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Back at the D.C. jail I recalled that Dean had responded to my offer to permit my life to be taken by saying that we had not yet reached that point. That led me to the thought that the White House might be concerned that Hunt, also in the D.C. jail, might talk to the grand jury. Dean might now suggest to the President that Hunt would have to be killed. In that event it was reasonable to expect orders to execute such a decision.
By now I knew that the fee for a killing in the D.C. jail was two "boxes" [cartons of cigarettes]. I'd be an immediate suspect were Hunt to be killed, so it would have to be a contract sanction, and I'd have to arrange an airtight alibi. That would be easy; just have myself put back in deadlock [a maximum security cell] prior to the event. I sought the advice of a gangland figure I knew and could trust.
My friend was sharp and quickly nodded his understanding, but jumped to the conclusion I was referring to McCord, now free on bond. He offered immediately to have McCord shot. I had to explain that I appreciated his offer but had someone else in mind.
I explained carefully that I had not yet received orders to kill Hunt, and that under no circumstances was he to be harmed without my specific authorization. That precaution out of the way, we decided quickly upon the method. Hunt received special meals because of his history of ulcers. His "diet tray" was served to him in his cell rather than in the mess hall on the first floor. Should I be ordered to kill Hunt, he would be served a special meal indeed. It would contain a lethal poison.
Hunt was going back and forth from the D.C. jail to testify before the Watergate grand jury. On Wednesday, 2 May, 1973, Hunt came back in an agitated state. I suspected the worst. We met in the small "card room" that the Cubans occupied at the end of the cell block. Hunt waited until we were all seated before he spoke.
"There's no sense holding out any longer," Hunt began, "they know everything."
"What do you mean, 'everything?' " I interrupted.
"I mean they've got it all. They know all about the Beverly Hills entry. They've got the ODESSA files."*
"How do you know?" I asked.
"They showed them to me."
"O.K. So they got the files. Why help the bastards?"
"Gordon, I may as well tell you. I'm not holding out any longer. There's no point. I'm cooperating with the prosecutors."
I stood and moved back from Hunt's side as if from a loathsome thing. I started to say something, thought better of it, and walked out. I have never spoken another word to Howard Hunt.
It occurred to me that I might receive orders to silence Hunt at any moment. I got hold of a guard and asked to be placed in deadlock. It would be a simple matter to send a coded message to my friend to poison Hunt, even from the depths of "the Hole," and just as simple for my supervisors to get the message to me. I waited, but because the message never came, Hunt lives.
Transferred to the federal prison at