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To my knowledge, never before my confirmation had there been hearings so openly conducted on ideological grounds rather than merely political ones. For some men there is a high emotive content in terms that apply to me: soldier, Republican, conservative, patriot. Add to that tinder the burning issues of Watergate, Viet Nam, Cambodia, wiretaps, the CIA, Chile, and you have the makings of a pretty hot time.
The question that ought to be asked of nominees for high office is this: Who are you and how did you become the person you are today? However, it was unlikely, as the date of my confirmation hearing before the Senate approached, that anyone was going to join me in a philosophical exercise on the relationship between personal experience and policymaking. The primary subject would be Nixon.
A few days after my Hardingesque conversation at the Madison Hotel with Baker and Meese and Laxalt—in which Meese questioned me about whether I had anything to hide about Watergate—the Washington Post ran a series of articles that raised scurrilous questions about my service in the White House, my association with President Nixon and the circumstances of his resignation. By innuendo and more direct means, it was suggested that I had unjustly escaped public humiliation and hanging as a Watergate criminal, and that my appointment to the Cabinet might provide a good opportunity to correct this oversight. For the press, there is no such thing as too many scoundrels. It knows that villains are interesting. I had been cast as lago. My wife and children were distressed. My friends were appalled. I was infuriated, and in an earlier day, when the reputations of public persons were still protected by the law, might have sued for libel. But I could hardly run away from these false charges. Failing to confront them would be tantamount to saying that I was afraid of scrutiny because I did not think I could stand up to it.
During the hearings, much time was devoted to a sober discussion of how the future needed to be managed, but the leitmotiv of Watergate also continued to be heard. Time after time, the events of the past were exhumed. This was perfectly proper, but it is not especially enjoyable to be the cause for the rebirth of the doctrine of guilt by association.
At length I was overtaken by exasperation. This happened on the fourth day, after a long session in which the plowed and salted earth of the Nixon era—Chile, wiretaps, Watergate—was spaded again and again. Democratic Senator Paul Sarbanes of Maryland turned once again to Nixon and his deeds. Why had I not resigned as a matter of conscience? It hardly seemed necessary to say again that I had not been there when the misdeeds took place. So I suggested that one did not have the option of quitting when the Republic was in danger: "I felt an obligation to do the best I could. I did that."
Sarbanes asked for my "value judgment" about the things that were happening. I repeated that there had been abuses on both sides, that Nixon had a right to the presumption of innocence like any other citizen. The exchange ran on. Sarbanes pressed me for a "value judgment" no fewer than four times. Finally, I remarked, "Nobody has a monopoly on virtue, not even you,