Blind Ambition: The End of the Story (25 page)

Stans was waiting in his limousine at the entrance to the White House. On the way to the airport, he kept glancing at his watch. Stans is a man who glances frequently at his watch. His precision had earned him a place in the Certified Public Accountants’ Hall of Fame, as well as the standing one-year record for political fund raising estimated at around $50 million.

“Have you ever thought about getting one of those computer watches?” I asked.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I looked at them, but decided against it.”

“Why?”

“Because it takes two hands to operate them. When I’m meeting with someone and want to sneak a look at my watch, I don’t want to be conspicuous.” He showed me how noticeable it would be to press a button on his watch to make the time light up. “And I’m often carrying a stack of papers in one hand, and that would make it tough to check the time if I was on the run.”

Stans was the only Administration official who could have tutored Bob Haldeman on efficiency. He was proud of his fund-raising technique, inviting comparison with the work of Herb Kalmbach, his only rival. He would tell wealthy targets that they owed the President a fixed percentage of their income and that he was there to collect. It was insurance, or it was a necessary business expense to keep the right President in office. The ship was sailing, Stans never gave them enough time to think about it. Kalmbach took a seductive, bonhomie approach, loosening his targets by alluding to his intimacy with the President and telling a few jokes. Herb had elevated fund raising to a fine-arts craft. Among his props was a small notebook filled with his joke collection which he consulted before each appointment, choosing items to suit the customer.

As the plane took off, Maury pulled out his attaché case and reviewed his personal reminder list, his own tickler. As fast as he checked one item, he added another. We chatted about the reasons I was along. He was going to see Mitchell to discuss closing down the Finance Committee. He was under pressure to disclose the names of Republican contributors because of a suit by Common Cause, a vigorous citizens’ lobby. While Stans talked, I was wondering whether he was going to lay a new cover-up disaster at my door. If so, I knew it would be a whopper. Maury was one person I had never needed to fret about. He could take care of himself. I was relieved when he returned his notes to his attaché case and fished out a copy of
Playboy
.

“You read that?” I asked.

“Sure,” he answered with a smile, “and I look at the pictures too.” I was embarrassed when he asked me if I wanted to have a look. I liked the pictures well enough, but I didn’t have the nerve to display them on American Airlines. I relaxed. Maury eased the tension I felt as I thought about the Hunt tape in my attaché case.

Since Stans had provided our transportation to the Washington airport, I reciprocated in New York. It was now nothing for me to have my secretary call the Secret Service and have agents meet my plane, take me to my appointment, and return me to the airport. I was assigned jurisdiction over the Secret Service in the post-election shuffle at the White House: another score for the counsel’s office.

We proceeded to the conference room he had reserved at the Metropolitan Club, a decorous relic from another era. The room was spectacular—high ceilings, faded walls, a huge fireplace with a massive baroque mirror over it, and a conference table that could comfortably handle dozens. When Mitchell arrived, the three of us met around it. Stans ran swiftly through his checklist and then left. His departure spared me an awkward moment; I hadn’t wanted him around when I broached the subject of Hunt with Mitchell.

“John, we’ve got a problem with Hunt,” I began. “Now that the election’s over, he’s turning the screws.” While I opened my attaché case I described Colson’s call and how I’d recorded it. “I’ll let you hear this for yourself. I played it this morning for Bob and John, and they told me to bring it to you.”

Mitchell chuckled. “Hmm, I’ll bet they did.”

He listened to it impassively, breaking his silence only to protest Hunt’s remark that he had committed perjury. “I don’t know what the hell Mr. Hunt is talking about on that,” he said angrily, and then settled back for the remainder of the tape.

“That’s sweet, isn’t it?” I remarked, trying to lighten the load I had just dumped on him.

“I’ll say.” Mitchell rose slowly. “You have any good news?”

“I do, as a matter of fact. Haldeman and Ehrlichman told me this morning that they’re going to keep Dick on as Attorney General.”

“That’s kind of them,” Mitchell said with a bite. He was making his way toward a small table near the door, where his overcoat and hat lay.

“Can I give you a ride? I’ve got a car down in front.” I wanted to know what, if anything, Mitchell wanted me to do about Hunt, and I was disturbed by his hasty departure.

“No, thanks.” He was putting on his coat. “Our place is just a few blocks from here. The walk’ll do me good.”

“Anything you want me to report to Bob or John?” I asked plaintively.

“No. No, I don’t think so. Thanks for coming up. I’ll give you a call later.” We both headed out of the room and said goodbye when I stopped at the checkroom. By the time I reached my car, Mitchell was at the corner of Sixtieth Street and Fifth Avenue. His collar was up around his neck, his hat pulled down, and his shoulders were slumped. I watched him cross the street slowly and wondered if this once powerful man felt as burdened by the cover-up as I did. All we had were worries and shady habits, evasions but no solutions.

“Ready to go?” shouted the Secret Service agent.

“Yeah, let’s go. Maybe I can make the seven-o’clock shuttle if we hurry.” I jumped into the front seat, not wanting the agents who drove me around to think I looked on them as chauffeurs. We took off. “How’s it going up here in New York?” I said.

“Fine, thanks. Just fine.”

“What kind of cases you been working? Anything exciting?” Some agents had told me spine-tingling tales about breaking up counterfeit rings, a principal function of the Secret Service.

“No. Nothing good recently. I’ve been on protective detail the last few months.” He spoke sourly. Protective details were the bane of many agents’ existence.

“Oh. Whose?”

“Sugarfoot,” he said. It was Tricia Cox’s code name.

“How was it? Pretty painful?”

“I’ll say.” He fell silent, busy getting through the midtown traffic. But Sugarfoot was obviously on his mind, for he abruptly picked up the conversation about ten minutes later. “Frankly, she’s a pain in the ass. She bitches about what we wear, and when she goes shopping she complains if we don’t stay a certain distance away from her. I can understand her side of being under protection, you know, but she doesn’t understand ours. Shit, we can’t do anything right for her. Oh, well, I guess I should keep my mouth shut.”

I commiserated with him briefly and jumped out to catch my plane. Mo greeted me warmly at home about eight-thirty and was amazed to hear that I had been to Camp David and back to Washington and then to New York and back in one day.

“Sweetheart, would you fix me a good strong drink? I’m weary.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll tell you—” I called after her, and then stopped. I seldom, if ever, talked about my office problems at home, because I didn’t want the unpleasantness to spread into my marriage.

“You’ll tell me what?” she asked as she came back with the drink.

“Nothing, really.” That’s not fair, I thought. “Well, it’s just that I’m right in the middle of some nasty decisions that have to be made soon. Decisions that are going to affect the President’s second term. It’s pretty heavy stuff—on second thought I’d just as soon not talk about it. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“Tell me about your day.” Which she did as I anesthetized myself with one drink after another. I do not become boisterous or wildly creative with booze. I sink slowly into a solemn, numb catatonia.

A few days later, the middle-level cover-up group filed into my office for a strategy session. Ken Parkinson and Paul O’Brien, who had been the Reelection Committee’s lawyers and who were serving as intermediaries with Hunt, reported that Parkinson had received a memorandum from William O. Bittman, Hunt’s lawyer. Fred LaRue reported on the tribulations of a secret fund raiser. I referred to the problem that was most constant: Mitchell and the White House were engaged in the perennial war of nerves over who could ignore the problem longer.

“Here, take a look at this memo,” said Parkinson. He began pacing around the room. Ken could never sit still when the ugly side of Watergate was being discussed. O’Brien was usually cool and witty, providing comic relief and a clear head. LaRue, who had the toughest job as money raiser, flopped into his chair like a tired basset hound and sat there in quiet mourning. Since I was much younger than the others, I felt the need to prove my worth as the President’s counsel. Usually, I would try to act the competent moderator, keeping things going, emphasizing the fact that I was only a liaison between the top and the bottom.

When the Hunt memo was passed to me I looked at it with dread. The money demands of each of the seven Watergate defendants were spelled out: salary, family upkeep, incidentals, and lawyers’ fees. Month by month. Due dates for cash deliveries stretching to the early months of 1973. The total was staggering.

“I think I’m going to switch sides,” O’Brien cracked. “Any of you guys have any break-ins you want me to do?”

A weak chuckle circulated and died. “What would happen if we refused?” I asked. “Or if we cut the figures in half? Would the whole thing cave in?” No one answered. We all knew the answer.

LaRue was shaking his head. “I can’t raise this kind of money,” he said sadly. “We can’t meet these demands. It’s just that simple, so maybe we’ll find out what’s going to happen.”

“You think they’d take it out in trade?” asked O’Brien.

This one never made it off the ground. LaRue looked too forlorn. I turned to him. “Fred, have you had any luck at all so far? What happens when you hit people?”

“Well, Herb and Maury gave me a few names to try,” he replied. “But, Jesus, I don’t know what to say to the people. I can’t tell them we need some campaign money. That won’t work. We just won the goddam election, and the papers are full of stories about how much money we have left over. And even if they did cough up some campaign money, I couldn’t report it. I don’t know what to do. Maury gave me the name of some contact down in Florida who’s supposed to be the key to a couple hundred thousand dollars cash. I think it’s Arab oil money that Maury wouldn’t touch. I don’t want to touch it, either. The last thing we need is for some crazy Arab to have us by the balls and threaten to sing if the President doesn’t bomb Jerusalem.

“That would be worse than Hunt.”

“I’m not so sure,” I said. There was a prolonged silence.

“Look,” said O’Brien. “We can stall them for a while, but not for long. We’ve at least got to give them a nibble soon. We can’t use campaign money. That’s suicide. We’ve just got to find somebody who’ll give some to Fred.”

“Right,” said LaRue hopelessly. “That’s all we need.”

As the meeting broke up we were in various stages of distress; the cover-up could well go on forever.

After more inconclusive conversations about money and some routine business, I decided to try to hide again from Watergate. Mo and I went to my parents’ home in Greenville, Pennsylvania, for Thanksgiving, but the crisis followed us. The whole family was busy in the kitchen when the phone rang and my sister answered.

“John!” she exclaimed. “It’s the White House. John Mitchell wants you.” A murmur of excitement went around the room, and my family beamed proud smiles at me. I was pleased, but was caught up short when I realized I couldn’t take the call in front of them because Mitchell and I would be agonizing over Hunt’s demands. I slipped into the bedroom.

“Where are you?” asked Mitchell, who had relied on the White House switchboard to find me.

“I’m up at my folks’ house in Pennsylvania.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to bother you, but I was just wondering what happened on the little list that Ken received. Has anything been done?”

“No, John. Nothing’s been done. It’s the same old problem, you know. We all sit around and worry about it, but no one knows what to do.”

“Well, I think Ehrlichman and Haldeman are finally coming down from Camp David tomorrow. So I understand. Don’t you think maybe you ought to get back there and see that something’s done about this? I don’t think we can let it slide.”

“I know we can’t, but I’m not sure my talking to them will do any good.”

“Well, you just think about it,” he said, almost pleading.

“I’ll see what I can do. Maybe I can handle it on the telephone. What do you think I ought to tell Bob and John?”

“I think they’ve got a few reserves sitting around down there that they could help us out with. They’ve got to pull an oar in this thing.”

I balked at the thought of using White House cash, even though this “old” money did not have to be reported. I had some of that money in my safe from the day Strachan and Dick Howard had delivered it in the initial panic. There had already been newspaper stories saying that Haldeman had a big slush fund in the White House, and we were all squeamish about it. “I think it would be pretty dangerous to use any of that money, John. There’s already been a lot of heat about it.”