All the President's Men

by Woodward, Bob

  Now Ziegler was running the President’s Jungle Ride.

  Was Mr. Nixon concerned about the allegations raised about his aides?

  “His concern goes to the fact that stories are being run that are based on hearsay, innuendo, guilt by association.” Etc., etc.

  Ziegler’s response and the Times’ findings on Segretti’s phone records were on the front page of next day’s Washington Post.

  Spared the brunt of the attack, the New York Times provided, in addition, an analysis of the White House behavior by Robert B. Semple, Jr., then the Times’ White House correspondent:

  The essence of the Administration’s recent counterattack to the charges that some of President Nixon’s assistants created or at least condoned a network of political espionage and disruption has been to denounce the newspapers that print them without explicitly discussing them. Behind the strategy lie two assumptions that tell much about the Administration’s perceptions of the voters and newspapers that serve them. Judging by recent interviews with Mr. Nixon’s aides, these assumptions seem to be widely shared in his inner circle. First, at the moment, the White House feels, the alleged conspiracy is perceived by most of the public as a distant and even amateurish intrigue far removed from the Oval Office, and thus a denial or even discussion of the charges by the White House would give those charges undeserved visibility and currency.

  The second is that the public—softened up by three years of speeches from Vice President Agnew—has less than total confidence that what it reads and hears—particularly in the so-called Eastern Establishment media—is true and undistorted by political prejudice. Hence the recent Administration attacks on the Washington Post, which has been giving the corruption allegations front-page treatment. . . . Repeated requests to senior White House aides to get the full story, as they see it, have gone unanswered. This leaves the field to Mr. Ziegler, who appears increasingly uncomfortable with questions about Mr. Chapin and Mr. Segretti.

  “Do you know why we’re not uptight about the press and the espionage business?” one White House aide—not Mr. Ziegler—asked rhetorically the other day. “Because we believe that the public believes that the Eastern press really is what Agnew said it was—elitist, anti-Nixon and ultimately pro-McGovern.”

  9

  FROM HUGH SLOAN, the reporters knew that the fifth person who controlled the secret fund was a White House official. There were many reasons for believing that it was H. R. Haldeman, the White House chief of staff. Indeed, there was some cause to suspect that behind Watergate stood Harry Robbins Haldeman.

  Trim, crew-cut and powerful, Haldeman, at the age of 46, had gone from managing the Los Angeles offices of the J. Walter Thompson advertising agency to managing the business of the President of the United States.

  Though John Mitchell had been the manager of the 1972 Nixon campaign, CRP was very much the creation of Bob Haldeman, and he was its executive officer at the White House. When CRP was formed in March 1971, Haldeman chose Jeb Magruder and Hugh Sloan to take charge of its day-to-day political and financial operations. Both had been members of the “Beaver Patrol,” composed of bright, fiercely loyal young men brought to the White House from the advertising and marketing worlds by Haldeman.

  Dwight Chapin was the most trusted of Haldeman’s eager beavers. Gordon Strachan, who had also played a role in the hiring of Donald Segretti, was the beaver who served as Haldeman’s liaison to CRP. Bart Porter, another Beaver Patrol member, had left his position as an advance man at the White House to become chief of advance for CRP.

  With the exception of John Mitchell and his two lieutenants, Fred LaRue and Robert Mardian, the senior Nixon men who had figured thus far in the Watergate disclosures owed their loyalty only to the President and to Haldeman. (Maurice Stans ordinarily was responsible only to the President, but he had worked closely with Haldeman in previous Nixon campaigns.)

  Herbert W. Kalmbach had been introduced to Vice President Richard Nixon in the mid-fifties by Haldeman. In handling the President’s personal legal matters and fund-raising, Kalmbach dealt mostly through Haldeman.

  Charles W. Colson began his White House career in 1969 at the age of 37. He reported to Haldeman and the President as the administration’s liaison to outside political and special-interest groups—and as the resident White House practitioner of underhanded political crafts.

  Several middle-level White House aides had assured Bernstein and Woodward that in the Executive Mansion there was little doubt that the Segretti-Chapin operation had been approved by Haldeman.

  For weeks, Sloan had been adamant in refusing to identify the fifth person who controlled the secret fund, repeating at each mention of the matter that it was part of his reason for “suspecting the worst.”

  Haldeman was held in awe throughout the administration. At the mention of his name, Cabinet officials would become silent and fearful. The few who would talk knowledgeably about him said they might lose their jobs if he ever found out. Tough . . . pragmatic . . . ruthless . . . devoted only to Richard Nixon . . . would stop at nothing . . . The descriptions were often similar and many quoted Haldeman’s celebrated self-description: “I’m the President’s son-of-a-bitch.” But Haldeman was far more complicated than such descriptions indicated.

  The reactions to Haldeman reminded Woodward of the military and of his Navy background. Haldeman was like the executive officer on a ship, the number two in command, always the ambitious, hard-charging zealot who would do anything for the captain.

  One of Haldeman’s methods of operation, the reporters knew, was “deniability.” This was the device of insulating himself from controversial decisions by implementing them through others so that, later, he could deny involvement. Thus, the reporters were certain that Haldeman would never hire a Howard Hunt as a White House consultant. He would make someone else—Colson or Ehrlichman—the employer of record. If Haldeman were behind Segretti’s operation, he would not have come in direct contact with him.

  The reporters knew from Sloan and others that Haldeman seldom dealt directly with CRP. That was Gordon Strachan’s job. Deniability was the rule in the White House staff system; the bosses stood behind an impenetrable beaver dam. If Haldeman stood behind Watergate, it was unlikely he had left tracks. It would have been out of character for him to maintain direct control over funds for clandestine operations. Indeed, if he had, no one was telling the reporters. Still, sources in Justice and the FBI were not denying it. Guided by past experience, Bernstein and Woodward were interpreting this reticence as a sign that their suspicions were correct.

  On October 19, Woodward dragged his balcony flower pot back into position to signal Deep Throat. At about one the next morning, he left his apartment for the long journey to the underground garage. He arrived at about 2:30 A.M. Deep Throat was not there. Fifteen minutes passed, then half an hour. An hour. Woodward was becoming worried.

  Deep Throat rarely missed an appointment. In the dark, cold garage, Woodward began thinking the unthinkable. It would not have been difficult for Haldeman to learn that the reporters were making inquiries about him. Maybe Deep Throat had been spotted? Woodward followed? People crazy enough to hire Gordon Liddy and Howard Hunt were crazy enough to do other things. Woodward got mad at himself for becoming irrational, tried to put out of his head the vision of some goon squad terrorizing Deep Throat. Would it leave a black glove with a knife stuck through the palm in Deep Throat’s car? What did a 1972 goon squad do, especially if it worked for the White House? Woodward went outside to look around, and then walked back down the ramp into the black. He spent another half-hour becoming more and more terrified—of exactly what he wasn’t sure—and then ran from the garage and most of the way home. He told Bernstein later that day that Deep Throat had failed to show. There were a hundred possible explanations, but they both worried.

  The following day, Woodward’s copy of the New York Times arrived with a circle on page 20, and a clock face indicating a 3:00 A.M. meeting. He took the familia
r route, arrived about 15 minutes early, descended to the level of their meeting place, and there, smoking a cigarette, was Deep Throat. Woodward was both relieved and angry, saying that he hadn’t appreciated the anxiety of the other night. Deep Throat said that he hadn’t had a chance to check the balcony that day and hadn’t called because things were getting hotter. Woodward moaned slightly more than necessary, hoping that it might help elicit some information on Haldeman.

  Though it wasn’t true, Woodward told Deep Throat that he and Bernstein had a story for the following week saying that Haldeman was the fifth person in control of disbursements from the secret fund.

  “You’ll have to do it on your own,” Deep Throat said.

  Woodward tried another angle. He asked if Deep Throat would feel compelled to warn him if his information was wrong.

  Deep Throat said he would.

  Then you’re confirming Haldeman on the fund? Woodward asked.

  “I’m not. You’ve got to do it on your own.”

  The distinction seemed too subtle.

  “You cannot use me as a source,” Deep Throat said. “I won’t be a source on a Haldeman story.” As always, the stakes seemed to quadruple when Haldeman’s name was mentioned.

  “Chapin took it close in and there’s a lot of tension,” Deep Throat explained. “That’s to put it mildly—there’s tension about Haldeman. Be careful.”

  He was tired and in a hurry. He said that he would try to keep the reporters out of trouble.

  Woodward asked if they were in trouble on Haldeman.

  “I’ll keep you out,” Deep Throat said.

  Since he had not cautioned them on Haldeman, he was effectively confirming the story. Woodward made it clear that he expected some sign from Deep Throat if there was any reason to hold back.

  Deep Throat replied that failing to warn Woodward off a bad story “would be a misconception of our friendship.” He would not name Haldeman himself. He shook hands with Woodward and left. Woodward was now more certain of two things: Haldeman was the correct name, and Haldeman had accumulated frightening power. Deep Throat did not scare easily.

  On Monday, October 23, Woodward reconstructed the meeting for Bernstein. Bernstein was uncomfortable with the “confirmation.” Was it really absolute confirmation? Yes and no, Woodward said.

  That night, the reporters visited Hugh Sloan. A light rain was falling when they arrived. Woodward banged the outsize brass doorknocker two or three times. Sloan came to the door and stepped outside. “I just can’t talk tonight,” he said. His tone was soft, friendly.

  The reporters explained that they had only a few questions, about information they had received that Sloan might be able to confirm. They realized they were playing on his good manners; Hugh Sloan would never shut the door on anyone. But Haldeman was important.

  They went over the secret fund and Sloan’s repeated unwillingness to discuss the amounts of money spent. There were five people who had authority to approve the disbursements, right? Bernstein asked.

  “Yes, I’d say five,” Sloan said.

  Magruder, Stans, Mitchell, Kalmbach and someone in the White House, Woodward reiterated.

  “That’s right,” said Sloan, who was leaning against the door frame.

  Did you mention the names before the grand jury? Woodward asked.

  Sloan thought for several seconds. “Yes,” he said.

  We know that it’s Haldeman, Bernstein said. The way he said it was meant to convey both urgency and inevitability. He wanted Sloan to think he would be giving nothing away by confirming. Haldeman, right? he repeated.

  Sloan shrugged. “That may be, but I’m not your source on that.”

  All they needed was confirmation, Bernstein said. No need to say the name. Just yes.

  “Not here,” Sloan responded.

  Woodward then asked if it was John Ehrlichman.

  “No,” Sloan said. “I can tell you it wasn’t Ehrlichman.”

  Colson? asked Bernstein.

  “No,” said Sloan.

  Unless they were way off base, that left only Haldeman and the President, Bernstein said. Certainly it wasn’t the President.

  “No, not the President,” said Sloan.

  Then it had to be Haldeman, Bernstein repeated. Look, he said, we’re going to write it and we need your help if there’s anything wrong about it.

  Sloan paused. “Let me put it this way, then. I have no problems if you write a story like that.”

  Then it’s correct? Woodward asked.

  “Yes,” Sloan said.

  The reporters were trying to restrain their excitement. They asked a few more questions for form, and scarcely listened to the answers. Then they shook hands with Sloan and walked down the path to Woodward’s car.

  That was almost enough, Bernstein said. He was still uneasy. Woodward was more confident but he agreed they should try for one more confirmation.

  The reporters arrived back at the office at about 10:00 P.M. They made a list of persons who were in a position to confirm or deny that Haldeman was the final name. There were only two people they hadn’t contacted.

  One was an FBI agent Bernstein had talked to during the first week of October. It had been an odd encounter. Bernstein had called the agent at his office. The agent had hung up on him and said he had nothing to say to any reporters. About 10 minutes later, the agent had called back and told Bernstein to meet him in a drugstore about eight blocks from the Post. He would be sitting at the counter reading a newspaper.

  Bernstein had slipped onto a seat beside him. The agent made some small talk about the stock market, then finished his coffee. “Time to go,” he said. The two left the drugstore and began walking west.

  “You guys are causing big trouble,” the agent said. “Our reports are showing up in the paper almost verbatim.”

  Bernstein was encouraged. He and Woodward were not always sure their information was the same as the Bureau’s, despite the general opinion that it was their source.

  “You’ve been right on the mark—except for Mitchell. We didn’t have that, that he controlled the funds. But it might have come out in grand jury. If it did, we didn’t follow it up. . . . We’re going back now to see if we missed anything.”

  Bernstein was confused. He and Woodward had been all but certain that the FBI knew. They thought the Mitchell information was in the files, he said.

  “That’s what has some of us bothered,” he said. “We’re not sure we’re getting all the files. The agents have been busting ass, but they might not be getting everything to follow up.”

  The FBI man kept asking questions about Mitchell. Bernstein was unsure of his purposes. The agent was alternately interrogating him, expressing doubts about the Bureau’s investigation (“Nobody believes the case stops with the seven who were indicted. The question is why did it stop there”) and then acting angry at the reporters. They were walking toward the White House.

  “Look,” the agent said, “the only person who knows I’m with you is my boss. We like our jobs. We don’t want to get transferred. It’s not fair when we come into the office in the morning and there’s our whole report showing up in your paper.”

  He confirmed that the Bureau had run into information on political espionage and sabotage and done nothing with it. “You’ll have to talk to Justice about that,” he said. “It went through channels to Justice and never came back.”

  They turned north on East Executive Avenue, walking on the Treasury Department side of the street, directly across from the East Wing of the White House. The agent paused to tie his shoe, raising his foot onto the Treasury fence to balance himself. Bernstein looked around. There was a long line of tourists, many of them with cameras, waiting to enter the White House. The agent retied his other shoe. Maybe Bernstein was getting paranoid, but he was beginning to think the stop was intended to get his picture taken. It was the perfect place, all those tourists with their cameras; but why bother? Anybody could get his picture from the Post files. T
he agent’s behavior hardly dissipated the paranoia. The G-man paused for another 30 seconds or so to ask additional questions about Mitchell, casually holding on to the fence with one hand. Finally, they resumed their walk toward Lafayette Square and sat chatting on a bench for a few minutes before parting.

  Now, Woodward picked up a telephone extension while Bernstein called the agent at his home in the suburbs to ask him about Haldeman.

  Bernstein knew he would never get the information merely by asking. He had decided to try to anger the agent by telling him they were working on a story about what a lousy job the FBI had done. Maybe there was an explanation for it, that’s why he was calling, Bernstein said.

  Woodward, listening on the extension, took notes.

  AGENT: “We did not miss much.”

  BERNSTEIN: “Then you got Haldeman’s name in connection with his control over the secret fund?”

  AGENT: “Yeah.”

  BERNSTEIN: “But it also came out in the grand jury?”

  AGENT: “Of course.”

  BERNSTEIN: “So it came out then in both the FBI interview with Sloan and when he was before the grand jury?”

  AGENT: “Yes.”

  BERNSTEIN: “We just wanted to be sure of that because we’ve been told that it came out only in grand jury, that you guys fucked it up.”

  AGENT: “We got it, too. We went to everybody involved in the money . . . we know that 90 percent of your information comes from Bureau files. You either see them or someone reads them to you over the phone.”

  Bernstein said he would not talk about their sources. He returned to the question of Haldeman and asked again if Haldeman was named as the fifth person to control the secret fund.

  “Yeah, Haldeman, John Haldeman,” he said.

  Bernstein ended the conversation and gave a thumbs-up signal to Woodward. Then it came to him that the agent had said John, not Bob, Haldeman. At times, it seemed that everyone in Washington mixed up Bob Haldeman and John Ehrlichman—“the German shepherds,” “the Prussians,” “the Berlin Wall,” as they were called. The reporters could not let the confusion persist, however. Bernstein called the agent back.