All the President's Men (34 page)

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.