*
George was happy and proud to be in the Special Prosecutor’s team. He felt he was part of the group leading American politics, as he had been when working for Bobby Kennedy. His only problem was that he did not know how he could ever go back to the kind of penny-ante cases he had been working at Fawcett Renshaw.
It took five months, but in the end, Nixon was forced to hand over to the Special Prosecutor three raw tapes from the Oval Office recording system.
George Jakes was in the office with the rest of the team when they listened to the tape from 23 June 1972, less than a week after the Watergate burglary.
He heard the voice of Bob Haldeman. ‘The FBI is not under control because Gray doesn’t exactly know how to control it.’
The recording was echoey but Haldeman’s cultured baritone was fairly clear.
Someone said: ‘Why would the President need to have the FBI under control?’ It was a rhetorical question, George thought. The only reason was to stop the Bureau investigating the President’s own crimes.
On the tape, Haldeman went on: ‘Their investigation is now leading into some productive areas because they have been able to trace the money.’
George recalled that the Watergate burglars had had a lot of cash in new bills with sequential numbers. That meant that, sooner or later, the FBI would be able to find out who had given them the money.
Everyone now knew that this money came from CREEP. However, Nixon was still denying that he had known anything about it. Yet here he was talking about it six days after the burglary!
The gravelly bass voice of Nixon interrupted. ‘The people who donated money could just say they gave it to the Cubans.’
George heard someone in the room say: ‘Holy crap!’
The Special Prosecutor stopped the tape.
George said: ‘Unless I’m mistaken, the President is proposing to ask his donors to perjure themselves.’
The Special Prosecutor said dazedly: ‘Can you imagine that?’
He pressed the button and Haldeman resumed. ‘We don’t want to be relying on too many people. The way to handle this now is for us to have Walters call Pat Gray and just say: “Stay to hell out of this”.’
This was close to a story Jasper Murray had run based on a leak from Maria. General Vernon Walters was the deputy director of the CIA. The agency had a longstanding agreement with the FBI: if an investigation by one threatened to expose secret operations of the other, that investigation could be halted by a simple request. Haldeman’s idea seemed to be to get the CIA to pretend that the FBI’s investigation into the Watergate burglars was somehow a threat to national security.
Which would be perversion of the course of justice.
On the tape, President Nixon said: ‘Right, fine.’
The prosecutor stopped the tape again.
‘Did you hear that?’ George said incredulously. ‘Nixon said: “Right, fine.”’
Nixon went on: ‘It’s likely to blow the whole Bay of Pigs thing, which we think would be very unfortunate for the CIA, and for the country, and for American foreign policy.’ He seemed to be spinning a story that the CIA might tell the FBI, George thought.
‘Yeah,’ said Haldeman. ‘That’s the basis we’ll do it on.’
The prosecutor said: ‘The President of the United States sitting in his office telling his staff how to commit perjury!’
Everyone in the room was stunned. The President was a criminal, and they had the proof in their hands.
George said: ‘The lying bastard, we’ve got him.’
On the tape, Nixon said: ‘I don’t want them to get any ideas we’re doing it because our concern is political.’
Haldeman said: ‘Right.’
In the room, gathered around the tape player, the assembled lawyers burst out laughing.
*
Maria was at her desk in the Justice Department when George called. ‘I just heard from our friend,’ he said. She knew he meant Jasper. He was speaking in code in case the phones were tapped. ‘The White House press office called the networks and booked air time for the President. Nine o’clock tonight.’
It was Thursday, 8 August 1974.
Maria’s heart leaped. Could this be the end at last? ‘Maybe he’s going to resign,’ she said.
‘Maybe.’
‘God, I hope so.’
‘It’s either that or he’ll just protest his innocence again.’
Maria did not want to be alone when this happened. ‘Do you want to come over?’ she said. ‘We’ll watch it together.’
‘Yeah, okay.’
‘I’ll make supper.’
‘Nothing too fattening.’
‘George Jakes, you’re vain.’
‘Make a salad.’
‘Come at seven-thirty.’
‘I’ll bring the wine.’
Maria went out to shop for dinner in the heat of Washington in August. She no longer cared much about her work. She had lost faith in the Justice Department. If Nixon resigned today, she would start looking for another job. She still wanted to be in government service: only the government had the muscle to make the world a better place. But she was sick of crime and the excuses of criminals. She wanted a change. She thought she might try for the State Department.
She bought salad, but she also got some pasta and parmesan cheese and olives. George had refined tastes, and he was getting worse as he grew into middle age. But he certainly was not fat. Maria herself was not fat but, on the other hand, she was not thin. As she approached forty, she was just getting, well, more like her mother, especially around the hips.
She left for the day a few minutes before five. A crowd had gathered outside the White House. They were chanting ‘Jail to the Chief,’ a pun on the anthem ‘Hail to the Chief’.
Maria caught the bus to Georgetown.
As her salary had improved over the years she had moved apartments, always to a larger place in the same neighbourhood. She had got rid of all but one of the photos of President Kennedy during her last move. Her current place had a comfortable feel. Where George had always had rectilinear modern furniture and plain decor, Maria liked patterned fabrics and curved lines and lots of cushions.
Her grey cat Loopy came to greet her, as always, and rubbed her head against Maria’s leg. Julius, the boy cat, was more aloof: he would show up later.
She set the table and washed the salad and grated the parmesan cheese. Then she took a shower and put on a cotton summer dress in her favourite shade, turquoise. She thought about putting on lipstick and decided not to.
The evening news on TV was mostly speculation. Nixon had had a meeting with Vice-President Gerald Ford, who might be President tomorrow. Press secretary Ziegler had announced to the White House reporters that the President would address the nation at nine, then had left the press briefing room without answering questions on what he would speak about.
George arrived at seven-thirty, wearing slacks and loafers and a blue chambray shirt open at the neck. Maria tossed the salad and put the pasta in boiling water while he opened a bottle of chianti.
Her bedroom door was open, and George looked inside. ‘No shrine,’ he said.
‘I threw away most of the photographs.’
They sat at her small dining table to eat.
They had been friends for thirteen years, and each had seen the other in the depths of despair. Each had had one overwhelming lover who had gone: Verena Marquand to the Black Panthers, President Kennedy into the hereafter. In different ways, both George and Maria had been left. They shared so much that they were comfortable together.
Maria said: ‘The heart is a map of the world, did you know that?’
‘I don’t even know what it means,’ he said.
‘I saw a medieval map once. It showed the earth as a flat disc with Jerusalem in the centre. Rome was bigger than Africa, and America was not even shown, of course. The heart is that kind of map. The self is in the middle and everything else is out of proportion. You draw the friends of your youth large, then later it’s impossible to re-scale them when other more important people need to be added. Anyone who has done you wrong is shown too big, and so is anyone you loved.’
‘Okay, I get it, but—’
‘I’ve thrown out my photos of Jack Kennedy. But he will always be drawn too large on the map in my heart. That’s all I mean.’
After dinner they washed up then sat on a large soft couch in front of the TV with the last of the wine. The cats went to sleep on the rug.
Nixon came on at nine.
Please, Maria thought, let the torment end now.
Nixon was sitting in the Oval Office, a blue curtain behind him, the Stars and Stripes on his right and the President’s Flag on his left. The deep, gravelly voice began immediately. ‘This is the thirty-seventh time I have spoken to you from this office, where so many decisions have been made that shaped the history of this nation.’
The camera began a slow zoom in. The President was wearing a familiar blue suit and tie. ‘Throughout the long and difficult period of Watergate, I have felt it was my duty to persevere, to make every possible effort to complete the term of office to which you elected me. In the past few days, however, it has become evident to me that I no longer have a strong enough political base in the Congress to justify continuing that effort.’
George said excitedly: ‘That’s it! He’s resigning!’
Maria grabbed his arm in excitement.
The cameras pulled in for a close-up. ‘I have never been a quitter,’ Nixon said.
‘Oh, shit,’ said George, ‘is he going back on it?’
‘But, as President, I must put the interests of America first.’
‘No,’ said Maria, ‘he’s not going back.’
‘Therefore I shall resign the presidency effective at noon tomorrow. Vice-President Ford will be sworn in as President at that hour in this office.’
‘Yes!’ George punched the air. ‘He’s done it! He’s gone!’
What Maria felt was not so much triumph as relief. She had woken up from a nightmare. In the dream, the highest officers in the land had been crooks, and no one could do anything to stop them.
But in real life, they had been found out and shamed and deposed. She had a sense of safety, and realized that for two years now she had not felt that America was a secure place to be.
Nixon admitted no faults. He did not say that he had committed crimes, told lies, and tried to put the blame on other people. Turning the pages of his speech, he referred to his triumphs: China, arms limitation talks, Middle East diplomacy. He finished on a defiant note of pride.
‘It’s over,’ Maria said in a tone of incredulity.
‘We won,’ said George, and he put his arms around her.
Then, without thinking about it, they were kissing.
It felt like the most natural thing in the world.
It was not a sudden burst of passion. They kissed playfully, exploring each other’s lips and tongues. George tasted of wine. It was like discovering a fascinating topic of conversation they had previously overlooked. Maria found herself smiling and kissing at the same time.
However, their embrace soon turned passionate. Maria’s pleasure became so intense it made her breathe hard. She unbuttoned George’s blue shirt so that she could feel his chest. She had almost forgotten what it was like to have a man’s bony frame in her arms. She relished his big hands touching the private places of her body, so different from her own small soft fingers.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw both cats leave the room.
George caressed her for a surprisingly long time. She had had only one previous lover, and he had not been so patient: by now he would have been on top of her. She was torn between pleasure in what George was doing and an almost panicky need to feel him inside her.
Then at last it happened. She had forgotten how good it felt. She crushed his chest to hers and lifted her legs to pull him farther in. She said his name again and again until she was overwhelmed by spasms of pleasure, and cried out. A moment later she felt him ejaculate inside her, and that made her convulse one more time.
They lay fused together, breathing hard. Maria could not touch him enough. She pressed one hand into his back, the other on his head, feeling his body, almost fearing that he might not be real, this could be a dream. She kissed his deformed ear. His panting breath was hot on her neck.
Slowly, her breathing returned to normal. The world around became real again. The TV was still on, broadcasting reactions to the resignation. She heard a commentator say: ‘This has been a truly momentous day.’
Maria sighed. ‘It sure has,’ she said.