18 1/2 Minutes
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Below is the conversation that took place between President Nixon and H.R, Haldeman which Rosemary Wood "accidentally" (and conveniently) deleted.
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If you like this story, you might also like my novels. Available for Kindle on Amazon (Click here. for more details)
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Authors Disclaimer: The following is a fictional depiction of what might have happened surrounding true events with people whom really existed. However, it is purely fiction; my fabrication of what may have taken place. I have no sure basis of knowing if this happened. It is simply my perception of what might be plausible, even possible.
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“Haldeman”
It’s a simple salutation filtered through the technology of modern communication. “Bob, get the hell over here to my office; my private office.” The voice is deep, somber, always grumbling in a whiny in-command sort of way. |
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“Yes sir.” An annoying wait stretches time in the privy of the Executive Office, the Private Executive Office. It fills the space with pondering; pondering that searches surrounding details for answers, peering at books, prying at the cracks between them, gazing upon pens, family pictures, framed certificates. Within the grasp of these, the affirmations of his power, he ponders. He ponders history. He ponders himself. He ponders history and himself; his mark; his legacy. His eyes roam the room, searching the memorabilia for some prophecy. They light upon a consolatory resolve defocusing in sparse consolation: Well, there will always be China. Refocusing brings on the harsh reality of a calendar: June 20th. Three days into another phase of decline that has plagued his life. Three days since…
The door opens. Impatience foregoes formality. “What’s Hunt and his…his… What does he call his gang.”
“The Plumbers.”
“Goddammit! What kind of a son-of-a-bitching name is that? By God, it sounds like it came outta some Ludlum novel. No wonder everyone thinks I’m a crook. I mean, what son-of-a-bitch cooked up that name?”
“Um…Sir, it was your...”
“What the hell is it supposed to mean?”
“They plug up leaks.”
“What the hell? No, no, no. Too damn cute. Don’t tell me that was my idea also. Sit down, Bob”
“Yes sir.”
“Bob, you saying it was my idea?”
“Just agreeing with you, Mr. President.” The President’s son of a bitch, takes his time picking one of the two chairs across the desk from the President. Wouldn’t do for him to jump too quickly to any commands.
“That’s right. That’s right. I’m the President. I’m not a crook.”
The silence is telling. Mr. President peers out the window, pondering: What do they think, all of those in the majority that never steps up to his defense.
“I mean, it’s not like I’m a crook. I’m not. Bob?”
“No sir.” Two heart beats pass; Haldeman’s, then the President’s, then, “You just hire crooks.”
“Let me just say, from me, from you…I didn’t know anything about the break-in at the Watergate. I mean it was Hunt and that crazy bastard Liddy...”
“So why is half the Executive office covering it up?
“God bless you boy, I love you, but it doesn’t look good. It’s an election year, an election year. Got to look good in an election year. I mean there are some, some things, some intricacies here. I mean, I love you and I love John and all the rest. We just gotta keep the faith here.” He ponders a paper clip. The pause fumes. “Goddammit! I mean, what the hell kind of man would tie himself to a tree in an electrical storm? Liddy’s crazy, why do we listen to him?”
“He serves a purpose, Mr. President. I, ah – feel compelled to remind you what Truman said, ‘the buck…’”
“That son of a bitch! Spent his time drinking whiskey and…and playing poker in Florida instead of running the country. Stood behind those words by firing men of substance. Threw McArthur away like he was lame horse that had to be shot. No love, no loyalty. All just to buy favor with the voters. Goddammit, what kind of commitment is that? What kind of commitment is that to the country? The people in this country are too ignorant to know who’s really committed to running this country decently.”
“Ah, yeah…well... Look, Sir, about this break-in thing, I was thinking that we could always say that we were trying to expose a call-girl ring that the Democrats were running to generate campaign funds.”
“Don’t say ‘this – you know -- thing’. You know. Just don’t say this son-of-a-bitching thing. I mean, always the ad guy, eh Bob? Always selling. I love you. You’re a strong man.”
“Liddy could work up some evidence. We say we were waiting until we had enough evidence to go public. Everyone would believe us. Everyone knows what part of their anatomy those Dems think with.”
“Nah, nah, no, no. I mean, Liddy…crazy son-of-a… Goddammit, you’re right! Goes all the way back to Roosevelt and that Mercer woman. Dammit, then there’s the Kennedys. Marilyn Monroe and that Campbell woman. Son of a bitch! Kennedy had ‘em in and outta here like this was Grand Central. No one pointed an accusing finger at him. No one called him a crook! Everyone loved him. Goddamn philanderer.
“Absolutely, Dick. But, no one is ever gonna care about a President’s sex life. President could get a hum job in the Oval Office. No one would ever care.”
“Better call me Mr. President. This is all going on tape.”
“Uh…um…you sure that’s a good idea.” The President’s son of a bitch, looks here, looks there; looks to the ceiling, to the bookshelves, again seeking, but never finding the microphones. Perhaps there is no taping. Perhaps, it’s just one of the President’s bizarre forms of intimidation.
“Goddammit, some day this will all be a part of history. I mean I don’t want to be forgotten.” Dark Presidential eyes lock on Haldeman, looking into some dark future. “I mean, why would we want to say that Hunt was looking for evidence of a call girl ring.”
“It would look like we had an admirable cause for having a clandestine team in the Watergate at night. It would look official, secretly official. The beauty of it is that we could say that and if it is met favorably in the public, we could say it was your idea. If not we lay it on Liddy and Hunt.”
“And that son of a bitch, Colson. Goddammit. I don’t know, I don’t know. There is a certain beauty to it. Hmmm… I don’t suppose you could call around and get some reactions. Would you mind?
“Might give it away.”
“Goddammit! Get Gordon on it right now. This is right up his alley, don’t you think? He knows all the whores in the city. Cripes, I’ll bet he could come up with pictures. Speaking of Liddy, pictures and… you know.
“Sex?”
“Yeah. I got that movie Liddy keeps talking about. What the hell is it the named again?”
“Deep Throat?”
“What did he say it was about?”
“You mean conceptually, or what? I don’t think it had much meaning. Didn’t you see it?”
“No. Wanted to show it to Pat. I mean, you know, to thaw her out, you know. She didn’t want to have anything to do with a projector in the bedroom. I took the projector down to the Lincoln Room. Had to roll it past all the Secret Service guys. Never figured out how to thread the film into it.”
“Maybe one of the Secret Service agents could’ve helped.”
“Son-of-a-bitch, Bob. I don’t need that. What would that look like, people thinking that the President watches smut. People’d mistake me for a Democrat. Ha, ha.”
“Just as well. That’s one of the leaks The Plumbers are fixing.”
“What? Who?!
“A Secret Service agent.”
“What the hell could a Secret Service agent leak.”
“That little episode last week with the scotch. If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. President, you really shouldn’t drink. Either don’t do it at all, or do it more – you know — to get more practice holding your liquor.”
“So what if an agent says I had a few one night. I very rarely indulge. I mean, Pat was making me sleep on the couch. Mad about some little thing.”
“It wasn’t the drinking, Mr. President. ‘Ranting’ was the word the agent used.”
“Ranting? What the hell does that mean?”
“At the paintings.”
“Paintings?”
“Yeah. The portraits: Washington, Lincoln, Grant…. Sayin’ things. Things like, ‘what makes you so much better than me. How come they like you and not me.’ Going on about Lincoln’s depression. You know, Mr. President. Ranting.”
“Goddammit!!!! Jesus Christ! Who’s handling this? Sonavabitch.”
“Liddy.”
“What the… Hell, what’s he going to do? Tie him to a tree in an electrical storm?”
“No. He’s just talking to the agent.”
“Talking?”
“Yeah. The agent’s got a wife and a couple of kids.”
“Hell! Tell him not to kill anyone.”
“He isn’t going to kill anyone. I can assure you of that Mr. President.”
“Alright. Okay. I mean, it’s just that Liddy likes to talk. You notice how much he brags, wants the limelight. What do you think? Sometimes, I think he’s talking to the Post?”
“Liddy? Good God, no.”
“No, no? I just think, you know, it seems like every time he gets near something, those two bleeding heart, paranoid reporters, Woodstein and Burnwood, show up.”
“Woodward and Burnstein.”
“Dammit! Who the hell are they? Do you think they’re talking to the Post? Who are these sons of a bitches? We gotta get ‘em.”
“They are the two reporters.” Another telling pause. Being the President’s son-of-a-bitch meant becoming good at hiding a certain amazed ire. “Don’t worry about Liddy, sir. If there’s one thing about Liddy, he’s loyal. He’s one of yours. He can, as you say, ‘keep the faith.’”
“I’m not sure I should trust anyone. I mean, I love you Bob. I know you, but there are others. Dole and his toady friend Bush have been hounding me with calls since the…you know, saying that they’re behind me. I don’t know. I don’t know. First that son of a bitch publicly denounces the break… ah, um, this thing, then he and Bush are on the phone like we’re fishing buddies. What the hell are they up to? I don’t know. I mean…
“Well, Dole is the Party’s national Chairman. He has to stand behind you, to make the party cohesive, but he can’t condone this thing. He has to keep the party from this whole thing. He’s in a tough spot. We put him in a tough spot.”
“We did? Godammit. Hunt and McCord did.”
“Yes sir. They’re part of our team.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. Dole always seems to do what’s good for Dole. And, what about his crony, Bush?”
“Don’t worry. Dole probably asked him to show support. After all the party is grooming them.”
“Grooming? For what, Goddammit?”
“A tract to a possible executive position.”
“What the hell? God Bless America, a Goddam executive position?’ The Presidency? Those two Goddam nimrods couldn’t get elected to be class presidents in an Iowa schoolhouse. Son of a bitch! Dole can’t even sign a check with his hand the way it is much less get it cashed. How’s he gonna sign a bill into law.”
“Don’t worry about Dole, Mr. President. Like you said, he’s a lightweight. The party would never even throw up him for consideration. He’s just doing his part for the party and that isn’t bad for us right now.”
“Nah. Nah. Nah. I don’t know. I mean, Dole lives at the Watergate. Make sure that crazy son of a bitch, Liddy stays clear of him, when he’s doing this call-girls thing.”
There’s a surgical silence that opens the Presidency and reveals it’s cancer. A groan rumbles from the President. “Goddammit, Bob. How did this all happen? I mean, McCord and those others, in the Watergate?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Another silence; this one capable of sucking the soul out of a man.
“Well sir, what about, ‘If you don’t tell me, I won’t know.’
“I think I oughta be told. I mean, I am the President.”
“What about plausible deniability.”
“What the hell?”
“Plausible deniability. You know… Not knowing enough so you can plausibly deny that you don’t know enough.”
“That’s a son of a bitching thing. What President would be foolish enough to think that the public would buy that? It would take quite an actor to make the people believe that the President was that ignorant.”
“You can fool some of the people some of the time and…”
“All of the people some of the time. Yeah, yeah. Look this is a tough thing. I gotta know.”
“Why don’t you stop the tape.”
“Goddammit, Bob. Some of this is interesting as hell. We can decide later what will be heard or not. How did McCord and those Cubans end up in the Watergate?”
“Remember when you, Dean, Colson and I were having a few drinks in the Oval Office?”
“Yeah.”
“Remember telling Colson that if only we knew what the Democrats would be up to, we could sabotage them and ensure the election?”
“I guess. I don’t know. Did I say that?”
“Again, do you remember, ‘What you don’t tell me, I won’t know’?”
“What the hell, Bob, you sayin’ I ordered the break-in?”
“Not in so many words, but that’s how the Dems will make it out to be. After that the media will jump on it. You know, the new watchdogs of society, didn’t you hear”
“Goddam son of a bitch! How the hell could that have happened?”
“You really shouldn’t drink, Mr. President.”
Something has to be done about this. We gotta get to the son of a bitching FBI before they get to Colson and Dean.”
“They’re a long way from Colson and Dean.”
“Nah, nah. No. No. It’s just a matter of time. We gotta do something to this son of a bitching thing before it’s too late.”
“Colson is with us all the way. He did good with the Ellsberg thing.”
“Goddam, he got caught. It looks like our Goddam hand is in the cookie jar.”
“Yeah, but he’s been good, Mr. President.”
“No! No. No! The pressure would be too much if the FBI were to throw this son of a bitch thing at him. He’ll cave in. And, what about John?”
“Mitchell, Mr. President?”
“Dean. What are we going to do about Dean? He’s got no spine.”
“Hmmm.. He’s got Maureen. If it looks like he’s going to loosen up to the FBI, we just tie her into the prostitution ring Liddy’s working on. She’s a looker. No one would doubt it. Everybody wants to see a beautiful woman topple.”
“To hell with that. I mean, we got to do something. So, we go with that, only as a back up. It’s not good enough, you know? We need something stronger, more assured.”
“Like what, Mr. President. Who can influence the FBI?”
“The CIA. Those sons of a bitches must have some stuff on Hoover and if they don’t, they can find something.”
”Isn’t he some kind of perv; likes to wear dresses and what not. Shit! We’re talking about blackmailing the head of the FBI.”
“Why not. He’s blackmailed everyone else in town, including a few Presidents. Talk to Hunt and McCord. They’re CIA. Don’t you think, they can work this. I mean, get them some more money, or something. We’ve got to, you know, got to get the FBI away from Dean and Colson.”
“This could backfire on us; especially the money thing.”
“Dammit, Bob! This is a tough thing. We gotta take chances?”
“Still, if we go after Hoover, he’s sure to come after us and the first place he’ll look is at our campaign funds.”
“Son of a bitch. I mean, what will he find?”
“Mr. President, that’s how we paid these guys.”
“Which guys?”
“The Plumbers. McCord and the Cubans”
“Oh, Goddamit! Can’t we just say that it’s part of the re-election effort? I mean, it is, right?”
“Maybe, but illegal actions are still illegal, Mr. President. Besides it just occurred to me, sir, we can’t go after Hoover.”
“Why the hell not? No one loves that son of a bitch!”
“He died in last month. That’s what you, Colson, Dean and I were toasting, remember?”
“Goddammit. Just when we had a use for him. Where’s the justice? Let me just say, I think you should still get Hunt and McCord on this. There’s got to be some way that the CIA can push the FBI around. I don’t want G-men anywhere near anyone who can say I started this son of a bitching thing.”
“Maybe we can discredit them. Find a way of smearing them and making them look corrupt.”
“What the hell, Bob. We’d look like those commie liberal protesters who cry about the FBI taking pictures of them and violating their civil liberties. Every son of a bitch outside the Beltway will think we’re democrats. What do you think? Is there some way we can scare Colson into doing something. Tell him the FBI is on to him and let him put the Carpenters to work.”
“Plumbers.”
“What?”
“It’s ‘Plumbers’, Mr. President, not ‘Carpenters.’ Won’t work. Colson will just want to firebomb FBI headquarters like he did the Brookings institute.”
“Could we do that?”
“Mr. President! Sir! Remember, Colson’s the one that got us into this mess.“
“Okay, Okay. I see what you mean.” A clock ticks through silent seconds and the President’s thoughts, pushing them to the surface and giving them voice. “How the hell do the Cubans figure into this?”
“They’re Hunt’s people. Him and McCord.”
“People? What the hell does that mean.”
“Sir, maybe this is better left under the ‘don’t tell me and…”
“Goddammit!”
“Hunt recruited them for the Bay of Pigs. Been working with them since.”
“On what?”
“I can’t say?”
“You don’t know, or you won’t say?”
“Mr. President!”
“Son of a Goddam bitch!”
“Remember? The night we had drinks, Colson mentioned Hunt’s ‘crew’ and McCord.”
“I don’t know. Don’t know. Maybe. Maybe I do. You cut him off.”
“He was going to tell you more than you should know, Mr. President. I think you know more than you should right now. If you ever get hauled before a Congressional Hearing, I’d suggest you plead the Fifth, then hint at preserving national security.”
“What the hell kind of President would take the Fifth Amendment? He’d look like a pansy and who’d buy that? I’d rather look like a crook than a blathering idiot. No. No. I’m not gonna say the Fifth. I’d invoke Executive Privilege. After all, I am the President.”
“You’d look guilty as hell. Like you were hiding something.”
“Goddam! There’s gotta be something to this national security idea, Bob. What do you think? Right now any FBI investigation would lead to the CIA. We tell the FBI to back off, because this thing was an operation of national security. Or, we tell the CIA to tell the FBI.”
“Can’t, Mr. President. Any investigation would lead them to Hunt. Hunt leads to Colson and McCord already leads them to our campaign.”
“Let it lead the sons of a bitches to us. We’d say we know about the operation. We’d say those guys are strategically placed. We even mock up a Goddam Finding. Hell, we expanded CIA domestic intelligence gathering last year.”
“Won’t work. The money still leads back to our campaign, Mr. President.”
“I’d think we’d look great, funding an operation of national security from our own son of a bitching campaign.”
“I dunno, Mr. President. Seems like a stretch of the imagination. Very risky.”
“Think about it, Bob”
Silence rolls into the President’s private office; a cancerous fog hanging over the two men, veiling each, isolating them in their own thoughts. The clock ticks the seconds into introspective minutes, two, four, five, six minutes.
“I don’t know. I don’t get it, Bob. They all Goddam hate me. None of them can keep the faith. I try hard to do what’s right for the country and they still hate me. God Bless America! I’m saddled with these Goddam Democrat’s mistakes and they still hate me when I do what it takes. God Bless this son of a bitching country.”
“Sorry, Mr. President.”
“You should see the Goddam letters I’ve gotten already. Letters telling me I should be ashamed of myself, resign.
“They’re just letters, Mr. President, from an unknowing minority.”
“They’re my Goddam constituents. I got one from a twenty-five year old law student from Yale, top of her class, a student leader. Her letter was so compelling; I had her transcripts pulled. Impressive. Let’s see her name is…is…Rodham. First name is a nice name, an innocent name… Hillary, yeah that’s what it is. She beseeches me to do the right thing for the country and in the eyes of God. Goddam, she actually, beseeches. She wants me to admit my son of a bitching involvement. Do I have any Goddam involvement?”
“She’s just a college student.”
“I know. I know, and so innocent. Such ideals. Still, from such ideals comes the innocence to revile me. This Hillary person can’t possibly understand what’s necessary to achieve the Presidency and run the country. Such potential, but she will never go anywhere. She will never be able to bring herself to do what has to be done, to dirty herself, to tolerate the intolerable; to make personal sacrifices and bear the necessary humiliation. Still, she will hate me because I can do all that.”
“Yes Mr. President. Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, sure. Go ahead Bob. I love you. You’re a strong man. You’ll keep the faith.”
“That night we celebrated Hoover’s demise, John and I left, but Colson stayed. You both had another drink. What did you talk about?”
“What the hell, Bob. I dunno. Things. I can’t remember.”
“Did you talk about bugging the National Democratic Headquarters?”
It’s a question that falls with thudding weight on the President’s desk. The President’s son-of-a-bitch and The President look to each other with eyes that answer with non-answers. The clock ticks seconds into more unasked questions.
“Son of a bitch, Bob. You need to go, now. I need to get back to the Oval Office. Keep the faith, Bob. I love you.”
Haldeman slowly finds his briefcase, slowly finds the door, turning one last time before exiting. “Mr. President, you really shouldn’t drink.”
The door opens. Impatience foregoes formality. “What’s Hunt and his…his… What does he call his gang.”
“The Plumbers.”
“Goddammit! What kind of a son-of-a-bitching name is that? By God, it sounds like it came outta some Ludlum novel. No wonder everyone thinks I’m a crook. I mean, what son-of-a-bitch cooked up that name?”
“Um…Sir, it was your...”
“What the hell is it supposed to mean?”
“They plug up leaks.”
“What the hell? No, no, no. Too damn cute. Don’t tell me that was my idea also. Sit down, Bob”
“Yes sir.”
“Bob, you saying it was my idea?”
“Just agreeing with you, Mr. President.” The President’s son of a bitch, takes his time picking one of the two chairs across the desk from the President. Wouldn’t do for him to jump too quickly to any commands.
“That’s right. That’s right. I’m the President. I’m not a crook.”
The silence is telling. Mr. President peers out the window, pondering: What do they think, all of those in the majority that never steps up to his defense.
“I mean, it’s not like I’m a crook. I’m not. Bob?”
“No sir.” Two heart beats pass; Haldeman’s, then the President’s, then, “You just hire crooks.”
“Let me just say, from me, from you…I didn’t know anything about the break-in at the Watergate. I mean it was Hunt and that crazy bastard Liddy...”
“So why is half the Executive office covering it up?
“God bless you boy, I love you, but it doesn’t look good. It’s an election year, an election year. Got to look good in an election year. I mean there are some, some things, some intricacies here. I mean, I love you and I love John and all the rest. We just gotta keep the faith here.” He ponders a paper clip. The pause fumes. “Goddammit! I mean, what the hell kind of man would tie himself to a tree in an electrical storm? Liddy’s crazy, why do we listen to him?”
“He serves a purpose, Mr. President. I, ah – feel compelled to remind you what Truman said, ‘the buck…’”
“That son of a bitch! Spent his time drinking whiskey and…and playing poker in Florida instead of running the country. Stood behind those words by firing men of substance. Threw McArthur away like he was lame horse that had to be shot. No love, no loyalty. All just to buy favor with the voters. Goddammit, what kind of commitment is that? What kind of commitment is that to the country? The people in this country are too ignorant to know who’s really committed to running this country decently.”
“Ah, yeah…well... Look, Sir, about this break-in thing, I was thinking that we could always say that we were trying to expose a call-girl ring that the Democrats were running to generate campaign funds.”
“Don’t say ‘this – you know -- thing’. You know. Just don’t say this son-of-a-bitching thing. I mean, always the ad guy, eh Bob? Always selling. I love you. You’re a strong man.”
“Liddy could work up some evidence. We say we were waiting until we had enough evidence to go public. Everyone would believe us. Everyone knows what part of their anatomy those Dems think with.”
“Nah, nah, no, no. I mean, Liddy…crazy son-of-a… Goddammit, you’re right! Goes all the way back to Roosevelt and that Mercer woman. Dammit, then there’s the Kennedys. Marilyn Monroe and that Campbell woman. Son of a bitch! Kennedy had ‘em in and outta here like this was Grand Central. No one pointed an accusing finger at him. No one called him a crook! Everyone loved him. Goddamn philanderer.
“Absolutely, Dick. But, no one is ever gonna care about a President’s sex life. President could get a hum job in the Oval Office. No one would ever care.”
“Better call me Mr. President. This is all going on tape.”
“Uh…um…you sure that’s a good idea.” The President’s son of a bitch, looks here, looks there; looks to the ceiling, to the bookshelves, again seeking, but never finding the microphones. Perhaps there is no taping. Perhaps, it’s just one of the President’s bizarre forms of intimidation.
“Goddammit, some day this will all be a part of history. I mean I don’t want to be forgotten.” Dark Presidential eyes lock on Haldeman, looking into some dark future. “I mean, why would we want to say that Hunt was looking for evidence of a call girl ring.”
“It would look like we had an admirable cause for having a clandestine team in the Watergate at night. It would look official, secretly official. The beauty of it is that we could say that and if it is met favorably in the public, we could say it was your idea. If not we lay it on Liddy and Hunt.”
“And that son of a bitch, Colson. Goddammit. I don’t know, I don’t know. There is a certain beauty to it. Hmmm… I don’t suppose you could call around and get some reactions. Would you mind?
“Might give it away.”
“Goddammit! Get Gordon on it right now. This is right up his alley, don’t you think? He knows all the whores in the city. Cripes, I’ll bet he could come up with pictures. Speaking of Liddy, pictures and… you know.
“Sex?”
“Yeah. I got that movie Liddy keeps talking about. What the hell is it the named again?”
“Deep Throat?”
“What did he say it was about?”
“You mean conceptually, or what? I don’t think it had much meaning. Didn’t you see it?”
“No. Wanted to show it to Pat. I mean, you know, to thaw her out, you know. She didn’t want to have anything to do with a projector in the bedroom. I took the projector down to the Lincoln Room. Had to roll it past all the Secret Service guys. Never figured out how to thread the film into it.”
“Maybe one of the Secret Service agents could’ve helped.”
“Son-of-a-bitch, Bob. I don’t need that. What would that look like, people thinking that the President watches smut. People’d mistake me for a Democrat. Ha, ha.”
“Just as well. That’s one of the leaks The Plumbers are fixing.”
“What? Who?!
“A Secret Service agent.”
“What the hell could a Secret Service agent leak.”
“That little episode last week with the scotch. If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. President, you really shouldn’t drink. Either don’t do it at all, or do it more – you know — to get more practice holding your liquor.”
“So what if an agent says I had a few one night. I very rarely indulge. I mean, Pat was making me sleep on the couch. Mad about some little thing.”
“It wasn’t the drinking, Mr. President. ‘Ranting’ was the word the agent used.”
“Ranting? What the hell does that mean?”
“At the paintings.”
“Paintings?”
“Yeah. The portraits: Washington, Lincoln, Grant…. Sayin’ things. Things like, ‘what makes you so much better than me. How come they like you and not me.’ Going on about Lincoln’s depression. You know, Mr. President. Ranting.”
“Goddammit!!!! Jesus Christ! Who’s handling this? Sonavabitch.”
“Liddy.”
“What the… Hell, what’s he going to do? Tie him to a tree in an electrical storm?”
“No. He’s just talking to the agent.”
“Talking?”
“Yeah. The agent’s got a wife and a couple of kids.”
“Hell! Tell him not to kill anyone.”
“He isn’t going to kill anyone. I can assure you of that Mr. President.”
“Alright. Okay. I mean, it’s just that Liddy likes to talk. You notice how much he brags, wants the limelight. What do you think? Sometimes, I think he’s talking to the Post?”
“Liddy? Good God, no.”
“No, no? I just think, you know, it seems like every time he gets near something, those two bleeding heart, paranoid reporters, Woodstein and Burnwood, show up.”
“Woodward and Burnstein.”
“Dammit! Who the hell are they? Do you think they’re talking to the Post? Who are these sons of a bitches? We gotta get ‘em.”
“They are the two reporters.” Another telling pause. Being the President’s son-of-a-bitch meant becoming good at hiding a certain amazed ire. “Don’t worry about Liddy, sir. If there’s one thing about Liddy, he’s loyal. He’s one of yours. He can, as you say, ‘keep the faith.’”
“I’m not sure I should trust anyone. I mean, I love you Bob. I know you, but there are others. Dole and his toady friend Bush have been hounding me with calls since the…you know, saying that they’re behind me. I don’t know. I don’t know. First that son of a bitch publicly denounces the break… ah, um, this thing, then he and Bush are on the phone like we’re fishing buddies. What the hell are they up to? I don’t know. I mean…
“Well, Dole is the Party’s national Chairman. He has to stand behind you, to make the party cohesive, but he can’t condone this thing. He has to keep the party from this whole thing. He’s in a tough spot. We put him in a tough spot.”
“We did? Godammit. Hunt and McCord did.”
“Yes sir. They’re part of our team.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. Dole always seems to do what’s good for Dole. And, what about his crony, Bush?”
“Don’t worry. Dole probably asked him to show support. After all the party is grooming them.”
“Grooming? For what, Goddammit?”
“A tract to a possible executive position.”
“What the hell? God Bless America, a Goddam executive position?’ The Presidency? Those two Goddam nimrods couldn’t get elected to be class presidents in an Iowa schoolhouse. Son of a bitch! Dole can’t even sign a check with his hand the way it is much less get it cashed. How’s he gonna sign a bill into law.”
“Don’t worry about Dole, Mr. President. Like you said, he’s a lightweight. The party would never even throw up him for consideration. He’s just doing his part for the party and that isn’t bad for us right now.”
“Nah. Nah. Nah. I don’t know. I mean, Dole lives at the Watergate. Make sure that crazy son of a bitch, Liddy stays clear of him, when he’s doing this call-girls thing.”
There’s a surgical silence that opens the Presidency and reveals it’s cancer. A groan rumbles from the President. “Goddammit, Bob. How did this all happen? I mean, McCord and those others, in the Watergate?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Another silence; this one capable of sucking the soul out of a man.
“Well sir, what about, ‘If you don’t tell me, I won’t know.’
“I think I oughta be told. I mean, I am the President.”
“What about plausible deniability.”
“What the hell?”
“Plausible deniability. You know… Not knowing enough so you can plausibly deny that you don’t know enough.”
“That’s a son of a bitching thing. What President would be foolish enough to think that the public would buy that? It would take quite an actor to make the people believe that the President was that ignorant.”
“You can fool some of the people some of the time and…”
“All of the people some of the time. Yeah, yeah. Look this is a tough thing. I gotta know.”
“Why don’t you stop the tape.”
“Goddammit, Bob. Some of this is interesting as hell. We can decide later what will be heard or not. How did McCord and those Cubans end up in the Watergate?”
“Remember when you, Dean, Colson and I were having a few drinks in the Oval Office?”
“Yeah.”
“Remember telling Colson that if only we knew what the Democrats would be up to, we could sabotage them and ensure the election?”
“I guess. I don’t know. Did I say that?”
“Again, do you remember, ‘What you don’t tell me, I won’t know’?”
“What the hell, Bob, you sayin’ I ordered the break-in?”
“Not in so many words, but that’s how the Dems will make it out to be. After that the media will jump on it. You know, the new watchdogs of society, didn’t you hear”
“Goddam son of a bitch! How the hell could that have happened?”
“You really shouldn’t drink, Mr. President.”
Something has to be done about this. We gotta get to the son of a bitching FBI before they get to Colson and Dean.”
“They’re a long way from Colson and Dean.”
“Nah, nah. No. No. It’s just a matter of time. We gotta do something to this son of a bitching thing before it’s too late.”
“Colson is with us all the way. He did good with the Ellsberg thing.”
“Goddam, he got caught. It looks like our Goddam hand is in the cookie jar.”
“Yeah, but he’s been good, Mr. President.”
“No! No. No! The pressure would be too much if the FBI were to throw this son of a bitch thing at him. He’ll cave in. And, what about John?”
“Mitchell, Mr. President?”
“Dean. What are we going to do about Dean? He’s got no spine.”
“Hmmm.. He’s got Maureen. If it looks like he’s going to loosen up to the FBI, we just tie her into the prostitution ring Liddy’s working on. She’s a looker. No one would doubt it. Everybody wants to see a beautiful woman topple.”
“To hell with that. I mean, we got to do something. So, we go with that, only as a back up. It’s not good enough, you know? We need something stronger, more assured.”
“Like what, Mr. President. Who can influence the FBI?”
“The CIA. Those sons of a bitches must have some stuff on Hoover and if they don’t, they can find something.”
”Isn’t he some kind of perv; likes to wear dresses and what not. Shit! We’re talking about blackmailing the head of the FBI.”
“Why not. He’s blackmailed everyone else in town, including a few Presidents. Talk to Hunt and McCord. They’re CIA. Don’t you think, they can work this. I mean, get them some more money, or something. We’ve got to, you know, got to get the FBI away from Dean and Colson.”
“This could backfire on us; especially the money thing.”
“Dammit, Bob! This is a tough thing. We gotta take chances?”
“Still, if we go after Hoover, he’s sure to come after us and the first place he’ll look is at our campaign funds.”
“Son of a bitch. I mean, what will he find?”
“Mr. President, that’s how we paid these guys.”
“Which guys?”
“The Plumbers. McCord and the Cubans”
“Oh, Goddamit! Can’t we just say that it’s part of the re-election effort? I mean, it is, right?”
“Maybe, but illegal actions are still illegal, Mr. President. Besides it just occurred to me, sir, we can’t go after Hoover.”
“Why the hell not? No one loves that son of a bitch!”
“He died in last month. That’s what you, Colson, Dean and I were toasting, remember?”
“Goddammit. Just when we had a use for him. Where’s the justice? Let me just say, I think you should still get Hunt and McCord on this. There’s got to be some way that the CIA can push the FBI around. I don’t want G-men anywhere near anyone who can say I started this son of a bitching thing.”
“Maybe we can discredit them. Find a way of smearing them and making them look corrupt.”
“What the hell, Bob. We’d look like those commie liberal protesters who cry about the FBI taking pictures of them and violating their civil liberties. Every son of a bitch outside the Beltway will think we’re democrats. What do you think? Is there some way we can scare Colson into doing something. Tell him the FBI is on to him and let him put the Carpenters to work.”
“Plumbers.”
“What?”
“It’s ‘Plumbers’, Mr. President, not ‘Carpenters.’ Won’t work. Colson will just want to firebomb FBI headquarters like he did the Brookings institute.”
“Could we do that?”
“Mr. President! Sir! Remember, Colson’s the one that got us into this mess.“
“Okay, Okay. I see what you mean.” A clock ticks through silent seconds and the President’s thoughts, pushing them to the surface and giving them voice. “How the hell do the Cubans figure into this?”
“They’re Hunt’s people. Him and McCord.”
“People? What the hell does that mean.”
“Sir, maybe this is better left under the ‘don’t tell me and…”
“Goddammit!”
“Hunt recruited them for the Bay of Pigs. Been working with them since.”
“On what?”
“I can’t say?”
“You don’t know, or you won’t say?”
“Mr. President!”
“Son of a Goddam bitch!”
“Remember? The night we had drinks, Colson mentioned Hunt’s ‘crew’ and McCord.”
“I don’t know. Don’t know. Maybe. Maybe I do. You cut him off.”
“He was going to tell you more than you should know, Mr. President. I think you know more than you should right now. If you ever get hauled before a Congressional Hearing, I’d suggest you plead the Fifth, then hint at preserving national security.”
“What the hell kind of President would take the Fifth Amendment? He’d look like a pansy and who’d buy that? I’d rather look like a crook than a blathering idiot. No. No. I’m not gonna say the Fifth. I’d invoke Executive Privilege. After all, I am the President.”
“You’d look guilty as hell. Like you were hiding something.”
“Goddam! There’s gotta be something to this national security idea, Bob. What do you think? Right now any FBI investigation would lead to the CIA. We tell the FBI to back off, because this thing was an operation of national security. Or, we tell the CIA to tell the FBI.”
“Can’t, Mr. President. Any investigation would lead them to Hunt. Hunt leads to Colson and McCord already leads them to our campaign.”
“Let it lead the sons of a bitches to us. We’d say we know about the operation. We’d say those guys are strategically placed. We even mock up a Goddam Finding. Hell, we expanded CIA domestic intelligence gathering last year.”
“Won’t work. The money still leads back to our campaign, Mr. President.”
“I’d think we’d look great, funding an operation of national security from our own son of a bitching campaign.”
“I dunno, Mr. President. Seems like a stretch of the imagination. Very risky.”
“Think about it, Bob”
Silence rolls into the President’s private office; a cancerous fog hanging over the two men, veiling each, isolating them in their own thoughts. The clock ticks the seconds into introspective minutes, two, four, five, six minutes.
“I don’t know. I don’t get it, Bob. They all Goddam hate me. None of them can keep the faith. I try hard to do what’s right for the country and they still hate me. God Bless America! I’m saddled with these Goddam Democrat’s mistakes and they still hate me when I do what it takes. God Bless this son of a bitching country.”
“Sorry, Mr. President.”
“You should see the Goddam letters I’ve gotten already. Letters telling me I should be ashamed of myself, resign.
“They’re just letters, Mr. President, from an unknowing minority.”
“They’re my Goddam constituents. I got one from a twenty-five year old law student from Yale, top of her class, a student leader. Her letter was so compelling; I had her transcripts pulled. Impressive. Let’s see her name is…is…Rodham. First name is a nice name, an innocent name… Hillary, yeah that’s what it is. She beseeches me to do the right thing for the country and in the eyes of God. Goddam, she actually, beseeches. She wants me to admit my son of a bitching involvement. Do I have any Goddam involvement?”
“She’s just a college student.”
“I know. I know, and so innocent. Such ideals. Still, from such ideals comes the innocence to revile me. This Hillary person can’t possibly understand what’s necessary to achieve the Presidency and run the country. Such potential, but she will never go anywhere. She will never be able to bring herself to do what has to be done, to dirty herself, to tolerate the intolerable; to make personal sacrifices and bear the necessary humiliation. Still, she will hate me because I can do all that.”
“Yes Mr. President. Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, sure. Go ahead Bob. I love you. You’re a strong man. You’ll keep the faith.”
“That night we celebrated Hoover’s demise, John and I left, but Colson stayed. You both had another drink. What did you talk about?”
“What the hell, Bob. I dunno. Things. I can’t remember.”
“Did you talk about bugging the National Democratic Headquarters?”
It’s a question that falls with thudding weight on the President’s desk. The President’s son-of-a-bitch and The President look to each other with eyes that answer with non-answers. The clock ticks seconds into more unasked questions.
“Son of a bitch, Bob. You need to go, now. I need to get back to the Oval Office. Keep the faith, Bob. I love you.”
Haldeman slowly finds his briefcase, slowly finds the door, turning one last time before exiting. “Mr. President, you really shouldn’t drink.”
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Ending Disclaimer: The previous depiction of the conversation which took place between Nixon and his Chief of Staff Haldeman on June 20, 1972 in Nixon’s Private office in the old Executive Building is fiction. The actual conversation was erased when the President’s personal secretary, Rose Mary Woods, was transcribing the tape and accidentally pressed the wrong button and left her foot on transcribing machine pedal. If you want hear what is actually on the tape, including the 18 and 1/2 minutes that has been erased, you can go to the Richard Nixon Library in Yorba Linda, California. You can request the tape and as long as you stay on the premises, they will let you listen 18 and 1/2 minutes of tape hiss.