It didn’t take long for me to realize that I would have something special with President Reagan. You rarely encounter people like that in life: someone you know at first glance will become a true friend. I recalled seeing his movies as a kid and watching General Electric Theater. I was less familiar with him during the 1960s when he was governor of California. Growing up in Boston, California was like a foreign country to us. How could prim and proper Bostonians relate to the guys out on the West Coast with the tie-dyed shirts, shorts, and what we then called Jesus shoes—sandals? No one in Boston dressed like that. We thought the Beach Boys were from Venus and California was the land of fruits and nuts, but now Reagan and I were thrust together, and it didn’t take long for us to begin to communicate in our own special way. As our friendship became stronger, we started to really understand each other. In fact, many times we never said anything, but we were still talking without saying a word.
Understandably, the communication between us at the White House was different from the talk at the ranch, and I always knew my place. I’d never speak to the President unless he spoke to me first. However, once he’d open that door, which he always did, we’d go at it. Regardless, I’d still be doing my job, and I had to be careful. Even though we shared a special friendship, I wasn’t there to be his friend. Although it’s good to be close and have your protectee trust you and know where you’re coming from, becoming too close might cloud your judgment, and if something does happen, you might make a mistake. Because I was so close to him, I was overly concerned about that. Trouble was, you couldn’t be around Reagan very long without becoming his friend.
We would seldom talk politics. There were times when the President just wanted to talk about something other than what was going on at the White House. I can vividly recall an exchange that we had just before the beginning of a head of state ceremony in 1983. I had just returned from my first year of riding with the Rancheros Visitadores, a men’s riding group of which the President was also a member. We were having a south-ground arrival at the White House, which means that a U.S. president has invited the president of another country for an official visit. When the visiting president arrives, he receives an official welcome. Hundreds of people are let into the south grounds. A platform is set up, and the military band plays. Both leaders take their places on the platform where they each make a speech. After they are finished, they go into the White House and have tea or some other refreshment.
I happened to be at the post that day, which is the point where you walk through the set of doors from the Diplomatic Room out to the south grounds. I was standing post and along came the President with his military aide, his chief of staff, and a couple of cabinet members. As he was walking forward, the band received its cue to start playing “Hail to the Chief.” The familiar don-don-da-don-don started to ring out, but when the President reached me, he stopped and asked, “John?”
“Mr. President?”
“How was Rancheros?”
“It was wonderful, sir.”
“What did you do? Did you catch the pig?”
“Yes, I did.”
Then he said, “I did the pig catching. You know, you grab them by their rear legs.”
“I know that now, sir, cause I grabbed them by the front legs, and I had a very difficult time.”
“No. You got to grab them by the back and you take them like pushing a wheelbarrow.”
While we were having this conversation, you could still hear the military band outside playing. People were now starting to sweat, and so was I.
Still the President continued, “How was the horse? Did they give you a good horse? I talked to Trev Povah, president of Rancheros.”
“Yeah. Trev took good care of me. Si Jenkins, owner of Jedlicka’s Saddlery, got me a good horse and we had some great rides.”
“Did you enter the rodeo?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you do the hide race?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Did you do the tie the ribbon on the calf’s tail?”
“Yes, sir, I did,” I answered, “but when the guy lassoed the calf, I put my hand on the rope which is a no-no. I didn’t know it, and I thought I could pull that calf toward me. Well the rope went through my hand and just peeled all the skin right off.”
The music continued to drone on outside, and now I was really starting to sweat. I looked at the chief of staff first. Then I turned and looked at the military aide. He needed to tell the President he had to go, because I was not going to tell him to.
Of course, the President had great respect for the visiting head of state. He just wanted to talk about the Rancheros. How many other people could he share this conversation with?
Judge Bill Clark, who was at first the President’s national security advisor and later the secretary of the interior, was someone else I got to know through our love for riding during those White House days. He was also a member of Rancheros, and often he and I would ride U.S. Park Police horses together at Rock Creek Park.
After his meetings with the President, Judge Clark would come by and say, “Hi, John.”
“Good morning, Mr. Secretary,” I would answer.
Every time, he would put his hand up and say, “John, it’s Bill.”
“Not in the White House it isn’t, sir,” I would shoot back.
Our exchanges were always more formal at the White House than they were at the ranch, and they needed to be. The White House was the place where all the official business was taking place. When state dinners or other ceremonial events were held, the Secret Service agents would rotate from one position to another. I remember one black-tie function on the second floor. It was a dinner the President was hosting for a visiting president. Los Angeles Dodgers baseball manager, Tommy Lasorda, who was a good friend of the Reagans, was one of the guests, along with his date, Angie Dickinson. He had previously sent Dodgers baseball team warm-up jackets to the President and Mrs. Reagan. At the dinner, I noticed that while Mr. Lasorda was talking to one of the staff members, he kept looking over at me. I wondered what they were talking about.
Finally, he came over to me and said, “Agent Barletta, I’m Tommy Lasorda.”
“I know who you are, sir.”
“You ride with the President all the time, don’t you?”
“That’s one of my duties.”
“Now, tell me the truth. Do they wear those jackets I sent them?”
“I’ll tell you the truth. They’re at Camp David. They wear them at Camp David when he goes riding or when they just go walking around.”
“You ride with him all the time?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
The day after the dinner, there was a Dodger jacket waiting for me that had been delivered by Federal Express, and the next time we went to Camp David, I wore that jacket. At Camp David, the Secret Service command post called the Elm overlooks Aspen, the main cabin, which is where the President and the First Lady stay. The entire compound is secured by a United States Marine Corp detachment. When the President opens the front door, an alarm goes off to alert the agents that he is on his way out. It was a Saturday morning and the President and First Lady were going over to the building called the Laurel for his weekly radio broadcast. At once, I noticed that they were both in their Dodger jackets.
I happened to be in my Dodger jacket on that morning, too. My boss looked first at me and then at them, as we walked over to escort them. My boss asked, “John?”
“Boss, this was not planned,” I answered. “This was not planned. I just wore the jacket.”
When the President saw us he just smiled that Irish smile and winked,