All the President's Men (15 page)

Hardly unaware of his image, Bradlee even cultivated it. He delighted in displaying his street savvy, telling a reporter to get his ass moving and talk to some real cops, not lieutenants and captains behind a desk; then rising to greet some visiting dignitary from
Le Monde
or
L’Express
in formal, flawless French, complete with a peck on each cheek.

Bradlee listened attentively as Woodward ran down what details the reporters had about the secret fund, its control by Mitchell and Stans and the probability of Haldeman’s authority over it as well. Bradlee focused on Mitchell and the context in which Sloan had described Mitchell’s involvement with the fund.

Bernstein and Woodward thought they were on the verge of finding out the names of all five persons who controlled the secret fund and perhaps more about the individual transactions. Then they planned to write what would be a definitive account—who controlled the money and precisely how it related to Watergate.

They started to explain their plan to Bradlee and noticed that he was doodling on a sheet of paper on his desk—a sign that he was becoming a trifle impatient. He interrupted with a wave of his hand, then got to the point.

“Listen, fellas, are you certain on Mitchell?” A pause. “Absolutely certain?” He stared at each of the reporters as they nodded. “Can you write it now?”

They hesitated, then said they could. The reporters understood Bradlee’s philosophy: a daily newspaper can’t wait for the definitive account of events.

Bradlee stood up. “Well then, let’s do it.”

And, he presumed aloud, the reporters realized the implications of such a story, that John Mitchell was not someone to be trifled with,
that now they were playing real hardball? Bradlee was not interrogating them. He was administering an oath.

They nodded, aware that they were about to take a bigger step than either of them had ever taken.

“Good story, good story,” Simons said, repeating an office cliché, and they all laughed.

“Go,” Bradlee said, waving everybody out of his office.

Bernstein was disappointed to see the meeting end. The editor had pushed his left sleeve up and Bernstein had seen a tattoo of a rooster. Bernstein momentarily forgot about Watergate. Bradlee, whom he regarded with an unhealthy imbalance of respect, fear, anger and self-pity (Bradlee did not
understand
him, he had decided long before), was always amazing him. He wished he had gotten a better look at the tattoo.

Writing the story took surprisingly little time. It moved from Bernstein’s typewriter to Woodward’s, then to Rosenfeld and Sussman and finally to Bradlee and Simons. Only minor changes were made. By 6:00
P.M
. it was in the composing room.

John N. Mitchell, while serving as U.S. Attorney General, personally controlled a secret Republican fund that was used to gather information about the Democrats, according to sources involved in the Watergate investigation.

Beginning in the spring of 1971, almost a year before he left the Justice Department to become President Nixon’s campaign manager on March 1, Mitchell personally approved withdrawals from the fund, several reliable sources have told the
Washington Post.

Four persons other than Mitchell were later authorized to approve payments from the secret fund, the sources said.

Two of them were identified as former Secretary of Commerce Maurice H. Stans, now finance chairman of the President’s campaign, and Jeb Stuart Magruder, manager of the Nixon campaign before Mitchell took over and now a deputy director of the campaign. The other two, according to the sources, are a high White House official now involved in the campaign and a campaign aide outside of Washington.

The rest of the story dealt with how the fund operated: Sloan’s phone calls to Mitchell, withdrawals by Liddy, Porter and Magruder, and
the GAO’s determination that even the existence of the fund was apparently illegal because the expenditures had not been reported. The Watergate grand jury’s investigation “did not establish that the intelligence-gathering fund directly financed the illegal eavesdropping,” the story said. “According to the
Post’s
sources, the primary purpose of the secret fund was to finance widespread intelligence-gathering operations against the Democrats.”

Bernstein called CRP for the rites of denial and reached Powell Moore. Half an hour later, Moore called back with the committee’s response. “I think your sources are bad; they’re providing misinformation. We’re not going to comment beyond that,” he said. He couldn’t be budged to discuss the specifics.

Bernstein remained at the
Post
that night to pursue the apparent Haldeman connection and read the clips on Herbert Kalmbach. At about 11:00
P.M
., he got another call from Moore, who had talked to John Mitchell and had a new statement:

There is absolutely no truth to the charges in the
Post
story. Neither Mr. Mitchell nor Mr. Stans has any knowledge of any disbursement from an alleged fund as described by the
Post
and neither of them controlled any committee expenditures while serving as government officials.

Bernstein studied the statement and underlined the soft spots.
The charges in the Post story.
What charges?
Disbursement from an alleged fund as described by the Post.
There was no denial of the fund’s existence, or that money had been disbursed, only of the way it was described.
Neither of them controlled any committee expenditures.
Technically correct. Sloan had controlled the expenditures, Mitchell and Stans had only approved them.

It was the cleverest denial yet, Bernstein told Moore and tried to go over it with him. Moore wouldn’t play.

The new statement would be duly recorded, along with Moore’s refusal to elaborate, Bernstein told Moore. If the Nixon committee would not respond, maybe Mitchell would, he added, telling Moore he would try to reach the Attorney General.

He wrote an insert on the new statement, and dialed the number of the Essex House in New York. He asked for Room 710. Mitchell answered. Bernstein recognized the voice and began scribbling notes.
He wanted to get everything down on paper, including his own questions. Moments after the call had ended, Bernstein began to type it out. In his agitated state, it was difficult to hit the right keys.

M
ITCHELL
: “Yes.”

B
ERNSTEIN
(after identifying himself): “Sir, I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but we are running a story in tomorrow’s paper that, in effect, says that you controlled secret funds at the committee while you were Attorney General.”

M
ITCHELL: “JEEEEEEEEESUS
. You said that? What does it say?”

B
ERNSTEIN
: “I’ll read you the first few paragraphs.” (He got as far as the third. Mitchell responded, “
JEEEEEEEEESUS
” every few words.)

M
ITCHELL
: “All that crap, you’re putting it in the paper? It’s all been denied. Katie Graham’s gonna get her tit caught in a big fat wringer if that’s published. Good Christ! That’s the most sickening thing I ever heard.”

B
ERNSTEIN
: “Sir, I’d like to ask you a few questions about—”

M
ITCHELL
: “What time is it?”

B
ERNSTEIN
: “Eleven thirty. I’m sorry to call so late.”

M
ITCHELL
: “Eleven thirty. Eleven thirty when?”

B
ERNSTEIN
: “Eleven thirty at night.”

M
ITCHELL
: “Oh.”

B
ERNSTEIN
: “The committee has issued a statement about the story, but I’d like to ask you a few questions about the specifics of what the story contains.”

M
ITCHELL
: “Did the committee tell you to go ahead and publish that story? You fellows got a great ballgame going. As soon as you’re through paying Ed Williams
*
and the rest of those fellows, we’re going to do a story on all of
you.”

B
ERNSTEIN
: “Sir, about the story—”

M
ITCHELL
: “Call my law office in the morning.”

He hung up.

For Bernstein, the only constant had been an adrenal feeling that began with Mitchell’s first
JEEEEEEEEESUS—
some sort of primal scream. As the cry of
JEEEEEEEEESUS
was repeated, Bernstein had perceived the excruciating depth of Mitchell’s hurt. For a moment, he had been afraid that Mitchell might die on the telephone, and for the
first time Mitchell was flesh and blood, not Nixon’s campaign manager, the shadow of Kent State, Carswell’s keeper, the high sheriff of Law and Order, the jowled heavy of Watergate. Bernstein’s skin felt prickly. Mitchell had escaped indictment by the grand jury, which would keep his secrets, but the reporters had said the words out loud. Though using the neutral language of a reporter’s trade, they had called John Mitchell a crook. Bernstein did not savor the moment. Mitchell’s tone was so filled with hate and loathing that Bernstein had felt threatened. Bernstein was shocked at his language, his ugliness.
Did the committee tell you to go ahead and publish that story? We’re going to do a story on all of you.
Mitchell had said “we.” Once the election was over
they
could do almost anything they damn well pleased. And get away with it.

Bernstein was determined to get Mitchell’s remarks into the paper.

When he had finished typing, Bernstein briefed Bill Brady, the night metropolitan editor, and proposed a two-paragraph insert. Brady, who had been rewrite man for the old
Washington Times-Herald
when it was bought by the
Post
in 1954, was perhaps the most unflappable person in the
Post
newsroom. But he had never heard anything like this one and asked if Bernstein was sure he had been talking to John Mitchell. Assured, Brady shook his head. As Bernstein had expected, Brady was not about to render a decision on how to handle Mitchell’s commentary.

Bernstein reached Bradlee at home in bed.

The editor was stunned. “Do you know what John Mitchell just said?” he asked his wife.

Was Mitchell drunk?

Bernstein said he couldn’t tell.

There was no question that Bernstein had properly identified himself?

None.

Mitchell had understood he was talking to a reporter?

Definitely.

And Bernstein had good notes?

Right.

Bradlee asked Bernstein to read him the proposed insert for the third time, while he considered calling Mrs. Graham. He decided the call wasn’t necessary.

“Leave everything in but ‘her tit,’” Bradlee instructed, “and tell the desk I said it’s okay.” He rejected a mild appeal from Bernstein to run the quotation intact. People would get the message, Bradlee said.

The phone rang about five minutes later. Powell Moore wanted to know if the committee’s second statement had made the paper.

Bernstein said it had, as well as Mitchell’s additional comments on the matter.

Moore sounded worried. What had the Attorney General said? Bernstein read him the insert and told him it was already being set in type.

“Oh,” said Moore.

Bernstein went home, his head full of disturbing visions. He had been there for only a few minutes when the phone rang. It was Moore. Bernstein started scribbling.

M
OORE
: “Carl, are you sure you didn’t catch Mr. Mitchell at a bad moment?”

B
ERNSTEIN
: “I don’t know.”

M
OORE
: “You caught him at an unguarded moment. He has been a Cabinet member and so forth, he doesn’t want to show up in print like that.”

B
ERNSTEIN
: “I just reported what he said.”

M
OORE
: “If his composure is not guarded, is it fair to him to hold him accountable for what he said? I’m wondering if it’s totally fair to him. He goes to bed early, you know. Did he sound sleepy?”

B
ERNSTEIN
: “I couldn’t tell. But I know that you fellows hold me accountable for what I write and what I say. So I don’t think it’s unreasonable to expect any less of Mr. Mitchell. He’s dealt with the press before.”

M
OORE
: “Carl, I don’t want anything printed that was said in a moment when the average person is not fully alert because he was awakened in the middle of the night.”

B
ERNSTEIN
: “What time did you talk to him?”

M
OORE
: “It was a while ago, probably around nine—Carl, is it too late to get that out of the paper?”

B
ERNSTEIN
: “It’s in there now, I think. The only way to get it out would be to talk to my editors. It was their judgment that it should be used, and I certainly concur.”

M
OORE
: “Who would I talk to to get it out? Is Bill Brady there?”

B
ERNSTEIN
: “No. I would think that to get something out you would have to talk to Bradlee.”

M
OORE
: “I certainly don’t want to make an independent decision to talk to Ben Bradlee. Let me get back to you.”

Five minutes later, Moore called again and asked how he could reach the editor. Bernstein said he should call the
Post
switchboard in five minutes, then he called Bradlee himself and told him to expect Moore’s call.

Always the southern gentleman, Moore called Bernstein back a few minutes later to tell him that Bradlee had refused to kill the insert.

Bradlee, imitating Moore’s drawl, later recalled that Moore asked him “was I sure this was a wise thing to do because we woke up the Attorney General, probably late in the mornin’, and he wasn’t havin’ all his thoughts collected. And I remember saying, ‘Which just boils down to the question, Mr. Moore, of whether he said it or not, and whether the
Washington Post
reporter identified himself as a reporter, and if he did that, all my requisites have been satisified.’ ”