You’d think we knew everything about Richard Nixon. Decades of documentaries, library archives, and that famous "I am not a crook" speech have painted a pretty clear picture. But then Bob Woodward, the man who basically dismantled the 37th presidency, goes and finds twenty boxes of secrets in a condo in La Jolla.
It turns out Alexander Butterfield, the guy who dropped the "tapes bombshell" in 1973, was holding onto a lot more than just the location of some microphones.
The Last of the President’s Men Woodward isn't just another dry history book. It’s a messy, uncomfortable look at what happens when a president treats the Oval Office like a personal war room for petty grudges. Woodward spent 46 hours interviewing Butterfield, and the result is honestly kind of jarring. We’re talking about a world where the President of the United States spent his Christmas Eve obsessing over whether a low-level clerk had a photo of JFK on her desk.
The Man in the Room Next Door
Alexander Butterfield wasn't your typical political operative. He was a decorated Air Force colonel, a guy used to the "smoke" of combat in Vietnam. He ended up in the White House almost by accident, reaching out to his old UCLA classmate, H.R. Haldeman, just looking for a better military assignment. Instead, he became the "staff clone" for Haldeman and, eventually, the man who saw Nixon when the cameras were off.
Butterfield’s office was right next to the Oval Office. He was the first person Nixon saw in the morning and the last one he spoke to at night. Because of that proximity, Butterfield saw the "real" Nixon—a man who was brooding, brilliant, and deeply, deeply paranoid. While most of the world was watching the Cold War or Vietnam, Butterfield was watching Nixon hand-write lists of "enemies" or ordering the "sanitization" of offices to remove any trace of the Kennedys.
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That Infamous "Zilch" Memo
One of the most damning pieces of evidence in The Last of the President’s Men Woodward is what researchers call the "Zilch Memo."
Imagine this: It’s January 1972. Publicly, Nixon is telling the American people that the bombing campaigns in Laos and Vietnam are highly effective. He’s doubling down on the strategy. But privately, he scrawls a note across a top-secret report for Henry Kissinger. He writes that after ten years of air control, the result is "zilch."
Zilch.
The disconnect is staggering. He knew the strategy wasn't working. He knew the cost in lives. Yet, he ordered even more bombing shortly after. Woodward suggests this wasn't about winning a war; it was about the 1972 election. Nixon couldn't afford to look weak, so the bombs kept falling even when the man at the top knew they weren't hitting the mark. It’s a chilling reminder of how political survival can override human reality.
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The Smallness of Power
There’s a weirdly "House of Cards" vibe to the stories Butterfield tells. Nixon wasn't just managing global empires; he was micro-managing the most ridiculous things.
- He once went on a literal "witch hunt" because he saw a photo of John F. Kennedy on a bureaucrat's desk.
- He had his staff "body-block" certain dignitaries at state functions so he wouldn't have to talk to them.
- He obsessed over "sanitizing" the White House of any liberal influence, no matter how small.
Woodward captures these moments with a sort of weary precision. It makes Nixon seem both larger than life and incredibly small. You've got the most powerful man on the planet spending hours worrying about Edna Rosenberg—a completely loyal civil servant—just because of a picture on her wall. It’s the kind of detail that makes history feel alive and, frankly, a little scary.
Why Butterfield Talked After 40 Years
People always ask why Butterfield kept those 20 boxes of documents. He wasn't supposed to have them. He was actually the guy in charge of making sure other people didn't take documents when they left. But as the Watergate scandal started to swallow the administration, he started saving things. He kept a virtual diary of memos—thousands of pages on onionskin paper.
He sat on them for four decades. He had prostate cancer, he was getting older, and he realized the full story hadn't been told. When he met Woodward in California, he finally opened the boxes.
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The documents weren't just copies; many were originals with Nixon's actual handwriting in the margins. These "admissions against interest" provide a window into the presidency that the official archives probably never would have released. It’s the raw, unedited version of the Nixon years.
Lessons from the Last of the President's Men
Reading through The Last of the President’s Men Woodward, you start to see patterns that feel surprisingly modern. It’s a study in "truth-decay" and the way a leader's personality can warp an entire institution.
Here is what we can actually learn from this deep dive into the Nixon files:
- Proximity is Power: In any administration, the person who controls the door—the one who sees the president's "unfiltered" moods—often knows more than the Cabinet. Butterfield’s "taping system" revelation only happened because he was in the room when it mattered.
- The Public/Private Divide: The "Zilch Memo" proves that what a leader says to a camera and what they write in a margin can be total opposites. It's a reminder to watch the actions, not just the speeches.
- Bureaucracy as a Weapon: Nixon didn't just fire people; he used the FBI, the CIA, and the Secret Service to investigate "disloyalty" over things as minor as a desk photo.
- History is Never "Finished": Just when we think a story is closed, someone opens a box in a condo. There is always more to find if you know who to ask.
If you’re looking to understand the mechanics of power—and how it can be abused in the smallest, most personal ways—this is where you start. The book doesn't just rewrite history; it adds a layer of human "ugliness" (as one reviewer put it) that makes the political maneuvers of today look a lot less original.
To get the most out of this historical perspective, your next step should be to compare the "Zilch" memo findings with the declassified Kissinger transcripts from the same period. Seeing the two sides of that conversation—the private admission of failure versus the strategic planning for more escalation—provides a masterclass in the cognitive dissonance of high-level politics. Also, if you’re a fan of primary sources, checking the digitized Alexander Butterfield collection at the Nixon Library can give you a look at the actual memos Woodward used for his reporting.