September 23, 1952
“It’s impressive, Mrs. R.,” Joan reported the next morning over breakfast. “The Republicans have sixty-four NBC TV stations, 194 CBS radio stations, and the whole Mutual Radio Network. They’re betting the country’s going to listen, and I think they’re right.”
“Do we have any idea what he’s going to say?” Eleanor asked, and Rayburn, who had joined her for breakfast, looked expectantly at Joan.
“No. Word is even Ike doesn’t know. My friends on Ike’s press detail tell me that most of the general’s staff want Nixon gone, and probably the general, too. I can’t imagine what he could say to save himself.” Joan poured more coffee and drained the cup. “I have to run, unless you need me.”
“Where are you off to?” Eleanor asked.
“Just gathering some background on Ike from the Pentagon.” Joan tried to sound casual, but Eleanor caught a tone of evasion.
“The Pentagon?” Sam asked sharply before Eleanor could. “What’s going on?”
Just then, Larry O’Brien walked in holding the headline from the New York Times out in front of him for all to see.
“Nixon’s on the ropes and about to be knocked out. Talk about ‘hoisted by your own petard,’ this takes the cake, doesn’t it? He is creamed! Pass me the coffee, will ya?” and he took a seat as Joan excused herself and quickly left the room.
Both campaigns were in the same posture at 9:00 p.m. eastern standard time on September 23. Ike, Eleanor, and their key staff members were seated in their respective hotel suites watching the end of the Milton Berle show. That night Berle, the host of the Texaco Star Theater, was dressed in drag, a red wig askew on his head after an evening of slapstick shenanigans. Berle began to sing “Near You,” his signature sign-off, and all over the country Americans waited for the political drama that would follow. They weren’t going to miss the chance to watch a public political execution, and by the dead man’s own hand at that.
At the El Capitan Theatre in Hollywood, Nixon sat onstage in a small wooden chair behind a writing desk that had been pushed up against a narrow bookcase, giving the effect of a homey library. Just before he had left the Ambassador Hotel, Dewey had called, using the code name “Mr. Chapman,” so that even Chotiner didn’t know who was on the line.
“Listen, Dick, Ike’s top advisers just met. I’m sorry to tell you this, but they want you to resign at the end of your statement. I don’t necessarily agree, but I said I would tell you.”
“His advisers? What about Ike? What does he want?” Nixon asked.
“I didn’t speak to him, Dick.”
“Well, listen here, it’s a little late for this. I’m walking out the door. And you tell them, you tell them I’ve been around politics a little bit myself, so they’ll just have to wait and see what I do,” and Nixon slammed down the receiver.
But the conversation echoed in his mind as he waited for the producer to signal him to begin. If only those bastards around Ike knew—he gave a short, sardonic laugh—that all he had were some notes he’d made on those United Airlines seat-back postcards as he flew to Los Angeles. He hadn’t made up his mind what to say, but damn them. Damn all of them. He wasn’t a quitter. He was a fighter. How dare they try to give him an order like that?
“One minute, Senator Nixon.”
He wiped his brow and looked at Pat, who was seated in a floral easy chair just off camera, her smile already frozen in place. She didn’t move, and they didn’t speak. The ladies will like her, Nixon thought, as he folded his hands with care and stared at the camera, waiting for his cue.
“Three…two…one…you’re on, Senator.”
The camera closed in tight, showing Nixon from the waist up. He looked straight into the camera and spoke as if he’d been rehearsing all day.
“My fellow Americans, I come before you tonight as a candidate for the vice presidency and as a man whose honesty and integrity have been questioned….”
Nixon labeled the charges a smear and assured the American people that he would give them the facts. Had he taken $18,000 from a group of supporters? Yes, but did he take any of that for personal use, or handle it secretly? Absolutely not, came the fervent reply.
“Every penny of it was used to pay for political expenses that I did not think should be charged to the taxpayers of the United States….
“Do you think that when I or any other senator makes a political speech and has it printed, that the printing of that speech and the mailing of that speech should be charged to the taxpayers?” he asked. “Do you think, for example, when I or any other senator makes a trip to his home state to make a purely political speech that the cost of that trip should be charged to the taxpayers?”
No, of course not. He knew his audience would agree that they shouldn’t have to pay for politics. Then how could a man of modest means get by? He could put his wife on the payroll, but that would be wrong, Nixon said, even though Pat was a wonderful stenographer. He turned toward her, and the camera followed his eyes. Pat Nixon sat in profile, watching her husband, a slight smile on her lips, her high cheekbones rouged and every muscle in her body frozen.
As the camera panned back to Nixon, he held up a sheet of paper and began to read a list of their assets and debts: a small inheritance from Pat’s father and one from his grandfather, the $80 rent on their first apartment, the house in Washington that cost $41,000 and had a $20,000 mortgage, his $4,000 in life insurance, and no stocks or bonds.
“Well, that’s about it. That’s what we have and that’s what we owe. It isn’t very much, but Pat and I have the satisfaction that every dime we’ve got is honestly ours.” Then, in an unsubtle reminder of the Truman administration’s mink coat scandal, he said, “Pat doesn’t have a mink coat, but she does have a respectable Republican cloth coat. And I always tell her that she’d look good in anything.
“One other thing I probably should tell you…. A man down in Texas heard Pat on the radio mention the fact that our two youngsters would like to have a dog. And, believe it or not, the day before we left on this campaign trip, we got a message from Union Station in Baltimore saying they had a package for us…. It was a little cocker spaniel dog in a crate that he’d sent all the way from Texas. Black and white spotted. And our little girl, Tricia, the six-year-old, named it Checkers. And you know, the kids, like all kids, love the dog, and I just want to say this right now, that regardless of what they say about it, we’re gonna keep it.”
Eleanor smacked her hand on the arm of her chair, startling her aides. What had angered her in the puppy story? They sensed her fury as they listened to Nixon’s closing exhortation. The country needed saving, he said, rising from his chair and shaking a fist at the camera, and Ike was the man to do it. He would not resign, he told the audience. He would leave it up to the people listening to decide if he should do that. He said that they should let the Republican Committee know their feelings, and then the broadcast came to an abrupt end.
Nixon stormed off the set, sure that his talk was a disaster.
“I didn’t see the producer’s signal, goddamn it!” He flung his notes to the floor. “I looked like a goddamn fool!”
“Dick, it’s all right.” Pat touched his shoulder as she followed behind him. He swung his hand out and back without turning, and she stopped short, jerking her head back with a practiced motion to avoid the blow. Chotiner arrived in the dressing room with the small group of supporters who had been watching in the studio. “Dick,” Chotiner said with genuine glee, “that was a masterpiece. Daryl Zanuck already called. No kidding, it was…”
“It was a flop. I didn’t stop in time. I didn’t give them the address of the committee. How will anyone be able to write?” Nixon’s jaw trembled, and then he began to sob.
Sitting with her aides at the Roosevelt Hotel, Eleanor scribbled some notes on a pad and whispered something to Maureen as she stood up and grabbed her purse.
“Eleanor, what did you think?” O’Brien asked, wondering why she seemed so agitated.
“Grand political theater, Larry, but it won’t work, not if I have anything to do with it. How dare he use Fala!”
“Fala?” O’Brien was mystified. Nixon hadn’t mentioned the Scottie dog that never left FDR’s side. But Rayburn smiled and nodded.
“I’ll explain it to you, Larry, don’t worry,” Rayburn said.
“Yes, Sam, do explain,” Eleanor agreed. “This phony Checkers business! Nixon knew exactly what he was doing. He’s sly, but he won’t get away with it. Come along. We’re going to Hyde Park. Joan, get out a press release tonight. Tell them I’m holding a press conference at Franklin’s graveside tomorrow at 4:00 p.m. to respond to Senator Nixon’s remarks. Be sure to let Murrow know. He’ll want a television camera crew there.”