“I don’t remember.”
He did know Shipley, correct?
“No comment.”
Had he called Shipley from California on October 23, asking him to check on Muskie’s operation in Tennessee?
Segretti’s demeanor remained mild, even affable. “This is ridiculous,” he told Meyers. “I don’t know anything about this. This all sounds like James Bond fiction.”
Meyers asked him about Dixon, Nixt and whether the Treasury Department had picked up any of his tabs; about his law practice, and about his travels, and again about Shipley.
Segretti remained impassive, a faint smile on his face.
What about the name Bill Mooney, a false ID that Segretti had said he might use? Did that ring a bell?
“Ridiculous.”
Segretti moved toward the door. Reaching for a 35-millimeter camera under the back of his jacket, Meyers said he wanted to take a picture before he left, and started clicking. Segretti ran outside into the hallway, yelling “No pictures!” A moment later, he came back and Meyers pointed the lens at his head. Just one more, Meyers said, aiming the camera again. Segretti tried to grab it and missed, then seized Meyers’ left arm and pushed him toward the open door, the camera still clicking.
Meyers rushed to a pay phone. Bernstein was talking to Sussman in the city editor’s office. Things were breaking. During a routine telephone check with a Justice Department official that morning, Bernstein had asked if the official had ever heard of Donald Segretti. It had been a throwaway question.
“I can’t answer your question because that’s part of the investigation,” the Justice official replied.
Bernstein was startled. Woodward and he had thought they were alone in pursuing Segretti.
There could be no discussion of Segretti because he was part of the Watergate investigation, right?
That was correct, but the official would not listen to any more questions about Segretti. Bernstein went down his list of checks, crossing out each item, writing “no” or “nothing” in the margin.
Herbert W. Kalmbach?
“That’s part of the investigation, too, so I can’t talk about it,” the official said.
Sloan had refused to say if Kalmbach was among those who could give out money from Maurice Stans’ safe. But since the fund was intended for “intelligence-gathering,” Segretti might have been bankrolled that way. Shipley had the impression that Segretti had got money from a “big spender” who was not in government. That would fit Kalmbach, President Nixon’s personal attorney.
Was there a connection between Segretti and Kalmbach?
The official would say nothing more.
Sussman and Bernstein were discussing all this when a copy aide rushed into the city editor’s office to say Meyers was waiting on the phone, sounding all out of breath.
“Jesus, I nearly got my ass beaten trying to take pictures,”* he told Bernstein. Then he got his breath back and put the scene into better focus.
Bernstein told Meyers that the Feds knew about Segretti. Sussman came over to talk to Meyers. All agreed he should go back and contact anyone who might know Segretti, find out if his acquaintances had been contacted by the FBI, what questions had been asked, everything they might know about him. The University of Southern California and Boalt Hall law school at Berkeley, where Segretti had studied, seemed the best places. The next day, Meyers called to say that, as a USC undergraduate, Segretti had been close to several persons who were to become part of the Nixon White House. Among the USC graduates at the White House were Ron Ziegler, the President’s press secretary; Dwight Chapin, the presidential appointments secretary; Bart Porter, a former White House advance man and CRP scheduling director who had received money from the fund; Tim Elbourne, who had served as a Ziegler press assistant; Mike Guhin, a member of Henry Kissinger’s National Security Council staff; and Gordon Strachan, Haldeman’s political aide and the White House liaison to CRP.
Bernstein and Woodward sent feelers out through the Post newsroom, looking for anyone who had more than superficial contact with members of the White House staff. Their expectations weren’t very high, given the relationship between the Nixon administration and the Washington Post. That heady era of good feeling, in which reporters had rubbed elbows and shoulders with President Kennedy’s men in touch football and candlelit backyards in Georgetown and Cleveland Park, was a thing of the past.
But Karlyn Barker, a former UPI reporter who had joined the city staff on the same day as Woodward, said a friend of hers had gone to USC with the White House boys and had stayed in close touch with them. Within a few hours, Barker had given Bernstein a memo headed “Notes on USC Crowd.”
Her friend had known Segretti, Chapin and Tim Elbourne since college. He referred to the “USC Mafia” in the White House and said Segretti and Elbourne had been called by their schoolmates Dwight Chapin and Ron Ziegler to help in the Nixon election business.
All belonged to a campus political party called Trojans for Representative Government. The Trojans called their brand of electioneering “ratfucking.” Ballot boxes were stuffed, spies were planted in the opposition camp, and bogus campaign literature abounded. Ziegler and Chapin had hooked onto Richard Nixon’s 1962 campaign for governor of California—managed by Bob Haldeman. After graduation, Ziegler and Chapin and Elbourne had joined the J. Walter Thompson advertising agency in Los Angeles, where Haldeman was a vice president. Segretti had been summoned to Washington and trained to work in a presidential election, according to Karlyn Barker’s friend.
Bernstein called the Justice Department official who had originally told him that Segretti was part of the Watergate investigation. It was Saturday, October 7.
“No, I can’t talk about him,” the official said once more. “That’s right, even though he’s not directly linked to Watergate, to the break-in. . . . Obviously, I came across him through the investigation. . . . Yes, political sabotage is associated with Segretti. I’ve heard a term for it, ‘ratfucking.’ There is some very powerful information, especially if it comes out before November 7,” the day of the election.
Could that powerful information involve Dwight Chapin? Had he hired Segretti? Or had Ziegler? Or . . .
“I won’t say anything on either Ziegler or Chapin.”
Bernstein guessed Chapin. The official said he certainly didn’t want to discourage anything the Post might be pursuing.
In the rough code they had evolved, Bernstein interpreted the remark as confirming that there was a connection between Segretti and Chapin.
Did Segretti have anything to do with the Canuck Letter?*
The official said he couldn’t talk about that letter either; it was also part of the investigation.
• • •
Bernstein groped through the paper effluvia on his desk and retrieved a manila file marked “Phones.” In June he had begun jotting down phone numbers of persons contacted on the story, logging them on a sheet of copy paper. He started going through the pages, looking for people who might know about Donald Segretti, ratfucking, Dwight Chapin, the USC Mafia, the Canuck Letter.
Bernstein had been reading the clippings on the primaries for any examples of malicious dirty tricks.
Finally he hit with one call.
“Ratfucking?” The word struck a raw nerve with a Justice Department attorney. “You can go right to the top on that one. I was shocked when I learned about it. I couldn’t believe it. These are public servants? God. It’s nauseating. You’re talking about fellows who come from the best schools in the country. Men who run the government!”
Bernstein wondered what “right to the top” meant. But he wasn’t given time to ask. The attorney had worked himself into a rage.
“If the Justice Department could find a law against it, a jury of laymen would convict them on that. It’s absolutely despicable. Segretti? He’s indescribable. It would be useful for you to write an article about this type of conduct. I was so shocked. I didn’t understand it. It’
s completely immoral. All these people, unbelievable. Look at Hunt. I don’t think he’s involved in the ratfucking. But he’s capable of anything. And he had access to the White House.
“The press hasn’t brought that home. You’re dealing with people who act like this was Dodge City, not the capital of the United States. Hunt bringing guns into the White House!”*
Bernstein was impressed. He had never known the man to be so outraged.
The Chapin-Segretti connection?
“Look at it more to see if your facts are straight,” the attorney advised.
The secret fund—had it financed the ratfucking?
“That’s a fruitful area.” He was calm for a moment, then became angry again. “Why else would they have all that money lying around? It’s a scandal. But it will all come out at the trial. . . .”
The Canuck Letter?
“The Muskie letter is part of it.”
Kalmbach?
“I won’t discuss names. There are so many things that nothing would surprise me. It’ll come out at the trial, which is the best context of all because the people will know it is the truth. The prosecutors have the truth. They want an opportunity to show it. The people who did this are going to take the stand.”
John Mitchell?
“Mitchell? They won’t call him. But it will be there. He can’t say he didn’t know about it, because it was strategy—basic strategy that goes all the way to the top. Higher than him, even.”
The attorney realized he had gone too far. Higher than Mitchell? Dwight Chapin was a functionary, an advance man and glorified valet, servant to Richard Nixon and H. R. Haldeman. At most, there were three persons who went higher than John Mitchell: John Ehrlichman (maybe), Haldeman and Richard M. Nixon.
Basic strategy that goes all the way to the top. The phrase unnerved Bernstein. For the first time, he considered the possibility that the President of the United States was the head ratfucker.
• • •
“When I am the candidate, I run the campaign.” Richard Nixon had said that after his aides had botched the management of the 1970 mid-term elections. Sitting at his desk, Bernstein remembered the quote and wished Woodward were there, but Woodward had gone to New York for the weekend. After almost four months of working together, a kind of spiritual affinity had developed between Woodward and Bernstein. People at the paper would occasionally kid them that they were out to get the President. What if they really had to confront such a situation—not getting the President, but obtaining persuasive evidence that he was involved?
Bernstein tried thinking as Woodward would. What did he have? Three attorneys said they had been approached by Segretti. There was no evidence, beyond a Justice Department lawyer’s angry reactions. There were the travel records—circumstantial. There was no evidence that a law had been broken.
What they had was ephemeral, but there were enough pieces to try writing something. The rule was: Lay it out piece by piece, write what you know is solid; the big picture can wait.
Bernstein tried a lead:
Three attorneys have told the Washington Post that they were asked to conduct political espionage and sabotage on behalf of President Nixon’s re-election campaign by a man who is under FBI investigation in connection with the Watergate bugging incident.
The words “espionage” and “sabotage” could not be lightly chosen. They were war terms. Bernstein and Woodward had talked about that, about the fact that the White House and CRP regarded the President’s re-election campaign as a holy war.
Bernstein wrote late into the night, came in early on Sunday morning, called Sussman at home. A draft would be ready by midday for Sussman to look at. He arrived about two, read the draft, then read it over the phone to Woodward in New York.
Sussman and Bernstein wanted to run the story. Woodward argued that not enough details about the sabotage operations were known, and that their scope and purposes were unclear. Moreover, the implications should not be hinted at until there was more solid information.
Woodward prevailed. He would catch the next plane to Washington and contact Deep Throat.
He left New York on the last Eastern shuttle and, from a telephone booth at National Airport, called Deep Throat at home.
They had recently arranged a method by which Woodward could call to request a garage meeting without identifying himself. Woodward put his suitcase in a locker and got a hamburger. He took a cab to a downtown hotel, waited 10 minutes, took another, walked the final stretch and arrived at the garage at 1:30 A.M.
Deep Throat was already there, smoking a cigarette. He was glad to see Woodward, shook his hand. Woodward told him that he and Bernstein needed help, really needed help on this one. His friendship with Deep Throat was genuine, not cultivated. Long before Watergate, they had spent many evenings talking about Washington, the government, power.
On evenings such as those, Deep Throat had talked about how politics had infiltrated every corner of government—a strong-arm takeover of the agencies by the Nixon White House. Junior White House aides were giving orders on the highest levels of the bureaucracy. He had once called it the “switchblade mentality”—and had referred to the willingness of the President’s men to fight dirty and for keeps, regardless of what effect the slashing might have on the government and the nation. There was little bitterness on his part. Woodward sensed the resignation of a man whose fight had been worn out in too many battles. Deep Throat never tried to inflate his knowledge or show off his importance. He always told rather less than he knew. Woodward considered him a wise teacher. He was dispassionate and seemed committed to the best version of the obtainable truth.
The Nixon White House worried him. “They are all underhanded and unknowable,” he had said numerous times. He also distrusted the press. “I don’t like newspapers,” he had said flatly. He detested inexactitude and shallowness.
Aware of his own weaknesses, he readily conceded his flaws. He was, incongruously, an incurable gossip, careful to label rumor for what it was, but fascinated by it. He knew too much literature too well and let the allurements of the past turn him away from his instincts. He could be rowdy, drink too much, overreach. He was not good at concealing his feelings, hardly ideal for a man in his position. Of late, he had expressed fear for the future of the Executive Branch, which he was in a unique position to observe. Watergate had taken its toll. Even in the shadows of the garage, Woodward saw that he was thinner and, when he drew on his cigarette, that his eyes were bloodshot.
That night, Deep Throat seemed more talkative than usual. “There is a way to untie the Watergate knot,” he began. “I can’t and won’t give you any new names, but everything points in the direction of what was called ‘Offensive Security.’ . . . Remember, you don’t do those 1500 [FBI] interviews* and not have something on your hands other than a single break-in. But please be balanced and send out people to check everything, because a lot of the [CRP] intelligence-gathering was routine. They are not brilliant guys, and it got out of hand,” Deep Throat said. “That is the key phrase, the feeling that it all got out of hand. . . . Much of the intelligence-gathering was on their own campaign contributors, and some to check on the Democratic contributors—to check people out and sort of semi-blackmail them if something was found . . . a very heavy-handed operation.”
Deep Throat had access to information from the White House, Justice, the FBI and CRP. What he knew represented an aggregate of hard information flowing in and out of many stations. Reluctantly, after prodding, he agreed that Woodward and Bernstein were correct about the involvement of higher-ups in the Watergate break-in and other illegal activities as well.
Mitchell?
“Mitchell was involved.”
To what extent?
“Only the President and Mitchell know,” he said.
“Mitchell conducted his own—he called it an investigation—for about ten days after June 17. And he was going crazy. He found all sorts of new things which astounded even him. At some po
int, Howard Hunt, of all the ironies, was assigned to help Mitchell get some information. Like lightning, he was pulled off and fired and told to pack up his desk and leave town forever. By no less than John Ehrlichman.”
Woodward reacted with equal measures of shock and skepticism. Ehrlichman was the good guy, the resident program man in the White House who dealt with legislation, concepts, domestic crises. Politics was Haldeman’s and Mitchell’s turf. Woodward pointed out the gravity of Deep Throat’s remark that “only the President and Mitchell know.” But the man would not elaborate.
Woodward asked if the Watergate bugging and spying were isolated, or if they were parts of the same operation as the other activities Deep Throat referred to.
“Check every lead,” Deep Throat advised. “It goes all over the map, and that is important. You could write stories from now until Christmas or well beyond that. . . . Not one of the games [his term for undercover operations] was free-lance. This is important. Every one was tied in.”
But he would not talk specifically about Segretti’s operation. Woodward could not understand why.
“Just remember what I’m saying. Everything was part of it—nothing was free-lance. I know what I’m talking about.”
Ratfucking?
He had heard the term; it meant double-cross and, as used by the Nixon forces, it referred to infiltration of the Democrats.
Deep Throat returned to Mitchell on his own steam: “That guy definitely learned some things in those ten days after Watergate. He was just sick, and everyone was saying that he was ruined because of what his people did, especially Mardian and LaRue, and what happened at the White House.
“And Mitchell said, ‘If this all comes out, it could ruin the administration. I mean, ruin it.’ Mitchell realized he was personally ruined and would have to get out.”
Woodward asked about the White House.
“There were four basic personnel groupings for undercover operations,” Deep Throat said. The November Group, which handled CRP’s advertising; a convention group, which handled intelligence-gathering and sabotage-planning for both the Republican and Democratic conventions; a primary group, which did the same for the primaries of both parties; and the Howard Hunt group, which was the “really heavy operations team.”
All the President's Men Page 14
