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...area code 203, one digit away from Washington's 202 area code, Roland Booker, a cement finisher, and his wife Mona have the same phone number as the White House. Misdirected calls meant for Richard Nixon have be come part of their lives (three months ago an ambassador rang inquiring what time he should show up for dinner). During resignation week, they received an avalanche of calls urging Nixon to remain in office. But the Bookers have no plans to change their number and frankly enjoy having an accidental ear on history. This week they plan to visit Washington...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: Nation: Wrong Numbers | 8/26/1974 | See Source »

...after midnight when they parted. Kissinger went back to his office in the West Wing of the White House. The phone rang. Nixon wanted to talk some more, a kind of last, thin reach for a life that was ebbing. Then, some time between midnight and 1 a.m. as far as anyone knows, Richard Nixon cut himself off from the outside world and returned to his family to wait for the daylight...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: THE PRESIDENCY: Trying to Ensure an Epitaph | 8/19/1974 | See Source »

Wall Street Journal Reporter: Maybe so, but I know that just the other day the president called up Congressman Charlie Rangel, head of the Congressional Black Caucus, to arrange to have a meeting. He called Rangel himself. Charlie's secretary was sitting at her desk when the phone rang. She picked it up, and when she heard it was the president on the other end, she put her hand over the mouthpiece, like this, and said to a fellow office worker, "You're not going to believe this, but it's the president on the phone...

Author: By Michael Massing, | Title: Honeymooning With the Bathrobed Man | 8/16/1974 | See Source »

...precisely 11:03 Wednesday morning when the marshal's cry of "Oyez, oyez, oyez" rang out in the marble-pillared Supreme Court Building...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: THE SUPREME COURT: A Unanimous No to Nixon | 8/5/1974 | See Source »

...wiry frame tensed for combat, his glance imperiously stern, his mustache visibly bristling, his arms formidably laden with books, the lean, dapper man strode briskly to his Senate seat. "Mr. President," his utterly confident baritone voice rang out, and then for two hours, three, four, and once for a marathon 22 hours and 26 minutes, Wayne Morse lectured, harangued, infuriated and often educated his fellow Senators. Sometimes they fled the lesson, and Morse addressed an empty floor and gallery. But it scarcely fazed him. For he was sure that he was speaking for the ages and not just...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: THE SENATE: Death of the Tiger | 8/5/1974 | See Source »

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