Watergate Amendment Vol 2 by John J. Fitzgerald - HTML preview

“With all the money organization and influence why doesn’t Nelson run for the presidency himself? Hell, everyone knows he wants the job so badly he can taste it,” Wallace said sarcastically.

“Nelson has made a lot of political enemies inside the party and they carry grudges for a long time. As I said earlier the Republican Party is in complete disarray. Whoever gets the Republican nomination will lose in the general election. And let’s face it, the growing industrial power is being shifted to the South and that’s where the new political force will come from. We know you’re popular in the South and you proved in sixty-four that you attracted a lot of voters in the North. We believe the time is right and the people are ready for a third party with fresh viable candidates. It’s important to the new South and it’s important to the country as well.”

“I’ll bet you’re a Harvard man, aren’t you Mr. Thaddeus?” Wallace said with a humorous southern drawl.

“Yes Governor, I paarked the caar in the yaard at Haavaard. But I know the real world as well. And I think you do also,” Jude said quietly.

“Well, I must say you boys give me a lot to think about. I’ll be meeting with my brother later this evening. He’s my personal political advisor ya know. He has a good feel for which way the wind is blowing. I’ll fill him in on our conversation; it’s always helpful to get an outside opinion, if you know what I mean,” Governor Wallace said smoothly.

“I enjoyed our conversation, Governor,” Jude said and then added, “I’ll be leaving later tonight. I’m going back to the land of bright lights and tall buildings. I’ll keep in touch through Winthrop. Please let us know your intentions. We have a great opportunity to rearrange the major players on the political chess board.”

“You might be right, Mr. Thaddeus; you give me a lot to ponder. Good night Winthrop, good night boys, I’ll be in touch soon.” There was the sound of a click as the speakerphone went dead.

“Well Jude, what do you think?” Chandler asked.

Jude looked across the room toward Winthrop saying, “Governor, I expect George Wallace to be on the phone by noon tomorrow. Not first thing in the morning because he wants to show a little stature. But just as we are talking now, he’s talking to his brother, the political consultant. I’d bet those boys are laughing up their sleeves about how George hoodwinked a couple of Yankees to finance his campaign. Incidentally, we will funnel the money through his brother who knows how to hide it. And John, we want to add a extra couple hundred thousand dollars in cash in a slush fund for his brother to play with.”

“I can handle that. But why the slush fund for Brother Gerald Wallace?” Chandler asked, with a confused look in his face.

“Because we don’t want George Wallace to run for president again in seventy-two. This slush fund will be our insurance that he won’t run. All we have to do is produce receipts of a lot of cash that went to the Wallace brothers, which can be interpreted as bribes. Thus we will remove that piece from the chess board,” Jude said with a smile.

“What is to be my role in this grand scheme?” Winthrop injected as he made himself another drink.

“If I’m correct, Wallace will want to know more about what he can expect from you and Nelson. All you have to tell him is that you will support him openly. That will show him a divided party and help you in the South anyway. Tell him that Nelson will help quietly, but effectively behind the scenes, and that’s significant. He’ll get all the money he needs and the organization and a lot of one-eyed winks from prominent Republicans. He has to believe we have the money and the know-how to get him elected. Our staff will control the direction of the campaign. All he has to do is accept our offer to lead the ticket of the American Independent Party,” Jude said confidently.

Four days later, on Thursday morning, Jude was leafing through the society pages of the New York Times when a phone in his private office rang. He recognized the ring; it was his coded phone. He had a special phone that could be used only after a four number code was dialed, thus eliminating anyone answering by mistake or intent. Hastily, he grabbed his keys and quickly opened the door, wondering who was calling this early. “Hello?” he said.

“Good morning, Mr. Thaddeus, this is John Chandler.” He spoke in an enthusiastic, cheerful voice. “I just heard from our southern friend. I understand that Governor Wallace was ecstatic at our proposal. He had been trying to get something started on his own, but didn’t have the capital. With the silent assistance of the Brothers Rockefeller he’s decided to form a third party and run for the presidency.”

“That’s good news. The Bishop is in play and ready to be moved?” Jude asked quietly.

“Yes he is, Jude,” Chandler said with a little hesitation in his voice. “But, just one thing.”

Jude hated to hear that “just one thing" bullshit. It was the phrase he heard most often that killed deals.

“A little clarification. I’ve been thinking about our discussion before that meeting with Winthrop, setting up the campaign. I appreciate that it’s crucial for Wallace to carry the Southern states, but why not some Northern ones as well? In sixty-four he did great in the primaries up north, I mean Michigan, Ohio, and Maryland. It seems we could go after those Republican states as well...hit both Republican and Democrat states. It gives him a better chance.”

Jude bit his lip. He briefly wondered how John Chandler would react if he replied, “Because, you idiot, we want Wallace to take votes only from the Democrats, but not enough for him to win. Wallace is the spoiler, not the victor. His role is to get our guy elected.”

He kept his cool. There was no need for Chandler to know about every part of the larger plan...only what he needed to know about his involvement.

“The money is there for Wallace to campaign hard in the Southern states and some selected Northern states. We need him to concentrate on the states where we can guarantee certain electoral votes, and they are in the South. We’re going to spend a lot of time and money on Nixon campaigning the rest of the states where we may have our best chance against Humphrey.”

He paused for a moment then added, “The Wallace strategy is campaign hard against Humphrey, and anyway that’s who Wallace needs to attack. Let Wallace’s people think Nixon is a has-been with little appeal. Wallace won’t get Nixon voters anyway. The candidate they need to beat is Humphrey. If they can attract Humphrey voters, Wallace has a chance. That’s our Southern strategy. We expect the Wallace campaign to follow that game plan. And assure Governor Wallace that this plan is in his best interest. And the money will follow this formula.” Jude spoke in a voice of unquestionable authority.

“Of course, Jude. It sounds like a good, workable plan. I’ll keep a low-key profile with the interested parties,” said Chandler. He had been in Washington long enough to know how to take orders smartly where money was involved.

“One other thing,” Jude said with almost humor in his voice. “What is the status of the amendment?”

“So far, twenty-eight states have ratified it. It’s going as planned, unnoticed and unreported in the news.  In fact, my friends at the White House expect it to be enacted by the end of the year.”

Jude answered quietly, “To quote Franklin D. Roosevelt, in politics, nothing happens by accident. If it happens, you can bet it was planned that way’.”

Jude hung up gleefully.   

 

 

 

 

Chapter 6

 

 

 

For several months, the Nixon’s traveled internationally, promoting Pepsi.  Sales were increasing; his connections and prestige were paying off.  In Russia, Nixon began working a deal to trade Pepsi for vodka. This was less bizarre than one would suppose. Considering the Russian ruble was not worth much as currency, Nixon came up with the idea: product for product.  This would increase profits for Pepsi, being the only licensed dealer of quality Russian vodka. This was one of the first large commercial trade agreements between the U.S. and the Soviet Union.

Throughout these travels, the former Vice President was treated with respect by both press and governmental representatives. He was considered as a traveling business statesman.  Many doors were opened to him. It seemed as if an invisible force was helping him to become a business success. He was discreet. He refrained from criticizing either America’s treaty commitments or the political problems peculiar to whatever country was his current host.  He went so far as to support the policies of the Democratic President, Johnson.  As a result, politicians back in the states spoke more kindly of him, seeing no harm in such an unofficial roving goodwill ambassadorship. His travels were helping American business and didn’t cost the taxpayers a dime.  The common wisdom was that Nixon’s political career had been finished by his famous farewell speech to the press in California, the “You won’t have Richard Nixon to kick around anymore.” Even the American presses, Nixon’s longtime adversaries, were reasonably civil, just reporting where he was and what dignitaries he’d met with. To the press he was like a single large summer cloud, visible but not threatening.

 All seemed to be going well for the former Vice President.  His family often traveled with him, and Pat was a gracious diplomat in her own right.  With the added help from Gala, Pat's wardrobe discreetly became designer quality. Gala worked with her on subtle ways of European etiquette. These and a few other introductions helped Gala to cement a bond with the Nixon family.

 

As for Gala, she too was enjoying her job. She found Nixon easy to work with and he was quite appreciative of how well she was doing.  Pat Nixon was unvaryingly cordial. Even the Nixon daughters made it plain that they liked and respected Gala.  She maintained her tastefully luxurious apartment in New York.  She dated discreetly. No money changed hands, and her dates were often under fifty and sometimes even unmarried.  Overall, she lived the life of a hard-working high-powered executive secretary...not unlike many in the big city.  The only drawback was that Gala hadn’t yet been able to cajole Jude into explaining why she should be earning a thousand dollars a week for performing a normal job.

Gala was unpacking from one of her most recent trips when the phone rang. She was hoping it was one of Jude’s infrequent phone calls. Without greeting, his voice said, “It’s me. I’d like to meet you at that favorite little bar down in the Village in about an hour.  Can you manage that?”

“How delightful!” Gala responded.  “I’ll be glad to see you again.”  Pushing her suitcase aside, she wondered if there’d be time to shower and change first. She thought about asking Jude for a few extra minutes, but she decided to just take her time and be fashionably late.  “Let's think for a moment. Yes, I know the bar, and I’ll see you there. Ciao.”

When she reached the noisy, fern-burning bar called Iggy’s, she found Jude looking at his watch, but he made no comment while she slid into the booth opposite him.  Then, as if he’d been practicing it, he announced, “Gala, you look better every time I see you.  Your new career does something for you.”

“Why thank you, Jude.” Gala smiled, considering the time well spent, after all.  “I see you so seldom; sometimes I think maybe you have forgotten about me. But then I check my Swiss account and find the deposits. It's so reassuring knowing you do care.”

“Trust me,” Jude said in a quick voice. “I care about what you are doing, and I’m aware of what you are doing.  All the reports I get say you’re doing a great job, just as I thought you would.” He paused for a moment and added, “So I have no doubts you’ll handle the next phase of our project with the same expertise.”

Gala sipped experimentally at the pre-ordered beer, now warm, withholding comment a moment while she thought. “Ah yes, the seduction phase,” she said with a chuckle in her voice. “I have done some groundwork...good relationship with him and his family. Now I use my charm for the closing in part. When should I spring my irresistible trap?”

“Tomorrow would be all right,” said Jude, with no hint of a smile.  But when Gala coughed a little laugh, Jude did smile as if waiting to hear the joke.

 “Why don’t I call him right now and ask to meet him in the backseat of my car?” Gala said in a joking voice.  Then she spoke in a cooler tone. “You know he’s the original family man. In town, he's at the office or home...and either Pat or the daughters travel with us.  I will need a little time to set it up.”

“Pat Nixon has her favorite charity obligation in two weeks. Tomorrow, Nixon will get an invitation to a four-day bottle manufacturing convention in Denver. It’s a local franchise-holders meeting also. He’ll have to attend. And he’ll be asked to speak on his around-the-world goodwill trip.  But there’ll also be impromptu meetings with local politicos, business people, that sort of thing.  Nixon will need you to be hostess for him, set up the catering, and so forth.  Pat won’t be available until the weekend, and he’ll have to get there on Wednesday night or Thursday morning.  That will give you two nights, maybe three without the wife and kiddies around. I trust you can manage to take the ball over the goal line.”  Jude patted her hand.

“It’s going to take some doing,” Gala said dubiously, then added with a smile, “But rest assured he’ll score.”  Both laughed.

“I am confident you’ll succeed. Use your best judgment. If it isn’t right, let’s not jeopardize our position. I can always arrange another trip.”

“Yes, I’m sure you can,” said Gala as she slowly sipped again at the flat beer. She smiled at Jude and said, “Well, I will give it my best college try. And the next time we’re together, perhaps you could order something other than draft beer. We are no longer in college. We are in the real world now.” She then looked into Jude’s eyes. “In this real world how is our real plan coming along?”

“In time...Gala...In time you’ll know more. But for now, just keep up the good work.”

 

 

*    *    *    *

 

 

 

Burning Tree Country Club was one of Washington’s most exclusive and expensive golf clubs. It takes more than just money to  be nominated for membership, but money is still a major prerequisite. There were some politicians with seniority who were members, along with many lobbyists who paid the bills for the seniority members.  William Tallsand was such a member, and played each weekend...usually with a different partner or politician. This week he had the manager of Standard Oil's Baltimore refinery, Bruce Donlan, for a guest, along with Spiro Agnew, a Baltimore County Executive.  The fourth member was Jack Fehan, president of Ever Green Development Company, a large developer of shopping centers and office buildings.   The four players completed their game early in the afternoon that Sunday, then adjourned to the Grill for drinks and a sandwich. It was also a time to pay off the bets and to listen to stories of the "near perfect/ if only" shots. They grew a little noisier, speaking louder as the drinks took effect. The waiter, a young man, clean-looking, with a lot of energy, delivered another round of drinks.

“To the best shot of the day: Bruce Donlan’s birdie on the twelfth hole,” Bill Tallsand yelled.  “He saved me forty bucks with that eighteen-foot putt.”

“Sounds like a hell of a putt,” the waiter said as he put down the drinks.

“It was a hell of a putt,” Tallsand said in a slurred voice. “Waiter, you seem to know golf. May I ask your name?”

“Bill Moylan, sir,” the waiter answered quickly, as he started picking up dirty glasses.

“Fifty bucks if you can answer my question on golf!” Tallsand said loudly, waving his hand at the waiter. “Where does the name golf come from? Fifty bucks is yours if you’re right.” Everyone look perplexed, not wanting to yell the answer even if they knew.

“Gentlemen Only - Ladies Forbidden. They say it was written at St. Andrews in Scotland,” he said loudly.

“That’s it! Here’s a fifty dollar bill.” Tallsand gladly handed the money to the happy waiter. They laughed and drank some more.

“There’s another debt that has to be paid today,” Tallsand said, looking at Jack Fehan. “Did you bring it with you, Jack?”

Jack Fehan bent over to his gym bag and ruffled through his dirty socks and underwear looking for an envelope.  “I have it right here.” He picked it up, handed it to the waiter and said,  “Would you hand this over to Mr. Agnew, the distinguished gentleman on the far side of the table?”

The waiter walked around the table and handed the envelope to Agnew, who looked somewhat startled. “What’s this for?” he asked with a blank look on his face.

“That land we purchased four years ago over in Silver Spring. Well, the deal closed three weeks ago. It’s going to be a large shopping center. Your share is fifty thousand, and that’s the check.” Jack then looked at Tallsand as if for approval, then added, “That’s the reason you were invited here today. We thought we could win it back.” They all laughed. It was a fun afternoon. Although Agnew didn’t remember the details of the agreement, a few more drinks and all was well with the world.

On the flight to Denver in the small hours of Thursday morning, Nixon chatted wistfully to Gala about the days when he had Air Force II at his disposal, and all the service and personnel that went along with it.  By contrast, he found the company Lear Jet cramped and noisy.   After a few scotches, he added with a tired smile, “Well anyway, this is better than working for a living.” He sat back and spoke again. “Sometimes I think of how close I came to becoming a sports writer.”

As usual, Gala had efficiently smoothed their arrival. A waiting limousine zipped them through the dark, snow-shadowed hill to the Sheraton Hotel on the outskirts of the city.  Two bellhops pounced on the suitcases and Nixon followed them toward the elevator while Gala took care of the formalities of registering.

When she rejoined Nixon a few minutes later, he was exploring the twentieth floor suite, pulling back drapes to peer at the barely-visible loom of the mountains.  He commented, “All this space seems so large for just one person.”

“Well sir, Mrs. Nixon will be joining you here on Friday night. Remember, we are hosting a reception this evening in this very suite and you will need space for the meetings beforehand.” Gala looked around visualizing a large group of people talking and drinking. “All things considered, this large suite may just fit the bill. It doesn’t take too many people to fill this room, and some are important people.” She walked over to the large bar that ran along most of the side of the living room. “And you never know just who will show up...your popularity is growing, so we do want to make friends and influence people.” 

She then walked behind the bar, looking to ensure that it was well stocked. Satisfied, she asked, “Can I make you a drink? It’s been long day.”

“Mountain time. It’s still last night on my watch.” He glanced over at a large dark window.  “Or is it the other way around?”

“It’s an hour earlier than California time,” suggested Gala.

 “Okay, I’ll have one scotch with a little water. But I will not drink alone,” he said with a warm command.

“Ah, yes,” Gala said as she proceeded to make the drinks. “Johnny Walker Black, on the rocks, with a splash of water.” She made sure the bar had his favorite scotch. She then handed him his drink and lifted hers in a toast. “To California time.”

“To the great state of California.” He then took a large gulp. “What time is our reception tonight?”

“It starts at six thirty. Plenty of time for you to rest while I see to the final arrangements.  And I promise this room will be cleared by nine tonight.”

“If you can, you’re a better man than I, Gunga Din.” He laughed as if the scotch was having some effect. “Give politicians and news people free booze and they will stay till dawn or until the booze runs out.”

Gala laughed, “I agree, but I am like a nor’easter subtle but powerful. I’ll be able to move them out like the sand dunes of the Jersey shore.”

“These are westerners...cowboy types. They may be a challenge, but again, you handled all those folks in Hong Kong quite well. So, I trust you can handle them also.” He then finished his drink. “I’m tired. We don’t have anything scheduled in the morning, so I’ll sleep in.” Then he added as an afterthought, “Ah, yes...I’ll be doing some paperwork in the morning, so only disturb me if you need to do so. I’ll be sleeping.” Both laughed again.

Gala responded, “I’ll be up early in the morning. I have to make the final arrangements, and oh yes, the changes on the notes for your talk tomorrow night.”

“You get the proper rest,” Nixon said leveling a finger at her.

“You’re very kind, and so thoughtful,” she said warmly.

“I mean it,” he said with a smile.

Punctually at six, Gala knocked at Nixon’s door. He opened it in shirtsleeves, his tie half-knotted.  Knowing how he disliked being seen without a suit jacket and everything complete, Gala went at once to tidy the sofa where his speech was still laid out, expecting him to go right back to the bedroom.  She said, “The bartender and maid are due in ten minutes along with the hors d’oeuvres.  So excuse me while I get ready for them.”  She straightened, gathering the typed sheets of papers into a neat sheaf, and was surprised to find him still standing by the open door.  She raised her brows inquiringly.

“Was it just three hours ago I saw you leave here in a sweater and slacks, with a scarf around your head?” Nixon asked. “You can change things so rapidly.”

Gala brushed lightly at the side darts of her carefully chosen white evening gown, and then lifted fingers to touch her freshly styled hair, lying loose on her shoulders like spun silk.  “No, that was the day costume for work and play.” As she revealed her complete wardrobe and figure she said, ”This is my evening costume for work and play.”

“Well, I think the day costume and the evening costume are both…” He paused for a moment, seeming a little frustrated, then patted his own hair. “No, I don’t mean... well, you look very pretty in either outfit.”

“Please, I have to…” she gestured with the papers, turning aside as if flustered, and straightened a couch pillow.

Taking the hint, Nixon shut the hall door and went off to finish dressing.  But Gala was pleased, having created exactly the impression she intended for the evening.  Demure but flustered...that was the way she wanted it.  The old, old briar patch game.  She hummed softly as she pulled the drapes closed against the snow-stark vista and hid a used glass in the kitchenette cabinet.

The help and food carts arrived promptly, and Gala supervised the placement of the trays and bartender’s final preparations.  At six thirty the first guest arrived, followed within minutes by a half dozen more.  By seven, crossing the room required careful planning.  Big-brimmed hats were becoming a hazard and, as predicted, men were looking vaguely around for places to put those big hats down.  Gala collected the hats and relayed them to safety in one of the side bedrooms.  Passing near the group gathered around Nixon, Gala heard somebody asking the standard questions of whether he’d ever run for public office again.  In private conversation he’d say, ‘I’m enjoying life too much to run for public office. I enjoy private life. Why, even the press is kind to me once in a while. I think they like me working for someone other than the people.’  The comment got the usual laugh. But in his heart he had to admit, he doubted it. A two-time loser had no chance of being elected to the only office he’d consider - the presidency.

The decibel level and the temperature seemed to be rising satisfactorily.  The bartender was busy.  There were bursts of general laughter around Nixon.

Things seemed to be going well, and among friendly faces Nixon seemed to be abandoning formality. He was loosening up a little.  Sliding past, Gala saw to it he never held an empty glass for long.

As she was collecting a glass from a guest, she heard Nixon’s voice mutter just behind her, “I think this will be a late night.”

With a gleam in her eye, as if to frown, she replied, “Just wait...I feel a north-eastern breeze.”

At ten minutes to nine, Gala tapped on a glass until she had most people’s attention.  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming this evening.  And thank you for your goodwill. The Pepsi Cola Company has taken the liberty of making dinner reservations for all of you tonight at the famed Cattleman’s Club.  You’re all invited.  Your reservati