As Silbert spun out his tale of low-level conspiracy, Woodward sat among other reporters furiously taking notes. He did not have to write a story, so he could just think about what Silbert was saying.
He recalled a lesson he had learned in his freshman year at Yale. The instructor had assigned the students to read some medieval documents that gave somewhat conflicting accounts of Henry IV’s famous visit to Canossa in 1077 to seek Pope Gregory’s forgiveness. According to all of them, the King had waited barefoot in the snow outside the Vatican for days. Woodward had pored over the documents, made notes and based his paper on the facts on which most accounts agreed. All the witnesses had Henry IV out there in the snow for days with his feet bare. The instructor had failed Woodward because he had not used common sense. No human being could stand for days barefoot in the snow and not have his feet freeze off, the instructor said. “The divine right of kings did not extend to overturning the laws of nature and common sense.”
As Silbert worked himself up into a state of indignation against Gordon Liddy—the boss of the whole operation, he said—Woodward wondered if Silbert had taken a good freshman history course at Harvard. Silbert, a Phi Beta Kappa graduate, had all this evidence. Sixty witnesses. An airtight case. There was only one thing wrong: it didn’t make sense. CRP would not have paid $235,000 for inconsequential intelligence which was readily available from the FBI and local police. CRP’s managers would have wanted to know the exact purposes of the expenditures and the precise results.
Silbert had told Bernstein and Woodward that he expected to please no one with his Watergate investigation. He was going to succeed, that seemed clear. He had repeatedly stressed that there was no evidence to indict any more than the seven men who had been caught. “There is an unwritten rule in the Justice Department—the higher up you go, the more you have to have them by the balls. And I think it’s a good rule.”
After the opening statement, Howard Hunt changed his plea to guilty. He told reporters outside the courtroom that no higher-ups were involved in the conspiracy, “to my personal knowledge.”
Bernstein had been told the day before by a member of the Miami contingent that the four Florida men might also plead guilty if Hunt did. The rumors persisted. On Friday afternoon, after the session ended, Bernstein and Woodward were standing outside the courthouse with Post columnist Nicholas von Hoffman and Post editorial writer Roger Wilkins. Henry Rothblatt, the Miami men’s lawyer, was standing on a corner with his clients trying to hail a taxi.
We’ll lose them, Bernstein said, unless one of us goes. Woodward agreed. Bernstein said that he wanted to go. Woodward gave him $20. Rothblatt and his clients found a cab as Bernstein raced toward them. The lawyer, the stocky Frank Sturgis, and the three other men filled the cab, but Bernstein, uninvited, got in anyway, piling in on top of them as the door slammed. Von Hoffman and Wilkins nearly fell off the curb laughing. Woodward wrote a note to himself that Bernstein owed him $20.
Bernstein arrived back in the office late Saturday, mole-eyed and wrinkled. He had gone to the airport with Rothblatt and his clients, bought a ticket on a flight one of them was taking, edged his way in by offering to carry a suitcase and engaging in friendly banter, and slipped into the adjoining seat. Bernstein did not really have to press the man too hard to turn the conversation around to the trial. The story came out in a restful flow of conversation as the jet engines surged peacefully in the background. The interview was costing the Post more than a dollar a minute, Bernstein thought.
According to the man on the plane, Hunt had been visiting the four men from Miami for a week, urging them to change their pleas to guilty; their families would be cared for financially, and they could count on executive clemency after a few months in jail. In the enduring CIA fraternity, Hunt, the seasoned case officer, was again passing out the orders to his lower-level operatives. For more than a decade, the men had had unquestioned trust in Hunt, even after he had supervised their participation in the Bay of Pigs operation. He was their leader, the tie between their own projects and the cause of American patriotism. Rothblatt, Bernstein learned, was furious, and had instructed his clients “to stay away from that son-of-a-bitch Hunt,” but it was too late. The guilty pleas would be entered the next week.
On the phone to Woodward, Hunt’s attorney, William Bittman, denied that his client was pressuring the Miami men. “I would think that the suggestion is absurd . . . I can’t conceive of it,” he said.
The reporters and Post managing editor Howard Simons discussed the story. They were nervous about running it. Judge Sirica might haul the reporters into court again, this time to find out their source, and begin an investigation of what appeared to be an obstruction of justice. Simons asked some of the Post lawyers about the prospects of Sirica ordering such disclosure. Opinion was divided as the deadline neared.
Excessive caution prevailed, and the story on Hunt was held for more consideration the next day. One thing was certain: if it ran, it would carry only one reporter’s byline. If Sirica demanded disclosure, only one of them would probably have to go to jail for refusing to name their sources.
That night, both Bernstein and Woodward were called at home. A New York Times story said that the four Miami men were still being paid by persons as yet unnamed. The story, by Seymour M. Hersh, also said that Watergate burglar Sturgis had acknowledged that he had been told that John Mitchell had been aware of the Watergate operation and had in fact encouraged the team. The next day Time magazine sent out a press release of a forthcoming story that said that the four Miami man had been promised up to $1000 for each month they spent in jail. An account by Jack Anderson pushed the matter further: “Most of the money for the defendants has been funneled through Hunt [who] delivered part of the cash to Bernard Barker,” the columnist said.
The stories eased Simons’ qualms. “Sirica will have to throw the reporters from Time, the New York Times, and Jack Anderson in jail, along with you guys,” he said.
The next day, Monday morning, the story on Hunt’s maneuvers ran in the Post. In court that morning, the four Miami men fired Rothblatt and were assigned a new attorney, who immediately entered guilty pleas for them.
Sirica was seething. After accepting the new pleas, he called the four men from Miami before him. They walked up and stood before the bench. Defendant Barker bounced up and down on his toes, wringing his hands behind his back. Apparently torn by the anxiety of the moment, he went into a deep-knee bend. As he answered the Judge’s questions, his head wagged up and down and sideways in short jerks as if his neck had turned to rubber.
Judge Sirica asked about “these $100 bills that were floating around like coupons.”
Barker replied that he didn’t know where they had come from. The others nodded. “I got the money in the mail in a blank envelope,” he said.
“Well, I’m sorry,” replied Sirica, “I don’t believe you.”
Sirica questioned the men for about an hour. The heads of all four defendants seemed to be attached to the same strings; they bobbed up and down in unison. Yes, they said, the decisions to plead guilty were made free from any pressure. No, Your Honor, they said, when asked if anyone had mentioned executive clemency.
The Judge’s frown deepened. Had any of the men ever worked for the CIA?
“Not that I know of,” answered defendant Martinez, who had been on a CIA retainer of $100 a month until the day after his Watergate arrest. Among those who laughed out loud was Gordon Liddy, who had finished a brief nap at the defense table when Sirica began questioning the men.
Why did you break into the Watergate? Sirica asked.
“It pertained towards the Cuban situation,” Martinez said. “When it comes to Cuba and when it comes to Communist conspiracies involving the United States, I will do anything to protect this country against any Communist conspiracy.”
Sirica rolled his eyes in disbelief. What, he asked, did the Demoocratic headquarters have to do with Cuba or the Communist conspiracy?
> “I don’t know,” Martinez said, and added that that was what Barker and Hunt had told him.
All four denied that they had received any money. “These are not men that sell themselves for money,” Barker said proudly.
“Were you working under the direction of Mr. Hunt or other people in this job that was pulled off?” Sirica asked Barker.
“I was working with Mr. Hunt and I wish to state that I was completely identified with Mr. Hunt. . . . I have the greatest honor and distinguish him,” Barker said.
As Sirica interrogated them, chief prosecutor Silbert shook his head in disgust and stared at the yellow legal pad in front of him. Glanzer leaned back in his chair and rubbed one side of his face. The prosecutors’ assurances that everything would come out at the trial were fading into nothingness, as the defendants ducked into the haze of their guilty pleas.
Sirica asked Barker about the $114,000 in Nixon campaign checks that had been deposited in his Miami bank account. Barker said he just didn’t know where the money had come from.
Now wasn’t that strange? Sirica asked.
“I don’t think it is strange, Your Honor,” replied Barker. “I have previously before this been involved in other operations which took the strangeness out of that, as far as I was concerned.”
The Miami four were led off to jail.
• • •
That noon, Woodward took a cab back to the Post for a lunch with Katharine Graham and Howard Simons. “Katharine wants to go over some of the stories and ask about the sources,” Simons said.
Mrs. Graham, the publisher, was the daughter of Eugene Meyer, who bought the paper in 1933. When her husband, Philip Graham, who was publisher of the Post, committed suicide in 1963, she assumed control.
Woodward was glad that Mrs. Graham had waited until after the intense period of major investigative stories and the attack by the White House in the fall before asking for a meeting. He took the elevator to the eighth floor and walked through the double glass doors onto the thick white carpet that led to her office. Simons was already there, a drink in hand, and the three of them sat down in a corner.
“What’s happening in the trial today?” Mrs. Graham asked.
Woodward told her about the guilty pleas by the four Miami men and Sirica’s interrogation. The trial was getting increasingly ridiculous, Woodward said, and described the scene of the four men talking and nodding as if on cue.
Mrs. Graham asked several questions about what it all might mean and what would happen. “Is it all going to come out?” she asked, somewhat apprehensively. “I mean, are we ever going to know about all of this?”
Woodward thought it was the nicest way possible of asking, What have you boys been doing with my newspaper? He said that he and Bernstein weren’t sure it ever would come out.
Depression seemed to register on her face, and she shook her head. “Never?” she asked. “Don’t tell me never.” She laughed, throwing her head back with a bright smile. “Well, let’s eat,” she said, rising and leading them to the dining room directly behind her office.
A woman in a traditional maid’s uniform of black and white served eggs benedict. Howard Simons outlined the purpose of the lunch, a confidential discussion of the sources for the Watergate stories.* Woodward had finished two bites of his eggs benedict and now he was going to have to give a monologue. He told her about Martin Dardis in Florida, several Justice Department attorneys, an FBI agent, a White House aide, the Bookkeeper, Hugh Sloan. Mrs. Graham said she was less interested in the names than in the positions they held.
Woodward said that he had told no one the name of Deep Throat.
Mrs. Graham paused. “Tell me,” she said.
Woodward froze. He said he would give her the name if she wanted. He was praying she wouldn’t press it. Mrs. Graham laughed, touched his arm and said she was only kidding, she didn’t really want to carry that burden around with her. Woodward took a bite of his eggs, which were cold.
“Now, about the Haldeman business,” Mrs. Graham said, looking as if she were not sure she wanted to hear it.
Woodward put down his fork and told the story of the mistake he and Bernstein had made about Sloan’s grand-jury testimony.
“But are you absolutely sure we’re right?” The question carried an intensity absent from the previous conversation. “I remember talking with Henry Kissinger,” she continued, “and he came up and said, ‘What’s the matter, don’t you think we’re going to be re-elected? You were wrong on Haldeman.’ And he seemed upset and said something about it being terribly, terribly unfair.”
If there’s anyone who has not been wronged, Woodward said, it is Bob Haldeman. It was the most definite statement Woodward made during lunch.
“Oh really,” said Mrs. Graham. “I’m glad to hear you say that, be cause I was worried.” She paused. “You’ve reassured me. You really have.” She looked at Woodward. Her face said, Do better.
• • •
The trial lasted another two weeks. Woodward and Bernstein continued to attend, sifting through exhibits and papers filed with the court. Woodward copied down the phone numbers in the defendants’ address books, which were entered into evidence, and one evening he called some of the numbers. “The FBI?” one man asked. “They never, never contacted me. I never talked to them.”
Woodward slammed down the phone. In the biggest, most wide-ranging investigation since the assassination of President Kennedy, the FBI didn’t even call the numbers in the address books?
While going through the list of witnesses, Woodward found one who knew Hunt quite well. He called the witness at his office and asked what he was going to testify about. The witness said: “I’ll tell you what I could testify to, but Silbert won’t ask. If the Judge does or any of the attorneys, I’ll say it.”
Woodward sat up straight in the large blue chair at his desk and asked what that testimony might include.
“Howard always used ‘they’ or ‘the White House’ when he was talking about his activities. But one day I remember he was complaining about Ehrlichman and saying what an amateur Ehrlichman was, because Ehrlichman put a hold on a lot of things Howard was doing, various secret, intelligence-type things. The operation was delayed for two to three weeks because Ehrlichman was holding up the budget.”
Ehrlichman. Woodward snapped a pencil in half between his fingers.
“And Howard was saying that was why he liked Colson, because Colson understood that such things are necessary. Colson is an operator and gave immediate approval. He pushed the budget through.”
Colson—that made sense, but Ehrlichman? Woodward lined up several neat rows of paper clips on his desk as the witness went on.
“From the comments Howard made, it was apparent that Mitchell was getting typed reports of the wiretaps.”
Okay, Woodward thought, that made sense.
“After the Watergate arrests, when Howard was out of town hiding and needed a lawyer, Howard was looking for John Dean, and said, Let him get me a lawyer.”
Woodward’s hand jerked through the neat rows of paper clips, destroying the symmetry. “John Dean?” he asked.
“That’s exactly how Silbert sounded when I told him,” the witness said. “He said, That’s the first time his tracks have appeared in this.’ ”
Woodward took one of his giant paper clips, bent it into a large L and began twirling it in his hand as he read over his notes. At that moment, Bradlee walked by his desk and asked what was up. Maybe a whole lot and maybe nothing, Woodward said, but there was at least one witness who could do some damage to Mitchell, Colson, Ehrlichman and John Dean. Bradlee’s eyes brightened. He did a little dance, holding an imaginary towel to his ass and wiggling it back and forth before walking off.
Woodward thought fleetingly of getting in touch with Judge Sirica or one of his law clerks and somehow letting it be known that this witness could answer a few interesting questions. He rejected the notion.
The witness was never asked those
questions, but in a later conversation with Woodward he explained why Hunt was staying silent about high-level involvement. “In his lexicon of values,” the witness said, “Howard is performing a heroic act. He’s like a medieval monk who goes to meditate in a high place in the hope it will get him into Heaven. . . . Howard wants to become the Alger Hiss of the Right.”
• • •
The trial dragged on. During recesses, Liddy and McCord were accessible and would chat frequently in the corridors with reporters. Liddy delighted in telling little anecdotes like the one about a military plane that accidentally dropped a bomb in the red-light district of a Mexican border town. “So the town officials paid a visit to the military base,” he told a dozen reporters one morning, “and they told the base commander that if he would stop bombing the cat houses, they would close them down.” Liddy roared at his own story, laughing so convulsively that his face turned bright red.
At one point, after Liddy’s lawyer, Peter Maroulis, had another one of his frequent objections overruled by Sirica, Liddy took Woodward aside in the corridor. “Do you know how to play chess?” Liddy asked conspiratorially. Woodward did and told Liddy so. “Well, Peter just took their queen,” Liddy said. What do you mean? Woodward asked. “Listen, that’s all I can tell you, he got their queen.” Woodward asked if that meant that the Judge had committed an error on which the higher courts would be forced to reverse any convictions. “You’re a good chess player,” Liddy said, beaming and bouncing up and down slightly with his hands in his pockets.
On January 23, the only witnesses from the Nixon committee were scheduled to testify: Jeb Magruder, Bart Porter, Rob Odle and Hugh Sloan. Woodward went to listen, and spotted Magruder pacing the corridors. The tall, 38-year-old former merchandiser of cosmetics, facial tissues and women’s hosiery had an American flag in the lapel of his conservative suit. Magruder looked at his watch and approached Silbert. “Earl,” he said, “how much longer do I have to wait?” Silbert smiled deferentially and said something about courts not being run to meet the schedules of witnesses. Magruder was exasperated. At that point, Gordon Liddy walked past him and saluted, a big grin on his face. Reporters in the hallway laughed. Magruder became angrier and turned and walked back down the hall.
All the President's Men Page 26
