vinegar. I wanted to see what’s on their minds down there, so I went into Neal’s office and said, ‘Jimmy, I guess maybe you’ve lost track of my man now that you’re all balled up trying to get those tapes.’ And he laughed and said, ‘Shaffer, I never lose track of you.’ He said he’d been thinking about calling me, because he wants to know what we’re going to do. He says he can feel it in his bones that you’re going to plead guilty.”

“Maybe he’s got pretty good feelings,” I said quietly.

“Maybe so,” said Charlie. “We’ve got to talk about that. But I decided to ruffle his feathers a little bit. I told him it makes no sense for my man to plead, because the government can never get a conviction against him. I told him he’s got a big bag of problems, and the first one is that we’d destroy his case with a taint motion.”

“What did he say about that?” Charlie was convinced that Silbert and Glanzer had made extensive use of the evidence I had given them in our off-the-record meetings. He thought the government could never prove that its case against me was not “tainted” by my confessions.

“Well, he said he’s not worried about any taint motion,” Charlie replied. “But he’s bluffing. He knows he’s in trouble.”

“Charlie, do you really think a taint motion would prevail?”

“You’re goddam right I do!” Then he paused, sighed, and lapsed into a less confident tone. “But who knows what will prevail in this kind of case? I just think we’ve got a good shot. I don’t risk predictions.”

“But Neal’s worried, you think?” I became unsettled whenever Charlie’s bravado waned.

“Yes, sir,” he replied firmly, his spirits reviving. “And I gave him another reason to worry. If he indicts us I’ll put a motion for the tapes right on top of the taint motion. I told him there’s no way you can get a fair trial without those tapes.”

“It sounds like you leaned on him pretty hard.”

“I did, and let me tell you why. These guys need you as a witness, and they need you bad. They still want you to plead to a one-count, five-year felony for the cover-up. They’re leaning hard, too. I want you to put down your barbells out there and do some thinking. If you want to go to trial, fine. I’m ready. It will cost you a couple hundred thousand bucks, but I’ll give you as long as you need to pay me. We might win, we might lose. If you want to plead, on the other hand, that’s fine too.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“That’s not my decision. It’s yours. And you should start deciding.”

September 1973

Mo was opposed to my pleading guilty. People beat raps in Washington all the time, she argued, and I should give myself a fighting chance. Charlie waxed hot and cold, and so did I. When he leaned in one direction, I leaned in the other. We stayed on the fence. But in my mind the question was more which than whether I would plead.

October 1973

Charlie called one afternoon. “Big news today, son,” he began. “A little good and a little bad. The Court of Appeals finally had to bite the bullet. They upheld Sirica’s order to hand over the tapes. What do you think Nixon will do now?”

“There’s no question what he’ll do,” I said. “He’ll fight it. He’ll take it to the Supreme Court. That’s where he wants it, anyway.”

“Well, if he does I think Cox is going right up there after him. It looks good for Cox.”

“I’m pulling for him.” I paused, caught between hope about Cox and anxiety about the other part of Charlie’s news. “What else, Charlie?”

“You’ve got to come back to Washington right away,” he said tersely. “If you’re going to plead, it’s now or never. And if you don’t plead now, they’re going to the grand jury and have you indicted.” There was finality in Charlie’s voice.

“What’s the rush all of a sudden?” I stammered. “Why right now? Why can’t we wait until the tapes case is settled? Christ, Charlie, Nixon is still a long way from giving those things up. Can’t you get Neal to hold off? What’s eating him?” I felt panicky and off balance. Frightened. I would have given anything for a week’s delay.

“I don’t know what’s going on for sure. Neal kind of hinted that Cox and the White House are going after each other pretty hard now, and something’s going to give. Neal says it’s vital that you plead now. He’s getting his horses in the gate. It’s post time. I can’t budge him, John.”

“Charlie, that’s what Silbert said in his goddam letter,” I protested. “I could be walking into a trap.,,”

“Cox is not Silbert,” Charlie replied. He was being gentle but firm. “This is a new game. Look, I can delay all sorts of things, John. Afterwards. But you’ve got to decide whether you’re going to throw in with Cox. And if you are, you’ve got to come back here right away.”

“How soon?”

“Tomorrow. The next day at the latest. Neal says they’re going to wrap it up this week, one way or the other. They’re going to court with your plea or they’re going to the grand jury without it.”

There was a short silence. I felt my throat tighten. “Okay, Charlie,” I sighed. “I’ll fly back in the morning. And I’ll bring Mo back with me so I can break it to her. I don’t think she thought this day would ever come, either.”

“I’ll make the arrangements,” Charlie said briskly. “I’ll call Neal and set up an appointment. We still have some leverage for the details. He’s got to give us some room. We’re not going to cave in right off the bat. But you’ve got to understand that Neal will know damn well what it means that you’re showing up.” Charlie was nervous, jumping right into the arrangements to avoid the tension.

“All right, I’ll call you when we get in.”

“I’m with you, John. And for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing.
1
*
You know that.”

“I know, Charlie. Thanks.” I fought against a swell of emotion. “I think it’s the right thing to do, but so did Custer.” I laughed weakly.

“Those were less civilized times, my boy. If you get scalped, you’ll have due process and the best damn lawyer money can buy. I’ll talk to you soon.” He hung up.

I made several runs at telling Mo what had happened. It came out hesitatingly, in bits and pieces. We latched on to distractions. That evening we avoided the subject by watching a political spectacular on television. With great fanfare, the President announced his choice of a successor to Vice-President Spiro Agnew
, who had resigned in the face of criminal charges.

“That’s very shrewd,” I said when Gerald Ford’s name was pronounced. “The President just bought himself an insurance policy.”

“What do you mean?” Mo asked.

“Well, he’s just made sure there won’t be any Republican groundswell for him to resign. There won’t be a big push to put Jerry Ford in the White House.”

“Why not?” she protested. “I like Jerry Ford. He was very nice to me over at Pat Golubin
’s. Remember? He didn’t know me at all, but he said nice things.”

I remembered. Ford had been on crutches that evening, recovering from some sort of accident. “I know, sweetheart. He’s the kind of guy who’s a nice neighbor, but that doesn’t mean he’s the kind of man Republicans will want as President. He’s not well known, and everybody in Washington considers him a lightweight. Christ, Mo, you know more about foreign policy than he does.”

“Well, he’s still better than Agnew
and Nixon,” she insisted.

“Maybe you’re right,” I admitted. “I’m just worried that he’ll strengthen Nixon. And anything that strengthens Nixon hurts me.”

October 19, 1973

“Mr. Dean, you have heard the charges against you, how do you plead?” Judge Sirica asked, peering down at me from the bench.

“Guilty, your honor.”

It was over. And I felt nothing. Or refused to let myself feel. Maybe it was easier because there were no immediate consequences, I thought, as Charlie, Mo, and I walked out of the courtroom.

“Well, I’m not going to be with you the rest of the way,” Neal said. He was announcing his resignation. “You’re my best trophy, and now that I’ve brought you to Archie, I’m going back home and make some money.”

“I look forward to talking with you, Mr. Dean,” Archibald Cox said to me in the elevator as we rode down from Judge Sirica’s courtroom. “I’ll give you a call early next week, and see if we can arrange a meeting.”

“I’d like that, Mr. Cox,” I said. When the elevator door opened, he stepped out briskly ahead of me, his briefcase tucked under his arm. Boy, do I wish that was filled with the tapes, I thought. I visualized Cox walking down the courthouse corridor with me under one arm and a briefcase of tapes under the other, like two big loaves of bread, heading for the grand-jury room.

October 20, 1973

The evening news had been heavy: reactions to my guilty plea; the President’s compromise proposal to have a summary of the tapes verified by Senator John C. Stennis
of Mississippi; Cox’s refusal to accept the compromise. I was delighted when Mo found a variety show on the television. Time
to tune out.

WE INTERRUPT THIS PROGRAM FOR A

SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT.

NBC reporter Carl Stern
flashed onto the screen. He was standing in front of the White House, breathless. His voice was filled with emotion, which was highly irregular. The President had fired Cox! The Special Prosecutor’s office had been abolished!

“My God, what in the world...?” I shouted at Stern
, who continued, oblivious to my protest.

Attorney General Elliot L. Richardson
had resigned. Deputy Attorney General William D. Ruckelshaus
had been fired. The FBI had been sent to seal off the files in Cox’s office. The FBI had also been dispatched by the White House to seal Richardson
’s and Ruckelshaus’ files. Stern
said he’d report any further developments, and disappeared from the screen. I was motionless.

“What does that mean?” Mo asked with a frightened look that mirrored my alarm.

“It’s bad. Nixon’s fighting back. He’s going to play rough.” I got up and started to pace. I brought the telephone over to the ottoman in front of the television, sat down, got up again.

“I’d better call Charlie.” I sat down again. My hands were trembling as I dialed. It felt like the night Nixon had fired me.

“Is Charlie there?”

“No, sorry. He’s over at some friends’ house at a party,” his daughter told me.

“This is John Dean. Could you get a message to him, and tell him to call me? It’s very important.” As I put the receiver down, the phone rang. I was so jittery it felt like an electric shock. “Hello.”

“John, this is John Lindsay
,” the
Newsweek
reporter said.