If it wasn’t for two Washington Post reporters following the story of the Watergate break-in, Jerry Ford might have been able to keep his promise. But no one could have imagined how, in the year 1973, America was about to be turned on her head, our Constitution tested beyond anything since the Civil War, and Gerald R. Ford, representative of the Fifth District from the great state of Michigan, would be smack dab in the middle of it all.
Around the dinner table at 514 Crown View Drive, everyone in the Ford family was expected to keep abreast of what was happening in the world, from politics to sports, and it made for lively debates. Betty and Jerry had always encouraged their children to ask questions and speak openly about how they felt. In 1973 there was much to discuss.
On January 30, 1973, former Nixon aides G. Gordon Liddy and James W. McCord Jr. were convicted of conspiracy, burglary, and wiretapping in the Watergate incident. Five other men pleaded guilty, but questions remained. Three months later, after Post reporters Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward revealed a tangled web of secret funds and lies, Nixon’s top White House staffers, H. R. Haldeman and John Ehrlichman, and Attorney General Richard Kleindienst, all resigned suddenly. At the same time, President Nixon fired White House counsel John Dean.
In May the Senate Watergate Committee began hearings that were broadcast live on television. It was a national soap opera with potentially dire consequences. Revelations from top officials appeared to be linking a Watergate cover-up to President Nixon.
When it came to Watergate, and Nixon’s involvement, Jerry and Betty were convinced that their longtime friend had nothing to do with it.
Meanwhile, separate from Watergate, Vice President Spiro Agnew was being investigated for kickbacks and bribes he had allegedly received as governor of Maryland.
On October 10, 1973, Agnew, after months of denying any wrongdoing, admitted that he had failed to report $29,500 of income in 1967 while he was governor. He pleaded no contest to a single charge of tax evasion, was fined $10,000, and formally resigned the office of vice president of the United States, “effective immediately.”
That night, Jerry and Betty were at home, when the phone rang around ten o’clock.
It was Mel Laird. Mel and Jerry had known each other a long time, having served in Congress together for many years. Mel had served as Nixon’s secretary of defense, and, after Haldeman’s and Ehrlichman’s resignations, he had stepped in to become one of Nixon’s advisors at the White House. A phone call from him at ten o’clock in the evening, however, was unusual.
Sitting in the family room, Betty could hear only Jerry’s side of the conversation. “Let us think about it, and I’ll call you back,” he said.
Jerry hung up the phone and said, “That was Mel Laird. He wanted to know, if I was asked, would I accept the vice presidential nomination.”
For the next hour, Jerry and Betty debated the pluses and minuses. First of all, Jerry wasn’t sure he would be happy in the position. Traditionally, the vice president’s job was chiefly ceremonial, with little impact on legislation, and Jerry couldn’t imagine working at a slower pace. Then they talked about how it would impact the children, and the invasiveness of the press.
On the other hand, Jerry realized the vice presidency was an honor and would be a “splendid cap” to his career—a recognition of his long service in Washington.
“What about your promise?” Betty reminded him.
“That’s the best part,” Jerry said. He’d have to serve as vice president only until the end of Nixon’s term: January 1977. Then he would leave public office, just as they’d planned.
“But it is highly unlikely Nixon would choose me,” Jerry assured Betty. “I’m too valuable to him on Capitol Hill.” Besides, there were other Republicans with national reputations and higher ambitions who seemed to be much likelier choices, such as John Connally, a former Democratic governor of Texas and US Treasury Secretary who’d recently switched parties; Governor Nelson Rockefeller of New York; and the governor of California, Ronald Reagan.
Betty agreed. It seemed there was only a very small chance Jerry would be chosen.
Jerry called back Laird. “We’ve talked about it and agreed that, if I were asked, I’d accept,” he said. “I’ll do whatever the president wants me to do, but we won’t do anything to stimulate any campaign. I’m not promoting myself. We have made our plans, and we’re happy with what we’ve decided to do.”
The phone at 514 Crown View Drive had been ringing nonstop for the past two days, and Betty had put up with about as much as she could take. It was one reporter after another asking all kinds of ridiculous questions.
“Has your husband told you to get your hair done?”
“No,” Betty replied with a smile. “I just had it done yesterday.” Then she quipped, “And if you think my husband’s worried about my hair, you have a wrong idea of my husband.”
Another anxious reporter had called and asked, “Has your husband told you to go out and get a new dress?”
That one made her laugh. The small master bedroom closet in their split-level Alexandria home had become so overstuffed that they’d installed a rack that ran the entire length of one side of the bedroom to hold the collection of suits, gowns, and dresses Betty had accumulated over the years. She still loved fashion, and while Jerry rarely denied her anything, her ever-expanding wardrobe was sometimes a source of contention. The last thing he would ever suggest was for her to go out and buy a new dress.
Besides that, Betty thought, these reporters were barking up the wrong tree. There was no way President Richard M. Nixon was going to choose Jerry Ford as his vice president.
Ever since Agnew’s departure two days earlier, rumors had been swirling about who Nixon would nominate to take his place. Only once before, in 1832, had a vice president resigned (and that was due not to personal scandal but to John C. Calhoun’s clashing politically with President Andrew Jackson and deciding to vacate the office with just months left in the term to run for an open Senate seat in his native South Carolina), and Washington was abuzz as reporters tried to glean information from anyone possible. Ford’s name had been mentioned among a dozen or so likely candidates, but in all honesty, Betty did not think her husband was a serious contender.
Jerry had promised her this was his last term in office, and he’d even told Nixon that was a “blood oath.” No more campaigns, no more weeks on end with him traveling all over the country. Come January 1977, a little more than three years away, they were retiring, and Betty would finally have her husband back. Surely Nixon wouldn’t choose a vice president who already had his sights set on leaving politics.
David Kennerly, a lanky, bearded, twenty-six-year-old photographer working for Time magazine, had been assigned to Vice President Agnew for the past year. When Agnew resigned in disgrace, Time sent out a bunch of reporters to cover the top candidates for his replacement, and as David recalled, “I drew the Gerald Ford straw.”
Friday, October 12—the day the White House had said Nixon would reveal his pick—Kennerly called Ford’s office to see if he could come in and take a few photos of him. Jerry’s press secretary Paul Miltich said, “Sure. Come on in at eleven o’clock.”
David had never met Jerry Ford before, but as he walked into the office, cameras slung across his body, he didn’t bother to introduce himself by name. He said simply, “I’m here for Time magazine. You’re on the list.”
“Well, you’re wasting your time,” Ford replied good-naturedly. It was eleven o’clock in the morning, and at that time, the congressman was telling the truth. He hadn’t received any indication that he would be chosen.
“Well,” Kennerly said, “I’ll just get a few shots, and at the very least, you’ll have a nice picture for your wall.”
Ford laughed. There was something about the photographer’s nonchalant attitude that appealed to him. Kennerly spent about ten or fifteen minutes taking some photos with the natural light in the room—he called it “Rembrandt lighting.”
At that moment, Kennerly was convinced that Ford truly did not think he would be the nominee. “He did not seem like a guy who was waiting by the phone for this call,” Kennerly said.
That afternoon, at 514 Crown View Drive, Betty was just beginning to prepare dinner when Susan came striding into the kitchen. Home for the weekend from Holton-Arms, the sixteen-year-old was eager to find out if the rumors she’d been hearing were true. Even at school, she watched the news and read the papers; she knew her father was on the short list, but when she’d called and asked him, he’d been unusually quiet. Almost secretive.
“Mom, do you think President Nixon is going to choose Dad as vice president?”
“No, Susan, honestly I don’t,” Betty said. “Your father is much too valuable in the House getting legislation through. The president would never take him out. It wouldn’t make any sense at all.”
“Well, I think it’s going to be him,” Susan replied. “I’ll bet you five dollars Daddy is the nominee.”
Betty was so confident that Jerry was not going to be the nominee, she didn’t hesitate one moment. “All right,” she said with a confident smile. “You’re on. Five dollars.”
One of the perks of being minority leader was that Jerry had been assigned a government car, along with a wonderful driver named Richard Frazier. With Frazier behind the wheel, he could work in the car between meetings and on the way home.
Betty was in the kitchen when she heard the car pull into the driveway. She looked at the clock on the oven. It was just before six thirty. That’s unusual, she thought. With everything going on, she hadn’t expected him to be home until at least eight.
As soon as Jerry walked into the house, Susan bounded up to him. “What’s happening, Dad? Do you know who Nixon’s gonna choose?”
Betty came walking out of the kitchen, eager to hear the answer too. “Do you know who it is, dear?”
Stone-faced, Jerry said, “The only thing I know is that the president is going to telephone his man soon.” He checked his watch and said, “I’m going to go for a swim before dinner, and then I’ll have to get back to the White House for the announcement.”
While Jerry swam laps, Betty broiled a few steaks, and Susan set the table. Steve came downstairs and asked, “Does Dad know who it’s going to be?”
“He says he doesn’t know,” Susan said. “I still think Nixon’s going to choose him.”
Betty shook her head. “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to to get that idea, but it’s not going to be your father.”
After his fifteen-minute swim, Jerry went upstairs to dry off and get dressed.
“I’ll be right down,” he said. “I’ll have to eat quickly and then get back to the White House.”
Susan helped Betty serve the plates, and as soon as Jerry came down, they all sat down at the table. It was seven o’clock.
“Betty, why don’t you say grace tonight,” Jerry said. The four of them bowed their heads in prayer as Betty thanked the Lord for their many blessings.
“Amen,” they said in unison. And then the phone rang.
Susan jumped up. Could this be the call? She grabbed the phone off the hook and answered, “Hello?”
As soon as she heard the voice on the other end of the line, a crestfallen look washed across her face. She held the phone out to her mother, the twenty-five-foot-long cord twisting in tight curls, and said, “It’s only Mike. Here, Mom, he wants to talk to you.”
Mike had seen the reports in the newspaper, and he, too, wanted to know what was going on. Susan had barely sat back down at the table when the upstairs phone rang.
The upstairs phone. The single line in her parents’ bedroom that connected directly to the White House. It had been installed when Jerry became minority leader, eight years earlier, and the only other times she’d heard that phone ring was when they did the annual test. She leaped out of her chair and ran up the stairs.
Breathless, she answered, “Hello?”
A female voice said, “This is the White House calling for Mr. Ford.”
Susan’s eyes widened. Even for a kid who had grown up in the Washington political arena, to hear “the White House calling” was, like, wow.
In the most mature voice she could muster, she answered, “Yes, just one moment, please. I’ll get him on the line for you.”
Holding one hand over the mouthpiece, she shouted downstairs, “Da-ad! It’s the White House!”
Jerry raced up the stairs and into the bedroom. Susan could hardly contain her excitement as she handed her father the phone.
“This is Jerry Ford,” he answered.
General Alexander Haig, the White House chief of staff, came on the line and said, “The president wants to talk to you.” Then, a second later, it was President Nixon’s voice.
“Jerry, I’ve got good news, and I think Betty ought to hear it too.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Mr. President,” Jerry said, “but I’m on a line that has no extension. Can you hang up and call back on the other number?”
As he hung up the phone, Susan looked at him, incredulous. “Daddy, did you just tell the president of the United States to hang up and call back?”
“He wants to speak to your mother and me at the same time,” Jerry replied. His voice was calm, but then, as he headed down the stairs, he heard Betty, still talking to Mike, and there was a sudden sense of urgency.
“Betty!” he hollered. “Get off the phone! The president wants to call!”
Betty hung up quickly, and seconds later, before she could fully comprehend what was happening, the phone rang again. She stood there, stunned, as Jerry dashed into the office, adjacent to the kitchen, and picked up the phone.
“Yes, Mr. President,” he said. “Betty’s getting on the line now.” He nodded to Betty, pointing to the kitchen phone.
Betty could hardly believe what she was hearing. The rumors were true. The reporters had been right. Susan was right. President Nixon was nominating Jerry as his vice president. In less than two hours, the president was going to make the announcement from the East Room on live television, and he wanted both Jerry and Betty to be there.
The conversation was brief, and as soon as they disconnected, Jerry walked back into the kitchen. Betty was frozen in place.
“Don’t worry, Betty,” Jerry said as he put his arms around her. “We’ll be okay. Vice presidents don’t do anything. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Susan, realizing her mother was in a state of shock—and that they had no time to waste—took charge. “Mother, we’ve got to find you something to wear!”
Once again she raced up the stairs, and by the time Betty got up there, Susan was already flipping through her mother’s wardrobe. “It can’t be a print, and it can’t be black. It should be a pretty color . . .
“What do you want to look like?”
They narrowed it down to an elegant, long-sleeved, chartreuse green dress that had a loose high-neck collar, a fitted waistline that fell into soft pleats, and a matching belt that accentuated Betty’s slim figure.
Still in a daze, Betty slipped out of her blouse and slacks as Susan waded into the closet to find shoes and a purse to match. Betty put on the dress and then went into the bathroom to touch up her makeup. There wasn’t time to fuss with her hair, so she simply ran a comb through it and spritzed a layer of hairspray.
Jerry walked into the room and said, “Come on, Betty, we need to go now. Frazier’s got the car running.”
“I’m almost ready,” she said as she dabbed at her lipstick.
In the twenty-five years they’d been married, if there was one thing that frustrated Jerry about his wife, it was that she often kept him waiting. There was always “just one more thing” she had to do. A change of earrings, an extra swipe of blush on her cheeks. It was her way of taking control. And perhaps a little bit of revenge for all the times he wasn’t there.
“Betty . . .” Jerry said. “We’ve got to go now.”
“I think she was scared to death,” Susan recalled years later.
With one last look in the mirror, Betty gathered up her courage, and then looked straight into her husband’s eyes with love and pride, and said, “Let’s go.”
Because President Nixon wanted to keep his nominee a secret until the very last moment, Jerry was directed into the East Room, where he took his seat with the other members of Congress, while aides snuck Betty into Nixon’s secretary’s office through a side door. Betty sat nervously, watching the live news coverage on a small television set as the actual events were unfolding on the other side of the White House. After nearly ten minutes of anxiety-building suspense, you could tell Nixon was finally going to reveal the name of his choice for vice president.
“Time to go!” the aide said to Betty. They made “a mad dash” through the White House, and as they approached the East Room, Betty could hear people clapping and cheering. President Nixon was listing the criteria he had used in choosing his nominee, and when he announced that the man he had selected had served twenty-five years in Congress, everyone had bolted from their chairs, assuming it was Jerry Ford. The ovation went on for nearly a full minute.
Finally, President Nixon announced, “Distinguished guests and my fellow Americans, I proudly present to you the man whose name I will submit to the Congress of the United States for confirmation as the vice president of the United States, Congressman Gerald Ford of Michigan.”
Before Nixon had even finished the sentence, the entire audience was on its feet, whooping and hollering, clearly pleased with the president’s choice.
Jerry made his way to the podium, smiling with pride, and as the rousing applause continued, he scanned the room looking for Betty. Suddenly he saw the flash of her green dress out of the corner of his eye as she appeared in the doorway, being led in by a female staff member.
“Here’s Betty,” Ford whispered to Nixon. “Shall I call her up here?”
“Not yet,” Nixon said under his breath. He was beaming, reveling in the enthusiastic ovation.
As Betty walked into the room, she had no idea where she was supposed to go or what she was expected to do. The aide whispered, “Go sit with Mrs. Nixon.”
The first lady was at the end of the row of chairs, with daughters Tricia and Julie, and Julie’s husband, David Eisenhower, seated next to them.
The standing ovation continued, with all eyes on the podium, as Betty crept gingerly toward her longtime friend, Pat. The only problem was, there wasn’t an empty chair. All this pomp and circumstance, and no one had thought to reserve a chair for the wife of the nominee.
The applause died down, and everyone began to take their seats. “They told me to sit with you,” Betty whispered.
“Oh yes, of course,” Pat said as she scooted over to allow Betty to share the chair.
Jerry made a few remarks and then, finally, she was invited onto the stage to stand next to her husband and the president of the United States. Betty smiled as the crowd stood and clapped. Some even cheered. As the applause went on and on, cameras clicking, lights flashing, she looked over at Pat Nixon, and the soberness of the situation slowly began to sink in. A mix of excitement and sheer terror was building inside her.
Off to the side, Dick Keiser, the special agent in charge of President Nixon’s Secret Service detail, was standing next to Jerry Bechtle—the newly assigned agent in charge of the new vice president’s detail.
“Come on, Jerry,” Keiser said, “let me have President Nixon introduce you to Jerry Ford.”
Keiser approached Nixon and asked if he’d make the introduction.
“Sure,” President Nixon said. People had surrounded Jerry and Betty, offering congratulations, when the president and the two Secret Service agents broke through the crowd.
“Jerry,” Nixon said, “I’d like you to meet Jerry Bechtle. He’s the agent in charge of your Secret Service detail.”
Jerry Ford reached out to shake Bechtle’s hand and said, “Nice to meet you, Agent Bechtle.” Turning his head to Betty, he said, “And this is my wife, Betty.”
They exchanged pleasantries, and Bechtle explained that he and a driver would be taking the Fords back to their residence.
“Okay,” Jerry Ford said agreeably. “Just let us know when it’s time to leave.”
President Nixon turned to his vice presidential nominee and said flatly, “No, Jerry, you tell him when it’s time to leave. The Secret Service works around your schedule. Not the other way around.”
Back at 514 Crown View Drive, Susan had invited over some girlfriends to watch the coverage on television. But at the time, she didn’t think it was that big a deal. “I wasn’t convinced that the vice presidency meant much of anything,” she said. “It wasn’t going to affect my life. I was going back to boarding school, and everything was going to be the same as it always was.”
But things had already begun to change. Steve Ford had gone to the T. C. Williams High School football game that evening—he’d decided to be a spectator rather than a player his senior year—but when he and his friend Kevin Kennedy drove back home, the streets in the neighborhood were all blocked off due to the press and security. So they parked the car a few streets away, and, rather than have to deal with the police, they thought it would be a good idea to climb over the back fence into the Fords’ backyard.
As the two teenagers were scaling the fence, they were immediately confronted by Secret Service agents armed with loaded guns.
“What are you doing?!” the agents yelled.
Terrified, Steve explained that he was Gerald Ford’s son, and he was just trying to get into the house. Looking back years later, Steve said, “It’s funny now, but we were scared to death that night.”
That week, David Kennerly’s photograph of Gerald Ford staring out the window appeared on the cover of Time. It was the first cover for both. It wouldn’t be the last.