Free Watergate by Thomas Mallon Page B

ten?”
    “Careful, Mr. President,” said the production man. Amidst the general laughter that followed, everyone could detect the sharp cackle of Chuck Colson.
    The president reacted to the arrival of his political advisor with a smile, but two seconds after that, Rose saw him signal Chapin, with his eyebrows, that Colson’s presence here might not be the best idea. Chuck was continually being urged to lower his public profile, as if he were a kind of mad relative who needed to be kept out of sight. Rose agreed with Ehrlichman and HRH about precious few matters, but she’d bet they felt the same as she did about the break-in at the DNC: the idea for it had to have come from Colson.
    Chapin, having gotten the president’s message, fabricated a bit of urgent business that caused him to touch the political advisor’s elbow and propel him, with a whisper, back into the hall.
    It was Rose’s moment to stand by the desk and discuss the text of the speech about meat imports. “Wish we had something a little more momentous to show ’em,” the president said to her, before the cameraman resumed rolling. “Even so,” he added to the film crew, making them feel trusted and important, “I hope you fellows won’t leak any of this before it’s released next week.”
    “No, sir.”
    “Absolutely not.”
    “Good,” said Nixon. “What about zooming in on that?” he suggested, pointing to a page of Rose’s typing, which made the words do a zigzagdown the page, a system of spacing and capitalization known only to the two of them that indicated just the right speechmaking cadence.
    “No one will get it,” said Haldeman from several feet away. “It will only confuse people.”
    “I guess you’re right,” the president replied, picking up the typescript so that its blank back pages met the eyes of the now-active camera. He tapped the text, made a polite, knowing mutter about a phrase that “could probably go,” to which Rose responded, “Yes, you’re right.”
    When her moment ended, she decided to linger by the wall for a bit, and just as she took up her position Kissinger walked in, a genuinely unscheduled arrival. He pretended to regret interrupting and, as the cameraman continued to film, he told the president about his latest, just-completed trip to China.
    “Too many banquets,” said the national security advisor, patting his stomach.
    “How were the dancing girls?” asked Nixon.
    “They were all wearing tunics and carrying rifles. You’ve seen the ballets. It is always like watching the Rockettes invade Normandy.”
    Nixon made himself laugh, but then told the production man, “Better leave that on the cutting-room floor. And then make sure you sweep up!”
    Kissinger seemed to wonder if he’d made a tactical error.
    “You know, Roland,” the president continued, impressing the cameraman by this use of his name, “Rose back there is a terrific dancer. She’s single, too. But be careful. Her brother will have you arrested if you get fresh. He’s a sheriff.”
    Joe Woods hadn’t been the sheriff of Cook County, Illinois, for two years, not since he’d left the post to run a losing race for head of the Board of Supervisors. But Joe had been plenty helpful on election night in ’68. As the Republican sheriff, he’d been able to delay reports of the count from pro-Nixon suburban precincts. Fortified by his sister’s still-fresh memories of 1960, he’d waited and waited, confusing Mayor Daley, who wound up undervoting the Democratic dead and never made up the shortfall. And thus did Richard Daley fail to steal the state a second time from Richard Nixon.
    Rose almost found herself wishing they had an opponent tougherthan George McGovern, a man for whom Daley didn’t even want to turn out the living. (In fact, she and the president would bet their bottom dollars that not only Daley but LBJ himself would be voting for Richard Nixon this November.) What Rose really wanted was a third thrill ride,