BLACK PRESIDENT, Chapter 39. Woodward meets with Deep Throat--learns about Watergate and beyond. Problems at Ray School/Chicago for JFK's twins. And Nixon is out.

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CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

June 25, 1973

Mark Felt was waiting at the usual place, sitting in his black 1971 Pontiac Grand Prix inside the parking garage, running the heater fan once every few minutes to stay warm. In his rear view mirror he saw Woodward approach, and waved his hand slightly out of reflex.

“Hi Mark.”

Reporter Robert Upshur Woodward greeted the man to be later known as “Deep Throat” in a half-whisper, as he unlatched the passenger door and slid onto the seat. “Sorry I’m a little late.”

“That’s fine. No problem here,” said Felt, as he handed over a folder with some loose papers inside.

“Don’t look at this now...wait until you get home. Just want you to see some hard evidence, now.” Woodward took the folder and placed it in his briefcase.

“We’re close to understanding how the money tracked,” said Woodward, jumping right in, “but what confuses me is that Maurice Stans was involved. He seems like such a upright guy. Chairman of the finance committee and all. Basically, he reeks of honesty. That’s the part I don’t get. Different than those White House guard dogs...Halderman...Erlichman. How could he...”

“Not everyone knows all the details,” interrupted Felt. “That’s why it’s got this far. I told you it goes to the highest office...but I didn’t say people lower than that even understood what they were doing. It wasn’t an “intelligence” operation. Think freelance. Yes, some familiar names from intelligence, but certainly not any policy there. It’s the money trail you need to keep on. The cash tells the tale.

“Got to go, my friend. Can’t be late for dinner. Unforgivable. Wives can be the most dangerous adversaries, you know? You should do the same!” Felt stuck his hand out and Woodward gripped it firmly. As Woodward stepped away from the car the Pontiac’s lights popped on, illuminating the cement wall in front of him. Then, with a short rev, the car backed out of its slot, turned and accelerated quickly past the rows of cars, turning out of sight at the end of the corridor.

Woodward’s journalist partner at The Washington Post, Carl Bernstein, read the contents of folder the next day. It had three sheets of paper in it, three different accounts of what had been spent for the re-election of the President. Three different amounts that varied in millions of dollars. He and Woodward needed to talk to Maurice Stans again and they called him from The Post.

“Yes? Well OK, I’ll get him. He’s in the workroom, so it will be just a minute,” said Mrs. Stans as Woodword tried to make the appointment. Before Stans answered, Woodword couldn’t help thinking that Mrs. Stans sounded just as nice as her husband. Maybe two of the nicest people he’d ever come in contact with. He hoped like hell he wouldn’t ruin their lives. He hoped Stans had just been duped.

Back at Langley, Jim Felt met with CIA Director William E. Colby. It was clear that the reporters at the Washington Post were getting too close.

“Got to keep them on the perimeter, Jim, out of the target area, said Colby. Is that what I’m hearing?” Colby leaned back and took a pull from his pipe. Felt had gotten used to the top level CIA executives and their pipes lately, ever since he had been assigned the top-secret mission. At any case, he would remain on double-shift – reporting in to Director Colby while ostensibly working for President Nixon.

“Yes, I think we can contain the damage and keep our lap clean here. But Nixon is becoming a bit more unstable than is safe...in my estimation.”

“What...what exactly are we talking about, Jim? Please give some particulars.”

Colby, always the efficient analytical statistician, demanded numbers – facts and designations, hard data to mull over for his calculations. He had to know the score. If the innings were going against him then he’d put in a pinch hitter, to bunt, or swing for the rooftop. Or maybe he’d just skip the normal ninth inning brouhaha and run it to twelve or fifteen. Twenty. Break normal rules. He’d do whatever was necessary to protect The Agency. With CIA operatives Hunt, Liddy, and Sturgis caught in the middle of the Watergate mess, he had to get creative. Too much was at stake. Sturgis and Hunt could unravel the thing right back to the Bay of Pigs. And Hunt was greedy. He wanted and got huge payoffs from the White House slush fund. Colby had run a tracer on Hunt’s bank accounts, tapped his home phone, had him under surveillance 24/7, to make sure he knew about every potential new pimple on the guy’s cheek, before the acne broke out.

Nixon was dirty from Howard Hughes, and still had not admitted to the press or anyone where he had been on November 22, 1963. What was he doing in Dallas that morning? Some secrets must be fully contained. So Nixon would keep his lips sealed or he knew to expect something worse than a national scolding. The man knew to live outside the range of snipers. And Haig was there to step in at a moment’s notice. Vice President Gerald Ford was also in place, ready for an immediate transition to presidential power, if and when it was needed. Nixon was in so deep that impeachment would be the easiest, most prudent exit he could take. So, Nixon would be OK. Colby believed he had the man under control.

“If you can just keep the investigation moving at this pace, toward Nixon, I think we can side-step the damage,” explained Colby. Looking toward Felt, Colby’s friendly, bespectacled face betrayed little of the seriousness of the topic. Setting down his pipe, it was time to finish up, get back to other concerns.

“It’s got to begin and end with Nixon. That’s our smokescreen. The Post wants him and we’ll give him away, in time. Just keep stringing it out, making Woodward think it’s his own idea, OK?”

***

July 24, 1973

It was the day of their twelfth birthday, both Jackson and John Little feeling their oats out on the playground of Ray School on Chicago’s South Side. Jackson was swinging hand-to-hand on the overhead bars while John ran after some other kids in a game of tag football. Suddenly to his right side, Jackson heard the angry words, “Hurry up, nigger,” and looked over to see a heavily-built White kid, Francis Turley, standing with his hands on his hips, a scowl on his face.

“Common, nigger...give me a turn.”

Jackson felt the rage building up in him as he finished the last few bars and dropped to the ground. He had heard the “nigger” word before, but never used with such venom and never so targeted completely against his person.

“Niggers can’t do nothin’ very good...” Turley informed him as he reached up and grabbed the bar, lifted his feet and began to swing back and forth. “You got to learn, boy, learn who’s the boss. Us white people used to own yuh. Now we just gotta smell yuh!”

Just as Jackson was formulating his answer to this racist speech, up ran John.

“Something wrong, Jackson?”

It was clear from the look on John’s face that he had felt the tension all the way across the yard. But before Jackson could answer, Turley piped up again.

“Double niggers. This ain’t my day.”

John immediately moved in between his brother and Turley, and confronted the bully.

“Who you calling niggers?” John’s angled-forward posture, his clenched fists, tight face and pursed lips, indicated to Turley that the twin was ready to fight.

“I was just talking to him!” Turley exclaimed, trying to back off the threat. “Got nothing to do with yooo...”

John was on Turley in a flash, throwing a flurry of punches faster than Jackson could count, finally landing one right against the big guy’s nose. Before Turley could catch his breath, John had jumped away, taken his brother’s arm, and quickly escorted him toward the side entrance of the school.

“Don’t ever let a big fucker like that get a chance to throw the first punch. He’ll knock your head off!” John counseled his quiet brother, as they entered the building, got their books out of lockers and took seats in Mrs. Wright’s 7th grade art class.

***

August 9, 1974

President Nixon knew a hatchet job when he saw one. That Goldwater had been the most savage. “You’ve got to step down, Dick,” said Senator Barry Goldwater, trying to keep the language dignified for his small audience of prominent Republicians. “The vote is almost unanimous in favor of impeachment. You’ll never be able to remove that label from your career...and you did so many good things for this country. You owe it to yourself to...”

Nixon just stared in Goldwater’s general direction, and the Senator stopped talking once he saw Nixon’s face crumble. Goldwater could see the tears forming, sliding down Nixon’s cheeks.

This was still a man here, God damn it, Goldwater thought to himself. A human being. But he had to go, and there were no two ways about it. The son of a bitch was trying to bring down the whole fucking party.

“Go out clean. That’s the way to beat the bastards,” added Goldwater, trying to rally some positive response.

“Think of your family...your pension for God’s sake!”

Nixon wiped the tears from his face. Suddenly he saw it all clearly. If he could just get out of the mess without losing his pension, be able to live decently and avoid jail for obstruction of justice...well...then he’d be all right. He would still be one high- living, rich son-of-a-bitch...better off than any of those Whitier assholes he had grown up with. That would still show the bastards who was on top. Win DOUBLE!

“OK,” agreed Nixon, finally. “OK...For the good of the party. But, I want a pardon. I will not go to jail over this. I’ll bring everybody down first, drag all the bodies out of the closet. A full pardon.”

It was now Haig’s turn to stare intently at Nixon. When the President caught sight of Haig’s hard eyes he might have flinched a little inside, but still he wasn’t about to back down.

“I’m not going it alone. No pardon, then no resignation.”

Vice-President Ford knew the question fell in his lap. He didn’t have to look at all their faces – could feel their eyes bearing down. Could he pardon Nixon without compromising his own integrity, without tainting his future Presidential image? Would public opinion stand for it?

Haig filled in the answer before Ford could speak.

“Yes, that could be arranged,” he said, taking the lead while making eye contact with Ford. “I believe if it was painted as trying to heal the country. What do you think, Gerald?”

Ford had already been well briefed by Haig and their contacts in the CIA and the FBI. Both men knew that a trial had to be avoided at all costs. For one thing, Nixon knew too much. And he seemed ready to crack at any moment. The man looked positively ill. Ford had seen Nixon very drunk a few times lately, and worried about how suicidal he might become with the additional pressure. In a trial setting, Nixon might be driven to divulge his underworld contacts with the Mafia, ultimately exposing the inner workings of the CIA and FBI, their connections from Bay of Pigs to the Kennedy assassination teams, other terrible secrets. Dick Nixon could single-handedly unravel the US Government. To save the country, Ford would pardon Nixon and take the heat. There was really no choice.

“A pardon...” announced Ford, in a cool, clear voice, “...is our only option.”

For the first time in months Haig watched as the hollow-cheeked, pale and grizzled face of Richard M. Nixon reformed itself, his thin red lips finally stopping their fidgity twitch.

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