The Wars of Watergate (82 page)

With his penchant for surprises, the President trotted out Ford in a nationally televised White House ceremony on the evening of November 12. Mrs. Ford told Nixon she did not know whether congratulations or condolences were in order. “Oh, well,” the President replied, “the pay is better.” Whatever the President’s personal feelings, the event exuded goodwill. Spiro Agnew, for the moment, was the national villain. Five years later, he complained that Nixon had not consulted him on the choice of a successor. Worse yet, he lamented that at Ford’s swearing-in ceremony, “my name was not even mentioned once. It was like the Soviet Union where the deposed leaders become nonpersons. It was just as though the previous five years had simply ceased to exist.”
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As the years passed, Agnew would prove to have no monopoly on inability or unwillingness to understand what he had done wrong.

Nixon’s pique and displeasure might well have reflected an objective dissatisfaction with the qualities of his nominee or a frustration with his inability to have his real preference. Perhaps too, the dissatisfaction betrayed his sense of danger and concern. The President’s low opinion of Ford and his vexation at the need to nominate him further betrayed Nixon’s weakness. Agnew’s resignation may have removed an obstacle for those seeking to replace Richard Nixon; by nominating Ford, the President handed his enemies a real alternative. For himself, that alternative unquestionably was dangerous. Ford’s presence as Vice President spurred
Time
’s call for the President’s resignation. The unprecedented editorial described Ford as an “unmistakable improvement over the grievously wounded Nixon.” It viewed Ford as free from corruption, with a “solid if unimaginative” domestic-policy record, a man of the center, liked and respected in Congress, and though he was without experience in foreign affairs, he could be relied on to have Kissinger continue Nixon’s basically sound policies.
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The nation had Lord Bryce’s “safe man.”

If Gerald Ford had any sure qualification to be Richard Nixon’s Vice President, it was loyalty, even blind loyalty, some thought. A friendly aide and biographer realized the potential liability of such loyalty, knowing that
Ford had been perceived as a “knee-jerk” supporter of Nixon. In Congress, he had done a number of shadowy chores for the Administration, ranging from supporting the impeachment of Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas to seeking a contempt citation against CBS for its refusal to release research material relating to a controversial documentary hostile to the Administration. John Ehrlichman reputedly summed up White House disdain for its messenger boy: “What a jerk Jerry is,” Ehrlichman is supposed to have said. Ford supported the President on 83 percent of House votes. No one designated such loyalty as a qualification for the presidency, and yet the prospect of a Ford presidency was not far from the minds of the congressmen who voted to confirm him.
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Ford’s Michigan colleague, Edward Hutchinson, the ranking minority member of the House Judiciary Committee, accused the Democrats of stalling on the confirmation of the new Vice President, despite their leaders’ favorable disposition toward Ford. Hutchinson’s charge had no basis; if anything, the Democrats were anxious to confirm Ford. But the responsibility of doing so was theirs, and they had to offer both the reality and appearance of a careful scrutiny of Ford’s record. The ever-cautious Peter Rodino decided to allow the Senate to act first, perhaps hoping to defuse the more militant liberals on his Judiciary Committee.

In the House committee, Ford faced three factions: his uncritical supporters, led by Hutchinson; a second group, which fed him questions designed to display his integrity, talents, and political folksiness; and finally, his opponents, openly antagonistic, looking for vulnerabilities. Ford played heavily on the chords of honesty and openness. Yes, he was loyal, he acknowledged, but added: “I am my own man and that [
sic
] the only pledge by which I bound myself in accepting the President’s trust and his confidence is that by which we are all bound before God and before the Constitution, to do our best for America.” When a Republican member asked him about the financing of his Colorado condominium, Ford delivered a folksy response invoking the fact that he had borrowed money from his children—at interest.

Some congressmen posed questions related to Watergate, but Ford used them to distance himself from events and any possible involvement on his part. When another member reminded him that he had severely criticized President Kennedy for his use of executive privilege after the Bay of Pigs fiasco, Ford retreated and said that some circumstances might dictate the use of the privilege. Generally, Ford managed to disarm his foes. His apparent ease and openness appeared in sharp contrast to the furtive bearing of the President. Whenever flaws appeared in his record—such as his questionable commitment to civil rights for blacks and his subservient role in the Douglas impeachment affair—they were treated as within the bounds of acceptable political behavior. After all, Gerald Ford was not unique in such
actions. His critics thus found themselves isolated as excessively partisan and moralistic. Ford moved easily into the center.

John Conyers (D–MI) and Charles Rangel (D–NY) made no secret of their hostility, however. They argued that the House should deal first with impeachment, then move to confirming a Vice President. If Nixon were removed, they contended, the nation would not be saddled with his choice as a successor. Ford calmly responded that the President had the right and duty to nominate a Vice President and to choose someone philosophically compatible with him, given his 1972 electoral mandate. Robert Drinan (D–MA) and Elizabeth Holtzman (D–NY) pressed Ford on his knowledge of the secret Cambodian bombing. Holtzman argued that the President had lied publicly on the issue, and Ford admitted that Nixon had not been “100 per cent truthful.” But, he insisted, all presidents had given false and deceptive statements. Holtzman sharply retorted that there was a difference between keeping a secret and falsifying information. “I think all of us understand that difference very well,” she said.

Eight committee members voted against the nomination on November 26. The next day, the Senate endorsed Ford by a 92–3 count. The House followed with an overwhelming 387–35 favorable vote on December 6, and Ford immediately was sworn in as the nation’s fortieth Vice President.
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A close congressional ally of Ford told him shortly after he became Vice President that he was in a powerful position. Nixon needed him more than Ford needed the President. The friend advised Ford to stay away from the White House, travel a good deal, and not listen to the tapes. Ford apparently did not take the advice to heart at first, for, typically, he gave uncritical loyalty to Nixon. Still, his mere presence constituted danger for the President. The day of Ford’s inauguration, Senator Jacob Javits, a New York Republican, said that Ford had provided “a new situation concerning any call on the President to resign in the interest of the country.… I and others will have to give every thoughtful consideration to that possibility.” Even Ford acknowledged that whatever momentary goodwill Nixon had fostered by nominating him had been neutralized by the Saturday Night Massacre.

Two months after Ford’s confirmation, a Democrat captured his House seat, the first Democrat since 1910 to represent Michigan’s Fifth District. Watergate was the issue, and the result was interpreted as a referendum on the President himself. The Democratic candidate had circulated an appeal: “Our President must stand beyond the shadow of a doubt. Our President must be Gerald Ford.” Nixon told Ford that the inflation issue had defeated the Republican candidate.
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Reality had taken flight.

The vice presidency plagued Richard Nixon in a curious way. His own tenure in that office had catapulted him to fame, but it was an unhappy, frustrating experience, tethered as he was to a President who in truth neither liked nor trusted him. Henry Cabot Lodge, Nixon’s 1960 running mate,
preferred afternoon naps to campaign appearances. The candidate who shared the ticket with him in 1968 and 1972 resigned in disgrace. Finally, his last Vice President hovered over the White House in 1974, a conspicuous alternative to the agony of the President and the nation.

As Nixon faced mounting legal and political challenges, he found himself increasingly outmanned, outgunned, and isolated. For months the Justice Department had been useless to him in his Watergate battles. In practice, the department consciously severed itself from the President and his problems. Before the creation of the Special Prosecutor, the department had been an antagonist, despite the President’s concerted efforts to co-opt its leaders and thwart their investigation. The events of October, beginning with the Agnew negotiations and the dealings with Cox, further demonstrated that the department remained an independent power center. Among the many paradoxes of Watergate was that the President of the United States—the “Most Powerful Leader of the Free World”—could muster only the most meager resources against an array of legal talent commanding the full range of public agencies.

Leonard Garment had joined J. Fred Buzhardt as the President’s Counsel after John Dean had been dismissed in April. Neither man was well versed in criminal or constitutional issues. Alexander Haig asked Solicitor General Robert Bork in July to be the President’s chief defense counsel. According to Bork, Haig characteristically framed his request with emotional appeals to patriotism. “The Republic is going down the drain and only you can save it”—or words to that effect, Bork recalled. Haig told Bork about Agnew’s difficulties, and for some reason raised the 1971 spying activities of the Joint Chiefs of Staff as if they were current matters. Bork considered the proposal for several days and said he would have to listen to the tapes. Haig heatedly told him that “nobody” could hear them, and that the President would burn them and resign to protect the presidency if forced to turn them over. Bork sensed the problems. When he asked what Haig meant by “chief defense counsel,” Haig told him he would have exclusive access to the President. “Until I give some advice that isn’t appreciated, and then I’ll sit there and the phone won’t ring,” Bork observed. “That’s very perceptive of you,” Haig admitted. They finally agreed that the job was not for Bork.
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Buzhardt had come to the White House in 1973 after nearly three years as General Counsel in the Department of Defense. He had good political ties; he had been a protégé of Senator J. Strom Thurmond and had developed a close relationship with Melvin Laird. As a practicing lawyer, Buzhardt had confined his work to small-town civil matters in his native South Carolina. He was known as a man who could keep secrets. No wonder, then, that among Nixon’s numerous lawyers, only Buzhardt had access to the tapes.
Given the President’s special reliance on him, coupled with an inability to delegate any of his responsibilities, Buzhardt was badly overworked, a situation that only aggravated his deteriorating heart condition.
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Garment contrasted sharply with Buzhardt. Friendly and gregarious, he had had a substantial legal career in New York. A close observer of Richard Nixon since 1965, he was familiar with the labyrinths of the President’s mind and his Byzantine methods of running the White House. Richard Nixon himself was Garment’s cause and fascination. Buzhardt was devoted to conservative politics; Garment promoted himself as the “house liberal.” Haldeman at one point had asked Garment to represent the White House at the Senate Select Committee hearings, but with Dean falling out of favor, Ehrlichman approached Garment in April to act as Counsel. Garment, however, insisted that the President personally ask him. He discussed the question of accessibility with Nixon, but the talk was an exercise in futility. Serving the President, Garment understood, “ultimately is something special.” Nixon himself considered his lawyers not in a traditional lawyer-client relationship, but as staff workers. A lawyer did not deal with the President directly as he would with an ordinary client. After May, Garment and the other lawyers worked through Haig, and thus Nixon preserved his method of staff dealings, despite the fact that he was coping with a legal, and not a political or policy, situation. Nixon’s promise of accessibility “was more honored in the breach,” Garment recalled. But he knew Nixon. He “took it as a given who he [Nixon] was, what he was, and what he wasn’t.”

The work was frustrating for the lawyers: “We are a little bit in the position of having to tie fishing lines with boxing gloves on,” Garment told his secretary in June. By midsummer, he felt “overwhelmed” and “frustrated,” chiefly because he had no access to the tapes, despite repeated pleas to the President and Haig. Garment also understood his limitations as a criminal lawyer. He feared Nixon’s lawyers would be the “patsy” for the President. By November, he had come to realize that he should have removed himself from the case earlier, but he could not stay away from it—he operated with a kind of obsessiveness; protecting the President in the Watergate affair was “like feeling a sore tooth.” Yet he worried that he might find himself in trouble, for he was learning too much and might have to disclose what he knew. In December, Garment received an anonymous letter from a fellow staff member expressing concern over Garment’s involvement. Garment’s loyalty to the President was commendable, but the writer feared that Garment had been drawn into a web of lies and cosmetic face-saving. He told Garment that it was time for “self-respect and dignity” to supersede loyalty.

Throughout his time in the White House, Garment spent long hours talking to journalists. Early on, he perceived the game of prosecutorial politics and believed that it had to be countered with public-relations volleys from
the White House—to put, as it were, the Administration’s “spin,” or interpretation, on events. His calendar listed regular visits with prominent reporters, including Bob Woodward, J. Anthony Lukas, Theodore White, John Osborne, and Elizabeth Drew. He would discuss imminent revelations with frankness, hoping to defuse their impact. By mid-November Garment saw the President growing more desperate, now realizing that he should have appealed the tapes order to the Supreme Court. Wearily, he told his secretary that Nixon would not or could not “trust” his own lawyers and that it was increasingly difficult to help him.
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