All the President's Men (27 page)

Bernstein and Woodward decided not to cancel their noon lunch with Dick Snyder, their publisher, but to hurry through it instead. As they walked to the Hay-Adams Hotel, the magnitude of what was involved began to sink in. They had made a grievous error—Hugh Sloan would never lie. But how? And what was the mistake? There was no question that Sloan had confirmed Haldeman as the fifth controller of the fund. So had the FBI agent. And Deep Throat. It had something to do with the attribution itself, about Sloan’s testimony before the grand jury. There, they had gotten something horribly wrong. They considered the possibilities as they walked the four blocks to the historic hotel on the site of the old Hay-Adams House, directly across Lafayette Square from the White House.

While they walked, Ron Ziegler was beginning his regular daily press briefing in the Executive Mansion. It began at 11:48
A.M
. After 10 minutes or so of discussion and announcements about the President’s campaign and speech schedule, a reporter asked: “Ron, has the FBI talked to Bob Haldeman about his part in allegedly managing a secret slush fund for political sabotage?”

That began 30 minutes of denunciation of the
Post.

Z
IEGLER
: “The answer to your question is no, they have not. . . . I personally feel that this is shabby journalism by the
Washington Post.
 . . . I think this effort on the part of the
Post
is getting to the point, really, of absurdity. . . .

“The story and headline [“Testimony Ties Top Nixon Aide to Secret Fund”] refers to a secret fund, a term developed exclusively, virtually exclusively, by the
Washington Post,
based again on hearsay and based again on information obtained from an individual that they again refuse to identify, anonymous sources. I am told [by John W. Dean III] that there is no such secret fund. . . . this story was denied, and yet they ran it as their lead story this morning, with a distorted headline that was based totally on hearsay and innuendo. . . .

“ . . . it is a blatant effort at character assassination that I do not think has been witnessed in the political process in some time. . . .

“ . . . I am not attacking the press at all. I have never done that in this position, but I am making some very direct observations about the
Washington Post
and suggesting that this is a political—and saying that this is a political effort by the
Washington Post,
well conceived and coordinated, to discredit this Administration and individuals in it.

“ . . . Now, we have had a long run of these types of stories presented by this particular newspaper, a newspaper once referred to as a great newspaper, but I would, as I said before, suggest that the journalistic tactic being used here is shoddy and shabby and is a vicious abuse of the journalistic process.

“ . . . I do not intend to in any way respond to these types of stories other than the way I have responded up to this point, and that is an unequivocal denial of the allegations put forth. . . .”

Ziegler had never previously issued any such unequivocal denial of a
Post
Watergate story, a reporter there said, and added, “I think you have just issued what must be the longest comment by a White House news secretary on a story.”

Q
UESTION
: “If all of these men—Haldeman, Chapin and Colson—are clean and innocent of this, why are they not made available for questions? When we ask you questions to ask them specifically, we do not get direct answers.”

Z
IEGLER
: “ . . . We are not going to play into the hands of the
Washington Post
that way or play that particular game with them. . . .”

Q
UESTION
: “Some of the denials are rather broad, and in the case of Mr. Chapin it was ‘basically, fundamentally, incorrect,’ but if there is something that should be said which clears it up from your standpoint, why don’t you do it?”

Z
IEGLER
: “I think we have this morning.”

Q
UESTION
: “As long as we are on the subject, was Mr. Donald Segretti recruited to conduct political espionage by the White House or the committee, and was his contact man Dwight Chapin?”

Z
IEGLER
: “I think I anticipated that question this morning.”

Q
UESTION
: “But you didn’t answer it.”

Z
IEGLER
: “ . . . If I began to go back over all of the sources, all of the hearsay stories, and began to address each of these specifically, it would not only be a futile attempt, because it is difficult to track what has become a distorted, confused event, but it wouldn’t be worth
while, because [of the]  . . . type of journalistic technique that has been used. . . .”

Q
UESTION
: “Ron,
Time
magazine and the
New York Times
have also carried various articles about the incidents that allegedly have taken place. Do you include those in your general condemnation as being shabby journalism?”

Z
IEGLER
: “Quite frankly, I wouldn’t lump those publications with the
Washington Post.
I don’t think I would. . . .”

Ziegler was then asked about the
Post’s
reason for running the stories.

Z
IEGLER
: “I don’t know what their motivation is. I have personal observations about what their motivation may be. You have a man who is the editor over at the
Washington Post
by the name of Ben Bradlee. I think anyone who would honestly want to assess what his political persuasions are would come quickly to the conclusion that he is not a supporter of President Nixon.

“I read the other day where Mr. Bradlee was giving a speech and he said the Nixon Administration is committed to our destruction—referring to the press—that this Administration is committed to the destruction of the free press.

“There has been nothing as long as I have been press secretary where we have ever involved ourselves in a program of destruction of the free press. We respect the free press. I respect the free press. I don’t respect the type of shabby journalism that is being practiced by the
Washington Post,
and I have stated that view to you.”

•   •   •

Lunch was nerve-racking and strained. Woodward and Bernstein were too preoccupied to discuss anything coherently, much less writing a book. If the situation was deteriorating as badly as they feared, they would probably offer their resignations to the paper. There is little demand in journalism or book publishing for discredited reporters. They hardly touched their food, and instead gulped down cup after cup of coffee.

When the meeting ended, they stepped into the hotel’s old, oak-paneled elevator. Herbert Klein, the White House director of communications, was inside. All three stared at the floor in silence as the
elevator descended. At the lobby level, Klein stepped out hurriedly and strode to a White House car waiting in the driveway.

Bernstein and Woodward held copies of the
Post
over their heads as they walked back to the office in the rain.

Wire-service summaries of Ziegler’s briefing were in their typewriter carriages when they returned. The self-confidence and ferocity of Ziegler’s attack and his flat denial of the Haldeman story were more signs that something had gone terribly wrong.

Physically and mentally, the reporters were in no condition to deal effectively with the crisis. They were tired, frightened and confused.

Soaked and shivering, Woodward called Sloan’s attorney again. This time he reached him and asked him to explain the meaning of his denial.

“Your story is wrong,” Stoner said icily. “Wrong on the grand jury.”

Woodward was at a disadvantage: he couldn’t betray Sloan’s confidence and tell Stoner that his own client had been one of the sources.

Was Stoner certain that Sloan hadn’t named Haldeman before the grand jury? Woodward tried to say it suggestively.

“Yes,” said Stoner. “Absolutely certain.” He anticipated the next question: “The denial is specifically addressed to your story. No, he has not said it to the FBI. No, he has not said it to any federal investigators.”

Woodward was breaking into a cold sweat. Had the entire thing been a set-up? He had not expected antagonism from Hugh Sloan’s attorney.

He tried another approach. Leaving aside the question of whom Sloan might have divulged it to, was the story’s essential fact correct? Did Haldeman indeed have control of the fund?

“No comment.”

Wasn’t that the important question?

“No comment. I’m just not going to talk about information my client may or may not have.”

Squirming in his chair, Woodward considered their plight. Christ, what were they going to do? He asked Stoner if he could offer any guidance that might help resolve the impasse. But Stoner wasn’t giving anything.

Woodward directed Stoner’s attention to the
Post’s
repeated recognition
that Sloan was not criminally involved in Watergate. It had been the first newspaper to say so. It had said explicitly that Sloan had quit his job because he was honest.

Stoner said he appreciated that fact but Woodward sensed that the lawyer was getting impatient. Woodward needed time to think. He stalled.

Did the
Post
owe Stoner’s client an apology for misrepresenting what he had told the grand jury?

Stoner said that no apology was necessary.

Woodward paused. Maybe he should ask if Haldeman deserved an apology. But suppose Stoner said yes. A printed apology would probably have to appear. The thought was horrible.

Painful as the answer could turn out to be, Woodward asked if an apology to Haldeman was in order. He couldn’t think of anything else to ask.

“No comment.”

Woodward told Stoner that the
Post
had a responsibility to correct an error.

No comment.

If an apology was called for, it would be given. No comment.

Woodward raised his voice to impress on Stoner how serious it was when a newspaper made a mistake.

Finally, Stoner said he wouldn’t recommend making any apology to Bob Haldeman.

For the first time since the radio report of the denial by Sloan’s lawyer, Woodward relaxed a little.

He asked whether Sloan had been asked by the grand jury or investigators whether Haldeman controlled the fund.

No comment.

Could the FBI’s investigation have been so bad, he wondered aloud, and the grand jury’s investigation so inadequate that Sloan was never asked about Haldeman?

No comment.

That left them dangling, Woodward said.

Stoner said he sympathized with their precarious position.

Woodward couldn’t argue with that. There was nothing left to say. Both reporters were losing their composure. Woodward couldn’t
contact Deep Throat until that night at the earliest. Bernstein couldn’t reach Sloan. The whole office was in limbo; a pall had descended over the newsroom. Other reporters watched silently as the tension built. Bradlee and Simons occasionally came out of their offices to tell the reporters to stay cool, touch all bases. Sussman looked agonized. Rosenfeld kept shuttling between his office and the reporters’ desks, demanding to be kept informed of every nuance as they backtracked their conversations with the sources.

At 3:00
P.M
., Bernstein and Woodward left the office to find the FBI agent who had confirmed the Haldeman story two nights before. They found him in a corridor outside his office. Bernstein approached him and attempted to ask if the reporters had misunderstood.

“I’m not talking to you,” the agent said, backing away.

Bernstein moved toward him as the agent backpedaled in the corridor. Inexplicably, the agent seemed to be smiling. This was no fucking joke, Bernstein told him. The agent turned and walked quickly to the end of the corridor, then turned down another.

Bernstein and Woodward had already determined their course of action. If the agent didn’t stand by his remarks, they were going to talk to his boss and demand an explanation. It now seemed clear that Sloan had not told either the FBI or the grand jury about Haldeman.

Bernstein waited a moment, then ran after the agent and cornered him in the hallway. This was a deadly serious business, he told him, not some G-man version of hide and seek. They wanted some answers—immediately. Woodward walked up and joined the discussion. He was holding a folded copy of notes typed from Bernstein’s conversation with the agent. It was time for some straight answers or the matter would be taken up with his boss, Woodward told the agent.

The agent was no longer smiling. He looked panicked. “What the hell are you talking about?” he said. “I’ll deny everything. I’ll deny everything.”

Woodward unfolded his copy of the notes and showed them to the agent. They didn’t want to get anyone in trouble, he said. They just needed to know what, if any, error they had made. And they needed to know that minute.

“I’m not talking to you about Haldeman or anything else,” the agent said. “I can’t even be seen talking to you two bastards.”

Bernstein tried to calm him. Something had gotten screwed up, and
they needed to know what; there was no reason to suspect each other of being devious or acting in bad faith.

The agent was sweating, his hands were trembling. “Fuck you,” he said and walked into his office.

The reporters spotted one of the agent’s superiors in the hallway. Their next move represented the most difficult professional—unprofessional, really—decision either had ever made. They were going to blow a confidential source. Neither had ever done it before; both knew instinctively that they were wrong. But they justified it. They suspected they had been set up; their anger was reasonable, their self-preservation was at stake, they told each other.

Bernstein and Woodward walked over to the agent’s superior and shook hands. The three of them needed to go somewhere and talk, Woodward said.

What was the problem?