Blind Ambition: The End of the Story (38 page)

“Well, I have no intention of getting into my dealings with the President.”

“No, I don’t mean that. I understand that.”

“Yeah, I have thought about my testimony and its implications, and I know it’s a problem and I don’t know exactly what to do. You know, John, when I was up at Camp David I thought about leaving the country. Just taking off. Taking the chicken-shit route and running as fast and as hard as I could so I wouldn’t be a problem for anyone.”

“Tell me where you were thinking of going, maybe I’d like to join you,” he said with a smile, and as we exchanged quick glances it occurred to me that he was, perhaps, not dismissing the idea.

“Well, I don’t really know where I’d go, but wherever I went I would not go without Mo.”

Mitchell was now laughing warmly, which he had seldom done in any of my recent dealings with him. “I’m not so sure I’d take Martha with me. And I’m not so sure we’d want to have her.” We shared a laugh, but his next question cut through the jokes. “How’s your new wife holding up under all this?”

“Not very well, John,” I replied, subdued. “That’s one of my problems. Our marriage has been a disaster. Or should I say I’ve been in a state of disaster since we got married? I feel sorry for Mo.”

“I can understand that. I’m sorry to hear it,” he said in a sympathetic tone, which provoked me to open up more. I told him at some length about Mo’s potentially suicidal frame of mind, my drinking, the toll I felt the cover-up had taken on me. Mitchell nodded kindly and I spilled over even more.

I wound up looking straight at him, controlled but obviously opening up some of the valves that were deep down. “John, the idea of having to testify against you is not a pleasant thought for me,” I said. “You have to know that. But it may come to that if I’m called before the grand jury. And I feel terrible about it. But I don’t think I’ve got any choice. This cover-up has got to end. It gets worse all the time and it could kill the President. It’s ruining my life, and I suspect yours too. And I must tell you I feel like I tried to stop this thing in the first place. I think I’m being screwed. Everybody’s protecting themselves, and I think I’ve got to do the same thing. That’s why I hired a lawyer. I don’t want to be the scapegoat on all this.”

“I agree,” said Mitchell. He leaned forward intently. “And don’t get the impression, John, that I think you should take the rap for others. But I think your testimony could cause a terrible problem for the President.”

I leaned back and thought for a moment. Mitchell was shifting gears now, throwing the President between himself and danger, reaching for my loyalty button. “I know that, John,” I replied, “and I don’t want to do that. But I think we’ve already caused problems for the President, and they’re going to be there no matter how I testify.”

“Well, maybe the best thing for you to do is to avoid testifying altogether, then,” he said. “Have you thought about taking the Fifth?”

“Yeah, I have. But that looks bad. It would cause more problems for me and for the President. Besides, the prosecutors might turn around and immunize me and force my testimony. That would cause even more problems.” Mitchell then suggested other means to block my testimony—executive privilege, the attorney-client privilege. I offered reasons why they wouldn’t work: they would cause problems and more problems. That was the word of common currency in the Administration; a “problem” could be anything from a typographical error to a forty-year jail sentence. The word drained the emotional content from tense discussions. It helped us maintain the even, robot-like composure we considered vital to effectiveness.

I decided to make an effort to turn Mitchell around, to get the pressure off me and make him see his predicament. “John, I don’t think any of this is going to work. Let me tell you something. I’ve heard that Liddy has been talking with the prosecutors off the record. Knowing him, it’s hard to believe, but he could bring the whole house down. I think people are going to start caving in, causing problems for everybody.”

Mitchell nodded at the news, expressionless. “That’s always a possibility,” he said. “Tell me, John. I understand that Liddy would say you told him he could have a million-dollar budget for his plans. Is that true?”

I was dismayed at the question. Instead of recognizing the damage Liddy could do to him, Mitchell was trying to imply that I
might become implicated in approving the break-in. “Well, you know, I know that Jeb has said that,” I replied with some irritation. “I don’t frankly remember any such conversation with Liddy. If I recall the conversation correctly, I told Liddy one time, thinking about the Caulfield plan, you know, ‘maybe a half a million dollars, maybe more.’ John, I really don’t believe that version, and I don’t think it could cause me a problem.”

Mitchell thought for a moment, and then made another thrust. “How are you going to handle the activities that occurred after the break-in?”

I looked off at the watercolor prints hanging behind the sofa. Mitchell was going on the offensive, telling me my testimony could backfire on me. For an instant, I suspected he might have been setting me up by drawing out my confessions about Mo’s state of mind. I knew that such talk could be used to impeach my testimony, to make me sound like a man unstable enough to say anything. I suppressed the paranoia. Of all the cover-up principals, I thought, Mitchell would be the last to stoop to something like that. My soft spot for Mitchell was still there, although suspicion had turned it into a bruise. My mind returned to his question. I had to show him I was not afraid of it. “Well, John, if they get into questions under oath, I’m just going to have to tell it the way it is. There’s no other answer, I’m afraid. I don’t have any other solution. And that means I’m going to have to say I was a middleman. I passed messages about the money. There was money. I got into it. I talked to all kinds of people.” I turned back to Mitchell and heaved a sigh. “I don’t know any other way.” Mitchell nodded unhappily. He said nothing. We exchanged quizzical looks and a few shrugs until it was clear there was not much left to say. We’d been talking for more than an hour. “I’ve got to get back to the office, John,” I said, getting up. “But before I go I’d just like to suggest something for what it’s worth. Maybe you ought to get a lawyer. I’ll tell you, I feel much more comfortable now that I have Shaffer watching out for me.”

“Well, I’ll see,” he replied without enthusiasm. “If anyone tries to charge me with anything, I’m just going to stonewall it.” He paused. “Let me ask you this. Could you just keep me advised, if you testify, as to what they ask you and so forth?”

“I don’t know. There’s some rule about grand-jury secrecy. But maybe something could be arranged. Maybe my lawyer could talk to your lawyer.” The phone rang, mercifully hastening my departure. Mitchell walked me to the door and told his secretary he would take the call. “Good luck,” he said, shaking my hand.

“Good luck to you, John.”

“Thanks. I’ll need it.” He turned away. I went back to the office and wrote a memo on the meeting. There were others during that week. Under Charlie’s instructions, I tried to stay out of discussions about testimony. But rumors of the grand jury’s witness list were flying, so I was hardly surprised to find most of the cover-up participants dropping by. My evasiveness put them off. I had become an unknown quantity, straddling, playing secret games with the prosecutors, putting on a show of counsel at the White House.

Even during the strain of my first week of meetings with the prosecutors, the chaos of normal White House business continued. Although I had all but relinquished my title to Fielding because of Watergate pressure, official calls kept coming to me. One of them pushed me over the edge, causing me to buck the tickler for the first time. Higby called on the I.O. “John, what’s the latest report on the replacement for the
Sequoia?”

“You’re putting me on, Larry!”

“No, I’m not,” he said testily. “I need a report.”

I sat back and looked at the phone receiver in bewilderment. Then I seethed, as Higby waited for an answer. For nine months the tickler had been after me to find a replacement for the President’s yacht. He had become bored with the
Sequoia,
finding all kinds of faults with it. I had sent aides to obtain blueprints of the best yachts in the world, and several White House offices had spent months going through them in detail, searching for a boat that would satisfy the President’s whims. Then there had been discussions with the owners as we bargained to find someone who would donate his yacht for the prestige and the tax write-off.

“Larry, I’ve turned this damn project over to Kalmbach,” I said impulsively. “I don’t have any goddam idea what he’s doing, and I really don’t care.”

“You want me to tell
Bob
that?” Higby gasped, as if a priest had just threatened to spit on the Bible. “Tell him whatever you want.” I hung up, feeling better. The White House is insane, I thought.

I noticed the cover-up participants reacting to me according to their own plans for dealing with the grand jury. Paul O’Brien was very guarded; I knew he had built ties to Ehrlichman since I had fallen off the first team of the cover-up. Fred LaRue, on the other hand, came in with abject defeat written on his face; he said he would confess to the grand jury and expressed ignorance of the obstruction laws. “You know, John, I really care for John Mitchell. You know that,” he said dejectedly. “But I’ve got to face the fact that he has gotten a lot of people in trouble trying to protect himself. God, I can’t believe this. I’ve been with him a long time, but over the last four months I’ve watched him disintegrate. I’m afraid of what he might do. I’m afraid he might commit suicide. End it all.” Fred and I discussed the possibility of a Mitchell suicide. Highly unlikely, we decided, but possible. Fred asked for legal advice. I suggested he retain counsel.

On Saturday morning, April 14, I went in to the office to hide, meditate, and go through the motions of working on the Dean Report. By now, even Haldeman knew that the idea of any report from me was hopeless, but we discussed it anyway, and I would say simply that I was still working.

Ehrlichman called to say that it was going to be an interesting day. He was meeting with Mitchell and then Magruder in last attempts to get them to take the rap. He asked for my suggestions. I gave him some.

I called Charlie. “I think the shit’s going to hit today,” I said. “Ehrlichman’s bringing Mitchell and Magruder in to lean on them. I don’t think anything’s going to happen, but I’ll tell you what I’m afraid of. Ehrlichman’s setting himself up as an investigator. He’s going to claim he’s just learning these facts. But he’s getting desperate. Otherwise he’d never meet with Mitchell himself. I’ll tell you, Charlie, I’m afraid I’m next if he doesn’t budge Mitchell. Which he won’t. He may try to get Mitchell and Magruder to turn on
me.
If they agree to some phony story about how I
gave Liddy the go-ahead, they could all close ranks against me. I don’t think Mitchell would do that, but he’s sure close to breaking. LaRue told me he’s afraid Mitchell might kill himself.”

“John, don’t do anything,” Charlie said urgently. “I’m coming right down there.” He arrived soon in his riding habit. Charlie was very much a country gentleman who trained and rode horses in the Maryland countryside. He was on his way to a hunt race when I called.

“I’ll tell you what should be done with Mitchell,” he said as he walked about my office, looking out of place in his breeches and his well-polished high brown boots. “Mitchell isn’t about to tell John Ehrlichman anything. The only person who can smoke out that bastard is the P.” Charlie had started using my abbreviated language, calling the President “the P,” Ehrlichman “E,” and Haldeman “H.” “The P should call Mitchell into his office, cross-examine him and get the facts out, and then go down to the grand jury—”

“The
President
go to the grand jury?” I asked. “That’s right. He should go down to the grand jury and tell them that this is what his former Attorney General told him. Now, that would put ole Mitchell in a helluva spot. He couldn’t later go down to the grand jury and say he lied to the President, nor could he say that the President was lying about him.”

“I’ll pass that along to Ehrlichman, but I doubt if it will appeal to either him or the President.” I paused, almost laughing at Charlie’s ridiculous wisdom, but I did pass it on to Ehrlichman when he called during our meeting. Then I continued. “Charlie, I’m going to have to tell the President soon that I’ve been to the prosecutors. Or I’m going to have to tell Haldeman at least. I think it’s time I rattled the cage a little bit and let them know the cover-up is really over. I want to draw up a list of all the people involved and their criminal liability. I want to get the message across that even getting Mitchell to confess isn’t going to end the problem.” We went over the facts again, and the law, and I drew up a list of those we figured could be indicted by the grand jury. “Charlie, this list is a goddam disaster,” I said when I had finished. “It’s depressing.”

“It sure as hell is.”

“You know, what is incredible is the number of lawyers on the list.” And I placed an asterisk before ten of the fifteen names.

Pre

*Mitchell,

Magruder,

*Strachan?

Post

H [Haldeman]