The Wars of Watergate (34 page)

By that time, Nixon already had attempted to evade any hostility in the forum. Claiming Roosevelt and Eisenhower as precedents, he told his staff in June 1969 that he would stop “calling on those who are trying to give us the hook.” He ordered Ehrlichman to compile information on those reporters who are “out to get us and which ones are either neutral or friends.” He told Ehrlichman to ignore the objections of Klein and Ziegler. “This is my decision and I intend to follow it up.” Angered by increasing criticism from prominent columnists, he directed Klein to: “1. Get some tough letters to these guys from subscribers. 2. Be sure they are cut off.”
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Nixon’s ideas were as petty and petulant as Kennedy’s cancellation of a newspaper subscription, but in Nixon’s case, the behavior was not an isolated episode. Indeed, those impulses fueled a considered policy of harassment, intimidation, and confrontation.

America and its presidents had changed vastly from a half-century earlier. Perhaps few changes were more dramatic and telling than those in the relationship between presidents and the press. Calvin Coolidge, known for his
silence, actually was quite talkative off the record. He had a kindly, warm attitude toward the press and once apologized because reporters “had to” spend summer vacations with him. On one occasion, Coolidge went to elaborate lengths to congratulate the newspapermen for their “constant correctness” in reporting his views; he was amazed that “very seldom … any error creeps in.” Coolidge also noted that they had been “very helpful to the country in coming to a comprehension of what the Government is trying to do, how it is trying to function, what efforts it is making to benefit the condition of the people.”
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Richard Nixon never was known to invoke Calvin Coolidge as any kind of media role model.

In October 1969, Nixon pushed Haldeman for “that hard list” of media workers that would allow the Administration to concentrate on friends. Get the list, he told Haldeman, and then “get in Klein, Buchanan and Ziegler and give them their marching orders.” Three months later, the President told Haldeman he wanted to give Medals of Freedom to “outstanding people” in the press, including—“hold your hat,” Nixon said—Walter Lippmann. Nixon thought the move would have a “great effect” and wanted the idea checked “with the PR types.” By January 1971, a Haldeman aide had developed a “friendlies list” of over eighty men and women in the media, ranging across the political spectrum from William Buckley to Sam Donaldson.

Most Nixon memoranda on the subject of the press, by contrast, focused on what he called “activity in the counterattack field.” He wanted to keep abreast of editorial and columnists’ comments, “so that I know what we must do to counteract whatever effect they may be having on public opinion.” He was convinced that “a solid majority” of 60–65 percent of the press corps began “with a strong negative attitude toward RN.” While occasionally they “will throw us a bone[,] their whole objective in life is to bring us down.” Being less antagonistic in response only encouraged them, Nixon believed, continuing an established refrain that intimidation brought positive results. The object was to force hostile reporters to show “fairness” in order to maintain their credibility.

Johnson had mistakenly “slobber[ed] over them with the hope that [he] could ‘win’ them. It just can’t be done.” Indeed, Nixon was proud of the fact that he had not allowed the press to filter his ideas to the public. “This is a remarkable achievement,” an aide said—undoubtedly quoting the President himself.

By March 1970, the time had come for the Administration’s “all-out, slam-bang” attack on his enemies in the news media. “Now I want this done,” Nixon told Haldeman. “I want a game plan on my desk. I will give you until Wednesday in order to have it—Wednesday afternoon which I usually
reserve to myself is a very good time to discuss this. A game plan to do something about this.”

The President’s anger focused in a particularly vicious manner in November that year, when Haldeman, at Nixon’s direction, called J. Edgar Hoover and asked for “a rundown on the homosexuals known and suspected” in the Washington press corps. Hoover confirmed he had the material and noted that he would not need to make any specific investigation. The Director sent the files to the White House.
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Just as Nixon delegated duties in his press wars, so, too, did Haldeman. The best-known “game plan” that emerged was the brainchild of Haldeman’s primary aide in the early days, Jeb Stuart Magruder. Magruder was thirty-five, young and restless, eager and ambitious. He had come to the White House more through chance than design. A Korean War veteran and a graduate of Williams College, Magruder had had a mixed career as an IBM employee, a paper-products salesman, and a management consultant, and had held junior-executive posts with supermarkets and department stores. Interspersed with these jobs, he participated in political campaigns as a Republican volunteer, first in Illinois for Nixon in 1960 and then for Goldwater in 1964, as well as in some local races. In 1968, Magruder worked for Bob Finch in Nixon’s California campaign, but he soon realized that Finch was
passé
in the Nixon camp and that power really rested with Mitchell and Haldeman. After the election, Finch offered Magruder a place in the Department of Health, Education and Welfare, but the young man thought the job a dead end, and by then he had little respect for Finch. Magruder undoubtedly knew that something bigger could be had. He had caught Haldeman’s eye, thanks to a mutual friend who worked in public relations. In August 1969, Haldeman and Magruder met in San Clemente, and Haldeman had his man. It was a perfect match: Magruder was pliant, reliable, and obedient. In time, Haldeman dispatched Magruder to Herb Klein as the “Deputy” in the White House Office of Communications, and fatefully, in 1972 he became Mitchell’s “Deputy” at the Committee to Re-elect the President. Klein was my “nominal boss,” but Haldeman was his “real boss,” Magruder acknowledged.

In late fall 1969, the dutiful Magruder received Haldeman’s distillation of Nixon’s marching orders guiding the Administration’s retaliation against the media, and he responded with a plan calculated to appeal to every Nixon prejudice. In his “Rifle and Shotgun” memo of October 17, 1969, Magruder urged that the Administration stop “shotgunning” its critics with disorganized calls and protests; instead, he proposed a more precise “rifle” approach. For example, he suggested that newly installed Federal Communications Commission Chairman Dean Burch should monitor the networks’ fairness; that the Justice Department’s Anti-Trust Division should investigate
the networks (“the possible threat of antitrust action I think would be effective in changing their views”), that the IRS should be used against the networks and reporters (“a threat of an IRS investigation will probably turn their approach”); that the Administration should play favorites with the media; and that the Republican National Committee should organize a campaign of protest letters to the news media. There was hardly an original thought to the memo. Incredibly, Magruder later claimed that his “memo was a failure because it suggested that Richard Nixon change his attitude toward the press, and that, as I came to realize, was not to be.”
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In fact, the “Rifle and Shotgun” memo was pure Nixon; the President could not have written it better himself. And Magruder underestimated his effort, for it soon bore fruit.

Several weeks afterward, the President delivered a national television speech, explaining his Vietnamization policy of turning the war over to the South Vietnamese, and expressing confidence that he had the support of the “Silent Majority.” Nixon had made a favorable impact, according to the instant polls. Still, there was anger and annoyance in the White House with the usual network “analysis” following the speech, commentary that contained a few negative remarks, such as those by Ambassador W. Averell Harriman. Sores had to be rubbed.

The President continued the metaphor when Pat Buchanan prepared a savage attack on the networks for their lack of fairness and balance. “This really flicks the scab off, doesn’t it,” the President told William Safire—and then added to Buchanan’s text a few tough lines of his own. It was a rare speech, going through only three drafts, but basically retaining Buchanan’s “white-heat vitality,” Safire remembered. The speech, eventually delivered in Des Moines on November 13, 1969, marked the unleashing of Spiro Agnew as Nixon’s bulldog against the press. Herb Klein was “astonished” when he received an advance copy—not because of its content but because he considered it a “sneak attack” on his own authority. Despite the unfavorable network “instant analysis,” Klein had received ample supportive comments from editors and broadcasters for the President’s Silent Majority talk, and he worried that the Agnew speech might shatter that fragile support.
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Believing he could preempt criticism, Klein sent out copies of the speech to various news bureaus and the networks. Why and how the networks responded as they did remains unclear, but all three decided to broadcast the Vice President’s speech live and in its entirety. It was an extraordinary, unprecedented decision. Perhaps the President was right: contempt, attack, and fear offered the right weapons for intimidating the media.

The Agnew speech in Des Moines had been nurtured in the darker moments of the Goldwater candidacy in 1964. The Vice President offered the
nation, particularly its heartland, a conspiracy theory that blamed the anti-Nixon bias of the media on an Eastern liberal establishment. “A small group of men, numbering perhaps no more than a dozen anchormen, commentators, and executive producers, settle upon twenty minutes or so of film and commentary that’s to reach the public.… [They] live and work in the geographical and intellectual confines of Washington, D.C., or New York City.… They draw their political and social views from … one another, thereby providing artificial reinforcement to their shared viewpoints.” It was time, he said, to question the power of this “small and un-elected elite.” Given the government’s role in regulating the broadcast networks, Agnew’s threat was only thinly veiled: “the people,” Agnew warned, “are entitled to a full accounting of [the networks’] stewardship.”

Agnew had struck the sensitive nerves of the media and liberal intellectuals, but he also won the hearts and minds of those who already believed the notions he espoused. They responded with passionate support for the Vice President. Antisemitic letters constituted n percent of one network’s mail, while tirades against blacks made up another 10 percent. In an ABC poll, 51 percent of the respondents agreed with Agnew.

The President was elated. But his aide Charles Colson—a self-described “original ‘hard-line’ paranoid on the press”—thought matters might get out of hand and urged Haldeman to ask the President to restrain Agnew. Haldeman and speechwriter Ray Price, perhaps sensing overkill, did so, but to no avail. Nixon ordered more speeches from Buchanan for the Vice President. A week later, Agnew told a Montgomery, Alabama, audience that the networks needed representation from “a broader spectrum of national opinion.” Pat Nixon reportedly worried that Agnew had gone too far and that his attacks would provoke further media counterassaults. They certainly provoked ridicule. “If I went on the air tomorrow night and said Spiro Agnew was the greatest American statesman since Washington, Jefferson, Madison, Adams and Hamilton … the audience might think I was biased,” NBC’s David Brinkley told an audience. “But he wouldn’t.”
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Agnew’s frontal assault resembled more a fusillade of cannon than Magruder’s carefully aimed rifle, but others in the Administration were using more precise weapons. For all his outrage at Agnew’s speech, Herb Klein himself had called local stations the day of Nixon’s Silent Majority speech to ask if there would be editorial comment. Klein claimed he called for “sampling” purposes; others noticed the move’s chilling effects. After the networks’ commentaries on the speech, FCC Chairman Dean Burch asked for transcripts of the remarks. Network executives claimed that Klein and Ziegler asked them to supply details of future commentaries. A member of the Subversive Activities Control Board, a nearly moribund agency (according to Klein, the board member “apparently needed something to do”),
took it upon himself to ask local stations for samplings of their news coverage and editorials regarding Administration policies.

A few days after Agnew’s talk, Klein appeared on
Face the Nation
, and said that Agnew’s charges raised “a legitimate question.” Ritualistically voicing objections to governmental “participation” in such questioning, he said that in “any industry—if you look at the problems you have today and you fail to continue to examine them, you do invite the government to come in.” Klein quickly added, “I’d like not to see that happen,” but too late. Few listened to the disclaiming tag line, and Klein found himself lumped with Agnew and Burch as persecutors of the media. What was wrong was the identification of the persecutors. The President had sponsored Agnew’s speech, and it was later revealed that Colson instructed Klein to have Burch make the request of the networks. Colson rarely acted on his own initiative; his deeds, like Haldeman’s and Ehrlichman’s, correlate with his notes of his regular meetings with the President. At the end, Klein best understood that there really had been no victors.
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Several months later, in July 1970, the Administration continued its efforts at intimidation after CBS introduced a series entitled
The Loyal Opposition
. Democratic National Committee Chairman Lawrence O’Brien appeared on the show and scored the Administration for its alleged failures in fighting the war on crime, in stimulating the economy, in advancing civil rights, and in ending the Vietnam war. In September, Colson visited various network presidents to complain about their companies’ anti-Nixon bias, and in a memo to Haldeman he bragged about his success. “The harder I pressed them,” he wrote, “the more accommodating, cordial and apologetic they became.” Colson was convinced that the executives were “very much afraid of us.” His memo became public during the Senate’s Watergate investigation. Network executives contended that Colson had exaggerated their eagerness to oblige. What was not in dispute was the fact that the Administration had dispatched an envoy to voice its complaints directly to the news media. Moreover, the chosen representative was not Herb Klein, who had folded “liaison” with the media into his job description; instead, it was Charles Colson, a man known for his rough tactics and his closeness to the Oval Office—the same man who had flown to New York to congratulate
New York Times
pressmen engaged in a wildcat strike to protest the printing of an antiwar ad, an action that Klein acknowledged had “antagonized even the strongest Nixon friends in the news corps.”