On this day, Richard Nixon’s lawyer, J. Fred Buzhardt, dropped a bombshell: there was an 18½-minute gap in one of the White House tapes—recordings that were supposed to be key evidence in the investigation of Nixon’s involvement in the Watergate scandal. And let me tell you, this wasn’t just a “Whoops, my bad!” kind of gap. No, this was the kind of gap that made you say, “Oh, come on, you’ve got to be kidding me!”
The tapes were already dynamite, implicating Nixon in obstruction of justice, and this gap? This deliberate erasure of 18½ minutes of crucial audio? It was a neon sign flashing GUILTY. And the excuse? Nixon’s secretary, Rose Mary Woods, claimed she “accidentally” erased the audio while stretching across the room to hit the wrong pedal. Really, Rose Mary? What were you doing, yoga? The whole thing reeked of desperation and guilt.
That gap became the defining moment of Nixon’s unraveling. It made clear to the American people that the president was not only involved in Watergate but also actively trying to cover it up. The outrage grew, Congress acted, and less than a year later, Nixon resigned. The tapes—especially what was missing from them—showed us just how dangerous unchecked power could be. But they also proved something else: the people, through public outcry and pressure on Congress, could still hold power accountable.
And this is where the Constitution comes in. Because the beauty of that document isn’t just that it was written “for the people.” No, the real beauty lies in how it decides the power dynamic. It’s a contract, plain and simple—a document from us to the government. It establishes a government, gives it structure, and limits its power. It makes the government—Congress, the Supreme Court, and yes, the president—subject to us. Not the other way around.
This isn’t just some lofty ideal. It’s the foundation of our democracy. The Constitution doesn’t create kings or emperors. It creates public servants, people who are accountable to the citizens who put them there. And yet, somehow, over time, we’ve let that power dynamic flip. We’ve let those in power convince us that they’re untouchable, that the rules don’t apply to them. Nixon tried to pull that trick, and now Donald Trump is hoping to pull it off again.
Let’s not sugarcoat this: Trump is walking back into the White House with a mountain of legal problems. Fraud, conspiracy, obstruction of justice—you name it, he’s under investigation for it. And yet, thanks to a flimsy Department of Justice memo that says a sitting president can’t be charged with a crime, all those cases will likely grind to a halt the moment he’s sworn in. Why? Because someone, somewhere decided that the presidency comes with a magic cloak of immunity.
But here’s the thing: that memo isn’t law. It’s not in the Constitution. It’s not even a Supreme Court ruling. It’s just an opinion written by some DOJ lawyer decades ago. And let’s be real, the logic behind it is absurd: the president is “too busy” to face criminal charges? Too busy? If Nixon had time to record hours of incriminating conversations and Trump has time to play golf and rage on social media, they have time to deal with the consequences of their actions.
This isn’t how the Constitution was meant to work. Presidential immunity was never supposed to be a blank check to break the law. The president has unique powers, sure. He can take military action, sign laws, and lead the nation in times of crisis. But those powers don’t extend to, say, committing fraud, inciting violence, or obstructing justice. The job doesn’t come with a get-out-of-jail-free card.
If anything, the president should be held to the highest standard of accountability. Because the president isn’t just another citizen. He’s the leader of the country, the face of the government, the person entrusted with the highest level of public trust. And if that person abuses their power or breaks the law, they should face the music—especially because of their position, not in spite of it.
Don’t believe me? Let’s take a quick trip back to 1872. Ulysses S. Grant, hero of the Civil War and sitting President of the United States, was arrested for speeding his horse and buggy through the streets of Washington, D.C. That’s right. The President of the United States got pulled over by a cop for hauling buggy at 25 MPH in an 8 MPH zone.
But here’s the best part: the officer who arrested him? A black man named William H. West. Let that sink in. The President of the United States—a man who had led the Union Army to victory—was stopped, arrested, and fined by a black cop. And what did Grant do? Did he claim immunity? Did he rant about “fake news” or fire West on the spot? No. He took responsibility. He paid the fine and went on his way, probably shaking his head at himself for being such a speed freak.
Now think about that for a second. If Ulysses S. Grant could handle being held accountable, what’s Trump’s excuse? The guy can’t even admit to losing an election, let alone to committing a crime. And yet, thanks to this ridiculous DOJ memo, Trump and every president after him gets to live in a bubble of untouchable privilege. Meanwhile, the rest of us are out here paying speeding tickets and answering for our actions.
The Constitution wasn’t written to shield the powerful. It was written to define their limits. It’s a document that puts the people first, making sure the government serves us—not the other way around. Nixon tried to flip that script, and Trump is banking on it. But we don’t have to let him. The 18½-minute gap reminded us of the dangers of unchecked power. And Ulysses S. Grant reminded us that even presidents can—and should—be held accountable.
The question is: will we? Or will we keep letting presidents act like they’re above the law, turning our democracy into a farce? The Constitution gives us the power to decide. The only thing standing in the way is us.
