Known And Unknown_ A Memoir Part 5

The familiar portrait of Richard Milhous Nixon is of a bitter, haunted figure who became the first American president to resign. I worked for a notably different Richard Nixon, conferring with him dozens of times as a member of his cabinet and periodically in smaller meetings. Nixon had serious failings, which became all too evident when his secret tapes were revealed. But I knew him to be a thoughtful, brilliant man-certainly one of the brightest presidents I observed. He was indeed a paradox who managed to reach the apex of power and then came cras.h.i.+ng down, which I suppose is why decades later so many Americans still find him fascinating.

By 1968, during my third term in Congress, Richard M. Nixon was on the road to an improbable political comeback. His second presidential bid took place during one of the more tumultuous years in modern American history-a year punctuated by the escalating debate over Vietnam. The Tet Offensive, which had sealed the fate of President Johnson, accelerated the nearly continuous protests outside the gates of the White House. Marchers were routinely chanting things like "Hey! Hey! LBJ! How many kids did you kill today?!" There were so many protests, in fact, that the President had difficulty leaving the White House. That year saw 16,592 Americans killed in the war-the highest number of any year of that conflict.

Our country was rocked by violence and heartbreak. On April 4, 1968, Martin Luther King, Jr., the man in whom so many Americans had placed their hopes, was a.s.sa.s.sinated in Memphis, Tennessee. Joyce and I were in Florida with our family when we heard the news and flew back to Was.h.i.+ngton immediately. His death sparked an ugly backlash. Things were so tense that we had to show identification to National Guardsmen before they would let us cross the bridge from National Airport in Virginia into Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C. As we drove into the nation's capital, we saw rioting in the streets, with buildings and cars set on fire. The next school day the city decided to keep the public schools open, leaving us with the indelible image of our twelve-year-old daughter, Valerie, serving as a school safety monitor on one corner of the street while National Guardsmen with guns at the ready stood watch on the others.

That June, Senator Robert F. Kennedy was a.s.sa.s.sinated in Los Angeles, just after winning the California Democratic presidential primary. His death, along with King's, stirred up the still vivid memories of his brother's a.s.sa.s.sination. The succession of murders, combined with a war with mounting casualties and the frequent and often violent demonstrations in Was.h.i.+ngton and around the nation, gave many of us a palpable sense that the country could be spiraling out of control.

Amid anger and protest, Nixon offered himself as a source of rea.s.surance and stability. For voters it was a welcome change from the anguished presidency of Lyndon Johnson. But because he had been defeated in two high-profile elections during the past decade, he had to battle the impression that he was a loser.

When Nixon's law partner and close a.s.sociate, John Mitch.e.l.l, asked me to head up the Nixon campaign in Illinois I declined, telling him I wanted to watch the race for a bit. It seemed to me that Nixon had spent much of his adult life getting ready to do something but not actually doing much besides running for the next office and serving in the standby role as vice president for eight years. As the campaign developed I was increasingly impressed by his steadiness and focus. Eventually, I agreed to be an a.s.sistant floor leader for Nixon at the 1968 Republican convention in Miami, and then as a surrogate speaker for him in the presidential election.

On the third day of the convention Mitch.e.l.l, by then Nixon's campaign manager, sent me a note asking that I attend a meeting in Nixon's suite at the Hilton Plaza Hotel to discuss his vice presidential selection. The private gathering, with most of the leading figures of the Republican Party, would start immediately after the balloting for president was concluded. It was an unexpected invitation for a thirty-six-year-old congressman who did not know the candidate well, and in fact had been slow to support him, but I accepted with interest.1 After Nixon's nomination, which ran late into the evening, I drove to the Hilton and made my way to his suite. Twenty-one people were gathered there, including such Republican luminaries as former Governor Thomas Dewey of New York, the 1944 and 1948 Republican presidential candidate; Senator Strom Thurmond of South Carolina, the Dixiecrat's presidential candidate in 1948; and Senator Barry Goldwater of Arizona, seemingly well recovered from his 1964 defeat. I was the youngest and without question the least experienced person in the room.

Nixon soon arrived and shook hands with everyone. Never one for small talk, his greetings went rather quickly. Nixon seemed quite energetic despite the late hour. He sat in a swivel chair toward one end of the room. The rest of us were seated in an oblong circle.2 Nixon leaned back in his chair and extended his feet onto the edge of a coffee table. Nixon leaned back in his chair and extended his feet onto the edge of a coffee table.

I was impressed with how he handled himself as he held forth-he was businesslike and authoritative. He started off by giving his vision of the coming campaign, which he expected to be another close one. In considering possible vice presidential candidates, Nixon pointedly said he would not do what John F. Kennedy did in 1960 by picking Lyndon Johnson. I took that to mean he didn't want a running mate who was a regional candidate chosen to help the ticket carry a particular state. Instead, Nixon said he wanted someone with broader appeal. I a.s.sumed he wanted to set aside individuals with close ties to the party's left or right wings.

"I don't want to select someone who will have the effect of dividing this party," Nixon said in his baritone voice.3 From time to time he fiddled with his watchband as he spoke. He asked us to indicate who we believed would run best in our part of the country. From time to time he fiddled with his watchband as he spoke. He asked us to indicate who we believed would run best in our part of the country.4 "Now let's go around the room," he said. He first looked to Congressman Sam Devine of Ohio, sitting to my immediate left. "Sam, start it off," Nixon said. "Now let's go around the room," he said. He first looked to Congressman Sam Devine of Ohio, sitting to my immediate left. "Sam, start it off," Nixon said.

I figured Devine would talk for a while to give me a chance to collect my thoughts. No such luck. Sam said he had responded to a written request from Nixon with his choice of a running mate-and that he had nothing further to add. Then Nixon and the room full of Republican luminaries turned to the next person in line. "Don, what do you think?" Nixon asked. I barely knew most of the Republican bigwigs in the room, including Nixon, but now it was my turn.

I had something of a problem, as Nixon seemed to have just ruled out some of the people I thought would run best in my area in Illinois, most of whom were identified as being toward the left of the party: Charles Percy, Nelson Rockefeller, and John Lindsay. I had opposed Rockefeller as a presidential candidate that year, but as a vice presidential candidate I thought he might bring some strength to the ticket in places like Cook County. The Republican Party was still recovering from 1964, and I felt our local candidates would have a better chance to win in 1968 if we broadened the GOP base. I also thought it would be useful to have a vice presidential candidate who could help the party make inroads in the northern, industrial, urban, and particularly the suburban areas. A candidate who would demonstrate an interest in the problems that were of concern to people in America's cities-education, crime, drugs, and the enduring racial divisions-might attract more independent-leaning voters. I said that Senator Charles Percy in particular would be helpful in my home state, which promised to be a bellwether. I then went on to say that I thought it would be a mistake to pick a candidate from below the Mason-Dixon Line. The South was still polarized, and I thought that it might send an unfortunate message that Republicans were not supportive of civil rights. I said this knowing that one of the most prominent Southerners in the party, Strom Thurmond, was sitting only a few feet away.*

On several occasions during the discussion, Nixon would ask, "What about Volpe?" or "What about Agnew?" John Volpe was the governor of Ma.s.sachusetts. Spiro T. Agnew was the recently elected governor of Maryland. n.o.body seemed to know much about either of them. But as the discussion went on, it occurred to me that Nixon very likely had all but made up his mind to select either Volpe or Agnew before any of us had arrived.5 It was nearly five o'clock in the morning when the meeting finally ended. As I headed out, I pa.s.sed Nixon, who was standing alone. He shook my hand. Then he said something I wasn't expecting.

"You've got an easy district," he observed. "I'd like to have you come with me [on the campaign trail], and I want to talk to you about it." I told Nixon I was willing to do what I could to help. I also pressed the case against picking a Southern candidate for vice president.

Nixon thought for a moment. "Don, I'm afraid we're all going to have to give a little on this one," he said.6 When I got back to my hotel room near dawn, Joyce, typically, got right to the point. "Well, who is it?" she asked.

"You won't believe it," I replied. I told her it looked to me that it would be Volpe or Agnew with an outside possibility of Senator Mark Hatfield of Oregon. Hatfield was a friend, and of the three the one I would have preferred. He had been suggested by the Reverend Billy Graham. Joyce thought for a moment and then, with a puzzled look, asked the question that the entire world would soon echo: "Agnew?"

When Nixon announced Governor Agnew's selection the following day, he said he had based his decision on three criteria. First, Nixon claimed, Agnew was qualified to become president. Second, he said Agnew would be a good campaigner; and third, if they got elected Agnew would be able to manage domestic policy.7 To my knowledge, Agnew was not particularly noted for those qualities. More than anything Nixon seemed pleased that he had selected someone so unexpected, catching everyone off guard. And indeed the choice of Agnew was so startling that it stunned even Agnew. To my knowledge, Agnew was not particularly noted for those qualities. More than anything Nixon seemed pleased that he had selected someone so unexpected, catching everyone off guard. And indeed the choice of Agnew was so startling that it stunned even Agnew.8 Though I remained impressed with Nixon, I found his selection process disappointing. The weakness of his vice presidential choice eventually caused great problems for him down the road. Nixon's real criterion did not seem to be competence or experience but rather finding someone who did not elicit opposition from any quarter. His intent may have been to preempt criticism, but if so, it was shortsighted. That no one spoke against Agnew was not an indicator that he had no flaws, but rather that no one yet knew of his shortcomings.

In late August, the Democrats held their nominating convention in Chicago. The Nixon team asked me, as the only local Republican congressman representing part of Chicago, to join what they called the "Republican listening post." The plan was to be ready to exploit in the media whatever openings the Democrats might offer.* We were located at the Chicago Conrad Hilton Hotel. Our group consisted of a young Nixon speechwriter and future Pulitzer Prizewinning columnist, Bill Safire, another top speechwriter and talented rising star named Pat Buchanan, Republican Governor John Love of Colorado, and me. We were located at the Chicago Conrad Hilton Hotel. Our group consisted of a young Nixon speechwriter and future Pulitzer Prizewinning columnist, Bill Safire, another top speechwriter and talented rising star named Pat Buchanan, Republican Governor John Love of Colorado, and me.

As it turned out, we didn't have to do much, if any, truth squadding. The Democrats suffered through one of the worst conventions in modern history. Inside the convention hall there were heated debates over the Vietnam War and attempts to cut off the microphones of some of the speakers. Outside, thousands of demonstrators gathered in protest marches-including a large crowd in Grant Park across the street from our hotel. From our windows we could see demonstrators holding candles or carrying signs protesting President Johnson and the Vietnam War. Joyce came into the city to join us, and we watched from our hotel room. After a while we decided to go down and see what was happening up close. Joyce and I talked a reluctant Governor Love, a dignified man from an earlier generation, into going into Grant Park with us.

The majority of protesters were not anarchists, revolutionaries, or violent. Most were young, not much older than our eldest daughter. I understood their point of view, since I had my own concerns about the conduct of the war. But there were troublemakers sprinkled among the groups that were looking to incite a showdown with the police.

Later that night, when we were back in the hotel, Joyce and I looked out of the windows again. The demonstration began to take a less peaceful turn. Some in the crowd started to attack the police, hoping to provoke a violent confrontation that would garner press attention. The vastly outnumbered Chicago police tried to keep the crowd under control. Finally, the police deployed tear gas. The gas filled the lobby of the Hilton and eventually made its way through some lower floors. As the situation grew more tense, some officers took tougher actions. Police in robin egg blue helmets charged into the demonstrators, wielding night sticks and dragging some of the troublemakers to police vans. Other officers pinned people against the wall of the Conrad Hilton and, in the process of subduing them, some hotel windows were broken.9 The agitators in the crowd responded with more violence. The agitators in the crowd responded with more violence.

As the rioting continued, members of our listening post checked in with Richard Nixon and reported on what was happening. The unfolding disaster in Chicago understandably captured his attention. He asked a number of questions and expressed dismay at the level of violence. Like many politicians, Nixon was interested in gathering information about his political opponents-a few years later, of course, the country would find out just how interested.

The harmful aftereffects of the chaos in Chicago lingered for months. It cast an unwelcome shadow on the Democratic convention and on Hubert Humphrey's presidential campaign. What the country saw on television was ugly, and the political fallout was substantial. What I witnessed left a painful memory and a lingering sense of sorrow about what had happened in Chicago, one of America's great cities and my hometown.

I was struck by the fact that Nixon was running against a Democratic opponent who in many ways was his opposite. Aptly labeled "the happy warrior," Humphrey was upbeat and engaging. He was also tough. Reciting the litany of previous incarnations of a new Nixon persona in 1952, 1956, 1960, and 1962, Humphrey noted, "Now, I read about the new Nixon of 1968. Ladies and gentlemen. Anyone who's had his political face lifted so many times can't be very new." was struck by the fact that Nixon was running against a Democratic opponent who in many ways was his opposite. Aptly labeled "the happy warrior," Humphrey was upbeat and engaging. He was also tough. Reciting the litany of previous incarnations of a new Nixon persona in 1952, 1956, 1960, and 1962, Humphrey noted, "Now, I read about the new Nixon of 1968. Ladies and gentlemen. Anyone who's had his political face lifted so many times can't be very new."10 I had a feeling a Humphrey-Nixon debate would not help our side. I had a feeling a Humphrey-Nixon debate would not help our side.

The Nixon campaign agreed-the candidate had not forgotten his difficulties debating John F. Kennedy in 1960. That September, Bryce Harlow, a friend and well-known Was.h.i.+ngton figure, came to my congressional office. Harlow was working hard on the Nixon campaign. He told me that Nixon did not want to give Humphrey the chance to debate and to untether himself from the unpopular Johnson. Furthermore, Democrats in Congress, at Humphrey's and LBJ's urging, were proposing to suspend the equal time provisions so that Governor George Wallace would be able to partic.i.p.ate without any other third-party candidates. Wallace, a segregationist candidate from Alabama, was running for president as an independent. His candidacy promised to siphon support from Nixon in the south, and like Humphrey he was quick and entertaining in a debate format. Harlow told me Nixon was disinclined to give Wallace any airtime and that he considered it unfair for just one third-party candidate to be included.

Harlow asked me to help stop the suspension of the equal-time provisions that would have allowed for the three-way debate. I thought we had substantial common interests on the issue: I agreed with Harlow's political a.s.sessment that a three-way debate was the worst scenario for Nixon, and I disapproved of the Democrats' last-minute attempt to jury-rig the rules. I also thought this might be an opportunity for my group in Congress to get some attention for the issues we wanted to advance. "Rumsfeld's Raiders" were pus.h.i.+ng a reform package that included measures popular with the public, such as campaign finance reform and a ban on the use of political contributions for personal enrichment.

As Harlow set himself up in Ford's minority leader office, just off the House chamber, we crafted a campaign of legislative maneuvers to stall the suspension of equal-time provisions. Any member could stop business in the House of Representatives by requiring the clerk to call the roll in order to have a majority of members (a quorum) present. So before the debate legislation came up for a vote, one of us would ask for a quorum call and the rest of us would work to ensure that there were never enough members present on the House floor for debate or votes to continue. From noon on October 8 until well into the next day our group arranged for thirty-three consecutive intentionally unsuccessful quorum calls.

This was not well received by the Democratic Speaker of the House, John McCormack. He threatened to send out the Capitol police force to physically round up members and lock them in the chamber. At one point, Congressman John Anderson of Illinois was barred from leaving the House floor-leading to a bizarre scene in which a member of Congress was pounding on the doors of the House chamber, shouting that he was being held hostage by the Speaker.

In addition to the repeated calls for a quorum, we also managed to arrange votes on a series of amendments to the legislation that dragged things out even further. LBJ must not have been pleased. We were outmaneuvering the legislative master himself.

Before we were done, we kept the House in session all night in what became the longest continuous session of the U.S. House of Representatives since the battle over the Missouri Compromise of 1820. Some of the tradition-conscious Republican leaders.h.i.+p considered our efforts unseemly, but Minority Leader Gerald Ford stood apart and cheered us on. Our effort was dubbed "The Longest Night."

Our goal was to delay the bill because we knew we did not have the votes to defeat it. We were trying to hold out for two days so Senate Republicans could make a similar effort and prevent the bill from being voted on before Congress was set to adjourn on October twelfth. It worked. The bill was shelved indefinitely. Humphrey and Nixon never debated, nor did Governor George Wallace. Our efforts caught Nixon's attention, and the candidate let it be known that he was grateful for our a.s.sistance.

A week later, Nixon invited me to accompany him on a campaign swing through the South and Midwest, where I got to know him a bit better.11 Despite his somber, pensive, and businesslike demeanor, Nixon showed himself to be an engaging stump speaker. He worked at it, meticulously preparing his notes beforehand. At one point he became so involved in his speech that he nearly fell off the crate he was standing on. Despite his somber, pensive, and businesslike demeanor, Nixon showed himself to be an engaging stump speaker. He worked at it, meticulously preparing his notes beforehand. At one point he became so involved in his speech that he nearly fell off the crate he was standing on.

Toward the end of one flight, Nixon called me into his private compartment. Then fifty-five, his hair, touched with gray, was receding. He got right down to the business of the campaign and asked me where I was scheduled to speak over the closing weeks. I told him I was going to New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania.

"That's good," he said, putting on his master political strategist hat. "Stay out of Illinois." Though he might have been elected president in 1960 if Illinois had tilted to him over Kennedy, Nixon seemed to think he would win the state this time.

On the next leg of our trip we had a longer conversation.12 Nixon was relaxed as we spoke. He seemed to want to know more about me-he asked me if I smoked, and I told him I did smoke a pipe. He expressed irritation at the campaign and what he considered to be Humphrey's attempts to characterize him as a racist. "If I did that to Humphrey I'd never hear the end of it in the press," Nixon mused. "Do you think I should debate him?" Nixon was relaxed as we spoke. He seemed to want to know more about me-he asked me if I smoked, and I told him I did smoke a pipe. He expressed irritation at the campaign and what he considered to be Humphrey's attempts to characterize him as a racist. "If I did that to Humphrey I'd never hear the end of it in the press," Nixon mused. "Do you think I should debate him?"

"No, I don't," I replied.

He told me his advisers were telling him to hit Humphrey harder in his speeches. I told him I thought he was doing fine. Humphrey was a likable character, and I didn't think that being harsh to him would be a good strategy. Later Nixon received kudos in the press for appearing on the popular entertainment show Laugh-In Laugh-In-something of a precursor to Sat.u.r.day Night Live Sat.u.r.day Night Live-and saying the show's catch phrase, "Sock it to me!" The fact that Nixon was willing to appear on the show demonstrated to many of his critics that he was able to take himself less seriously and have a little fun.

As Nixon had predicted, the election was close-his victory margin was less than 1 percentage point, making the 1968 presidential election one of the tightest in American history. Richard Nixon had risen from the political grave.

CHAPTER 8

The Job That Couldn't Be Done.

"For the past five years we have been deluged by government programs for the unemployed, programs for the cities, programs for the poor," Nixon observed in his convention speech in Miami.

"And we have reaped from these programs an ugly harvest of frustration, violence, and failure across the land." To cheers, Nixon said it was time "to quit pouring billions of dollars into programs that have failed in the United States."1 One of the chief targets of the Nixon speech was the Office of Economic Opportunity (OEO), which had started under John F. Kennedy as a small set of experimental programs run out of the Executive Office of the President. The agency had been la.s.soed by his successor, LBJ, as part of what he grandly called his War on Poverty.

Under Johnson, who thought on a mammoth scale, OEO ballooned. At one point it administered Community Action Programs, Head Start, the Job Corps, Legal Services, and the Volunteers in Service to America, or VISTA (a domestic Peace Corps) as well as programs to help senior citizens, Native Americans, migrants, neighborhood health centers, and drug treatment centers, plus others, a number of which evolved into their own independent activities over time.

As a member of Congress I voted against the 1964 legislation that established the Office of Economic Opportunity.2 I was uncomfortable with OEO programs being run out of the Executive Office of the President rather than being housed in the relevant cabinet departments and agencies. It seemed like another layer of bureaucracy on top of the existing department bureaucracies. I was uncomfortable with OEO programs being run out of the Executive Office of the President rather than being housed in the relevant cabinet departments and agencies. It seemed like another layer of bureaucracy on top of the existing department bureaucracies.

As OEO grew during the Johnson administration, so did its opposition. When Nixon took office, it was clear that Johnson's lofty goal of eradicating poverty was failing. Hundreds of millions of dollars were being spent, and it proved difficult to identify and track progress. There was also an air of radicalism in some of the OEO programs. When I first walked through the OEO offices I saw posters of the Marxist Che Guevara proudly displayed on the walls. In some parts of the country taxpayer dollars were going to radical and violent "Black Power" groups. An additional controversy was that OEO provided funds to community groups, intentionally bypa.s.sing the locally elected governors and mayors. This led to resentment of OEO by state and local officials of both political parties.

Though Nixon ran on a platform hostile to the OEO, he decided after his election he would not abolish it outright, but instead would try to reform it. Racial tensions were high, and many groups had their hopes set on the success of OEO's mission. Nixon thought OEO might somehow be redirected into more realistic and effective activities. When he was searching for someone to run the agency, now the scourge of most conservatives in his base of support, Nixon turned to his top domestic policy aide, Daniel Patrick Moynihan, for suggestions.

Pat Moynihan was creative, entertaining, and one of the smartest individuals I had ever met. As the saying went, Moynihan wrote more books than most people had read. He had applied his considerable intellect to the Department of Labor during the Kennedy administration, and later had written on Lyndon Johnson's vision of the Great Society. A Democrat with an independent streak, he was now working for Kennedy's old rival, Richard Nixon, as an expert on urban and minority affairs.* I thought it said something laudatory of Nixon that he saw the merit of bringing Moynihan into his confidence. I thought it said something laudatory of Nixon that he saw the merit of bringing Moynihan into his confidence.

Moynihan had keen political instincts. Who better, he proposed, to run an agency disliked by Republicans in Congress than...a conservative Republican from Congress? Pat knew I had voted against OEO but that I had supported civil rights legislation and had shown an interest in tackling reform. He strongly recommended that Nixon appoint me. It was an unorthodox choice.

My reply to the request from the new president was also unorthodox: "No." I was not thinking about leaving Congress at the time, though I was still tangling with the old guard. In early 1969, for example, I had run for chairman of the House Republican Policy Committee. I thought I had support all lined up when, at the last minute, my longtime nemesis Minority Whip Les Arends persuaded Bob Taft of Ohio to run against me. Taft won by one vote, but I still enjoyed my work and wasn't much interested in joining the Nixon administration in an a.s.signment that seemed almost destined to fail.

Nixon's aides continued to press me as they put together their new administration. I continued to resist. Finally, I wrote a straightforward, detailed memo to the Nixon team outlining why I was not the right choice to run OEO: 1) The probable reaction to the appointment of a white, Ivy League, suburban, Republican Congressman from the wealthiest Congressional District in the Nation, with little visable [sic] management experience and little public identification with poverty problems, and who voted against the poverty program when it was first proposed would be harmful for the Nixon Administration....*2) The job that the Administration wishes to have done on OEO, as I understand it, is the liquidation of the Johnson poverty approach. The development of the Nixon approach to these problems would essentially be the responsibility not of OEO but of [other] Departments....3) In a political situation, which this is, it would seem that the best approach would be to use a person identified as a liberal when one wishes to retrench and reorganize.3 I figured I would not hear about Nixon's proposal again. Then one Sunday that spring, as Joyce and I were having dinner with our kids, the telephone rang. Before long I was talking to President Nixon. It was the first time a president of the United States had called my home.

"Don," Nixon said, "I want to invite you and your wife down to Key Biscayne to talk." I told the President I would be willing to meet with him in Florida, where Nixon occasionally vacationed. When we got off the phone I told Joyce about the conversation.

"Well, it's settled," she said simply. She liked the OEO idea even less than I did, since it meant leaving Congress to run an agency I was ambivalent about at best. But she concluded immediately that I was unlikely to leave a meeting with the President of the United States without committing to accept the job.

The reserved Nixon spent his decades in politics having to push himself to be in the public eye. Even while supposedly relaxing in sunny Florida, he was formal and businesslike. As I noticed in our earlier meetings, he could be less than easy in his personal interactions. When Nixon met Joyce, for example, he acknowledged her with a smile. "Don," he said, "I'm glad to see you brought your daughter." Nixon would repeat that quip on more than one occasion.

If not warm and easy in personal relations.h.i.+ps, on a professional level President Nixon proved persuasive. As we met in Florida in April 1969, Nixon told me he needed me to take the OEO job. "The agency needs to be run right," he said. "And you'll have my full support." As I made my case for not taking the post, Nixon kept telling me he did not agree and that I was the right man for the job. He left the impression that he had a personal interest in my future. And when the President told me he needed my help, I found it hard to keep up the fight. Nixon persuaded me to take on an a.s.signment I didn't want, at an agency I had voted against, with a mission that Nixon didn't like, for a purpose that was still unclear.

As our discussion on OEO was ending, I told the President that I'd recently returned from a second trip to Southeast Asia. Referencing Johnson's credibility problems on the war, I suggested that Nixon examine carefully the American military's bombing of the Viet Cong and North Vietnamese targets in neighboring Laos. The Johnson administration's silence on the issue left the American people unaware of the bombing campaign. Our friends in the region-the governments of Laos and Cambodia-insisted that American officials not reveal that they had given approval to bomb in their countries. Had it become public, Laos and Cambodia would have had to protest the very activity they had approved. The problem, as I told Nixon, was that while our friends were cooperating they were protecting themselves. By continuing a secret bombing campaign, Nixon would not be protecting himself.

"President Johnson got into trouble for not telling the truth," I noted. "Your administration does not want to fall into the same pattern."

Nixon listened intently and nodded. I hoped the message got through.

Having agreed to the President's request, we encountered an unantic.i.p.ated problem that put my nomination in question. The Const.i.tution prohibits individuals from receiving a government salary outside Congress if the salary for that position was increased during their time in Congress. While I had been serving, Congress had raised salaries for federal posts, including the director of OEO, which made me ineligible to receive the new salary for that position. Nixon's legal staff discovered the issue and asked the Justice Department to look into the matter. A young a.s.sistant attorney general arrived at my house on a Sunday afternoon to discuss a possible solution. The suggestion was that I not receive a salary as director of the OEO and instead be paid as an a.s.sistant to the president in the White House. At the President's suggestion, I was also to be made a member of the President's cabinet. I can still picture that lanky lawyer sitting at our small dining table, discussing the issue. As it turned out, I owed the start of my service in the executive branch of the federal government to the fine legal mind of William Rehnquist, a future chief justice of the United States.4

During my early months at the Office of Economic Opportunity, I had my first protracted encounter with the national media, and the episode left an indelible impression on me. On September 22, 1969, I opened the Was.h.i.+ngton Post Was.h.i.+ngton Post to a column by Jack Anderson. Anderson was a syndicated columnist, appearing in nearly one thousand papers across the country. His pieces sought to offer a glimpse of Was.h.i.+ngton to average Americans, and he especially enjoyed targeting politicians and government officials. That morning I was in his crosshairs. to a column by Jack Anderson. Anderson was a syndicated columnist, appearing in nearly one thousand papers across the country. His pieces sought to offer a glimpse of Was.h.i.+ngton to average Americans, and he especially enjoyed targeting politicians and government officials. That morning I was in his crosshairs.

The column's t.i.tle caused a sensation: "ANTI-POVERTY CZAR EMBELLISHES OFFICE."5 "Anti-poverty czar Donald Rumsfeld has wielded an economy ax on programs for the poor," Anderson wrote. "He has used some of the savings to give his own executive suite a more luxurious look, thus reducing the poverty in his immediate surroundings." "Anti-poverty czar Donald Rumsfeld has wielded an economy ax on programs for the poor," Anderson wrote. "He has used some of the savings to give his own executive suite a more luxurious look, thus reducing the poverty in his immediate surroundings."

Anderson's column, which reached as many as forty million readers, could not have come at a worse time. I was trying to forge relations with the agency's employees, many of whom were skeptical or downright hostile to Republicans. I also wanted to try to give the OEO some credibility among its critics as being well run, to try to earn support in Congress.

Anderson's column damaged those efforts badly, painting a portrait of me as a stereotypical fat-cat Republican, in stark contrast to my predecessor in the job, President Kennedy's wealthy brother-in-law Sargent Shriver, who was portrayed as being sensitive to the mission of OEO. "Under Sargent Shriver, the anti-poverty director's office was unique in government," Anderson noted. "There were no carpets, and the furnis.h.i.+ngs were prim." Anderson's claims included the following: To be prepared should his budget-cutting efforts prove tiresome, he had added a bedroom to his executive suite. Expensive lamps now give a soft, restful glow to the walls that were once lit by fluorescent tubes.... And as evidence of his new Cabinet rank, Rumsfeld has added the ultimate in executive status symbols: a private bathroom.6 One could see why the piece was irresistible to critics. It was undoubtedly given to Anderson by an insider who didn't like the reforms I was implementing to make OEO more efficient and leaner. There was only one problem: Anderson's story was not true. In fact, as far as I could tell, not a word of that column was accurate, with the exception of the correct spelling of my name. Anderson had not bothered to make a simple phone call to confirm his facts or even to ask for a comment.

I had learned in managing Congressman Dave Dennison's 1958 campaign how even the appearance of wrongdoing could be terribly damaging. A newspaper article, no matter how false, can stick to a public figure for decades. The old axiom about the press is that a politician should never engage in battle with an opponent that buys ink by the barrel. But I had to do something. So I dictated a four-page response that addressed the Anderson column point by point, including: QUOTE: "Anti-poverty czar Donald Rumsfeld has wielded an economy ax on programs for the poor..." "Anti-poverty czar Donald Rumsfeld has wielded an economy ax on programs for the poor..."COMMENT: 1969 FY expenditures were $1.7 [billion]. The Nixon Administration request for $2.8 billion...is still pending before Congress. That is not an "economy ax." 1969 FY expenditures were $1.7 [billion]. The Nixon Administration request for $2.8 billion...is still pending before Congress. That is not an "economy ax."QUOTE: "Expensive lamps now give a soft, restful glow to the walls that were once lit by fluorescent tubes." "Expensive lamps now give a soft, restful glow to the walls that were once lit by fluorescent tubes."COMMENT: The fluorescent tubes are still there. Three lamps, GSA issue, are not in Rumsfeld's office, but in the reception area on the 8th floor. There is not a lamp in Rumsfeld's office, either expensive or cheap, restful or not restful. The fluorescent tubes are still there. Three lamps, GSA issue, are not in Rumsfeld's office, but in the reception area on the 8th floor. There is not a lamp in Rumsfeld's office, either expensive or cheap, restful or not restful.QUOTE: "And as evidence of his new Cabinet rank, Rumsfeld has added the ultimate in executive status symbols: a private bathroom." "And as evidence of his new Cabinet rank, Rumsfeld has added the ultimate in executive status symbols: a private bathroom."COMMENT:...There is no private bathroom. There are two bathrooms on the 8th floor where Rumsfeld's office is located-one for ladies and one for men. Rumsfeld uses the latter.7 After my secretary typed up my response, I invited Anderson to read it and to take a tour of my office. After he saw with his own eyes that his entire piece was false, I was under the naive impression that he would correct his column with the same fanfare that his original column received. But, quite the contrary, he informed me that while he regretted the error, he had recently inherited his column from longtime columnist Drew Pearson. Anderson said he feared that if he admitted he had run a totally false column, some of newspapers in the syndicate for his column might drop it.* Obviously, he was more concerned about his paycheck than the damage the article did to me or the truth. Obviously, he was more concerned about his paycheck than the damage the article did to me or the truth.

The episode was like a body blow and left me with a deep caution of the press. Years later, when I left government and moved back to Chicago in 1977, the Anderson story would still haunt me. Joyce and I would run into people who, while generally friendly and complimentary, wondered why I had built that fancy bedroom and private bathroom at the expense of the poor.

Our plan was to have OEO serve as a laboratory for experimental programs, not as an ent.i.ty that managed large operations in perpetuity. For example, OEO had tried a number of innovative approaches to education. Under my predecessors, to their credit, OEO had launched an experiment providing school vouchers for parents. The plan had the support of my friend Milton Friedman.9 Friedman and I believed that school vouchers could lead to an improvement in public education by giving parents choices rather than forcing them to send their children to a particular school. Friedman and I believed that school vouchers could lead to an improvement in public education by giving parents choices rather than forcing them to send their children to a particular school.10 OEO also had supported an experiment in performance contracting for teachers, an idea that was bitterly opposed by the politically active teachers' unions. OEO also had supported an experiment in performance contracting for teachers, an idea that was bitterly opposed by the politically active teachers' unions.

I also served on a committee President Nixon established to encourage and guide school desegregation policies as required by the Supreme Court's landmark 1954 decision Brown vs. Board of Education of Topeka Brown vs. Board of Education of Topeka. The committee was originally chaired by Vice President Agnew, which offered an early glimpse for me of Agnew in a substantive setting. I did not come away impressed. He soon lost interest in the issue, did not seem particularly knowledgeable on the substance, and rarely came to the meetings. The chairman-s.h.i.+p was a.s.sumed by another member of the committee, the Secretary of Labor and a rising figure in the Nixon administration, George Shultz. Shultz quickly became a friend. Also a Princeton graduate, and a former Marine, he was not flamboyant-though rumor has it that he has a tattoo of a Princeton tiger on his backside.

The President thought well of Shultz. Nixon had a collection of favorites who would go up and down in his level of interest, depending on his priorities at the time. Early on, at least, Shultz was one of them. "Keep your eye on Shultz," Nixon told me at our meeting in Key Biscayne. "He's going to be a star."

Shultz skillfully moved the heated debates about school desegregation away from emotionally charged, confrontational discussions toward more practical approaches. Our effort to peacefully desegregate schools in the South, supported by the President, deserves to rank high in the Nixon administration's domestic record.

In addition to dealing with policy matters at the Office of Economic Opportunity, we often had to face the raw public emotion provoked by the th.o.r.n.y social issues of the time. A day at OEO without a protest, a demonstration, or a bomb threat was a good day. There were times when my courageous secretary, Brenda Williams, would have to move her desk in front of the door to prevent protesters from breaking into our office on M Street.

On one occasion in November 1969, some fifty people barged into a conference room during a staff meeting, protesting the hiring policies of the Legal Services program. Terry Lenzner, the program director, escorted the group to a room on another floor so our meeting could continue. A pugnacious young Democrat, Lenzner had captained the Harvard football team some years before. He was not one to back down from trouble. When Lenzner tried to leave the group, the protesters blocked the door, effectively holding him captive.

I was notified of the problem and went down to the room. Wedging myself in past those blocking the doors, I took Lenzner's arm and told him we were leaving.11 I then told the protesters they had the right to express their views, but we were not going to conduct the government's business under threats or intimidation, and that if they didn't leave the building, they would be arrested. That, of course, was exactly what some of them wanted. I obliged them and called in the local police. I was later told that I had caused the arrest of a major fraction of the graduating cla.s.s of Howard Law School. As it turned out, among them was a young law student by the name of Jerry Rivers, later better known as Geraldo Rivera. It was but one example of the hostility and divisions that some of the OEO programs had caused in the country. I then told the protesters they had the right to express their views, but we were not going to conduct the government's business under threats or intimidation, and that if they didn't leave the building, they would be arrested. That, of course, was exactly what some of them wanted. I obliged them and called in the local police. I was later told that I had caused the arrest of a major fraction of the graduating cla.s.s of Howard Law School. As it turned out, among them was a young law student by the name of Jerry Rivers, later better known as Geraldo Rivera. It was but one example of the hostility and divisions that some of the OEO programs had caused in the country.

Considering the many issues in the agency's purview, I had to delegate enormous amounts of responsibility to keep OEO operating. As a congressman, I had not had a large staff. But at OEO I understood well the importance of having talented a.s.sistance. Among others, the group I recruited and worked with included Christie Todd Whitman, a future governor of New Jersey and later administrator of the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA); Bill Bradley, then the talented New York Knicks basketball star and a future U.S. senator; Ron James, who later became a senior official in the Department of the Army; and Max Friedersdorf, an outstanding director of congressional relations in the Nixon, Ford, and Reagan administrations.

Two others stand out. Frank Carlucci, for one, was an enormously capable man I lured from a promising career in the Foreign Service. I first knew Carlucci when we were on the varsity wrestling team at Princeton during the early 1950s. Frank went from there to the U.S. Navy and then the State Department, where he led an initiative that reduced the number of personnel at the U.S. mission in Brazil by a large fraction. His ability to move into an entrenched operation and reorganize it caught my attention.

Another excellent decision was hiring a serious young man from Wyoming. After interviewing with me six months earlier, d.i.c.k Cheney had gone to work for my good friend Congressman Bill Steiger of Wisconsin. I knew Steiger was impressed with his work. When I was nominated as the director of OEO, Steiger suggested that Cheney write a strategy memo to a.s.sist me in my confirmation hearings. It focused on what I sensed and heard was needed for a successful OEO: better accountability. Once I was confirmed by the Senate, I asked Carlucci to call Cheney and bring him aboard as my special a.s.sistant. Cheney had been thinking of returning to the University of Wisconsin to complete his doctorate in political science, but he took the job. Together, Carlucci, Cheney, and I-three future Republican secretaries of defense-labored to fix a cornerstone of Johnson's Great Society.

The well-worn recent media caricature of d.i.c.k Cheney as a rigid ideologue is unfamiliar to those of us who know him well. I've known him from his start in the federal government. At first Cheney was one of the many bright young staffers around the OEO office, but in short order he proved indispensable. The words steady and unflappable were frequently applied to him-and with good reason. d.i.c.k was an enormous help as we wrestled with the many heated controversies in which OEO had become embroiled over its short life. In fact, the more difficult the situation, the more d.i.c.k seemed to like it.*

Because of OEO's mission and its position as the centerpiece of the Johnson antipoverty legacy, many prominent people were interested in its activities and agreed to serve on its advisory board. One of them was Sammy Davis, Jr., often introduced as "the world's greatest entertainer." Sammy and I became friends. One memorable night the entertainer came to visit us at our small row house in Was.h.i.+ngton. It was only twenty-eight feet across; the second floor had two small bedrooms. We took the door off the upstairs closet so we could fit in a small crib when our son, Nick, was born.

"This is a nice place," Sammy said, when he entered our front room. "Let's see it."

"You just did," Joyce replied with a smile.

Some months later, Joyce and I were in Nevada, where I was giving a speech. It happened that my trip coincided with Sammy's hundredth performance at the Sands Hotel & Casino. After his spectacular show, Sammy told Joyce and me he would not be performing the next night and wanted us to go to dinner with him. He said he would arrange for us to see the best entertainer in Las Vegas which, considering Sammy's fame, was quite a compliment. So that evening we went to the International Hotel and were seated at a front row table-Sammy, his lovely wife Altovise, Joyce, and me.

Before long, the entertainer whom Sammy had extolled came onstage. Wearing a sequined jumpsuit and alternating between the ridiculous and the sublime, he promptly took command of the large audience. He sang songs of every genre, and that evening I became an Elvis Presley fan.

I could see that Elvis was a masterful showman. The audience was enthralled. Periodically he would take a silk scarf, wipe his brow, and toss it to the screaming crowd. At one point he threw a long, scarlet scarf in our direction. Sammy's wife caught it and handed it to Joyce.

After the show, Sammy took us backstage to Elvis' dressing room. The room was filled with all sorts of people-fans, friends, members of his entourage, and showgirls. Eventually Joyce and I became separated in the crowd. After a while, she spotted me in what had to have been an unexpected place-standing in a corner of the room talking intently with the king of rock and roll.