All the President's Men (40 page)

But the reporters would need more—details, examples, others who could confirm what had happened.

Pat Gray’s confirmation hearing was set to begin February 28.

The night before, Bernstein talked to Tom Hart, a young aide to Senator Robert Byrd of West Virginia, who was the Senate Democratic whip and a member of the Judiciary Committee. Hart had compiled a card index of the newspaper and magazine stories and, from these, had filled a loose-leaf binder with lists of contradictions and unanswered questions about Watergate.

The questions were being circulated to selected members of the
committee. Until they were answered, and buttressed by evidence from the FBI’s Watergate files, Gray would remain on the witness stand, Hart said. Even if the Judiciary Committee reported out a positive recommendation, Byrd would use his considerable influence to oppose the nomination on the Senate floor if the contradictions were not cleared up.

The hearings opened on February 28 with Gray chewing on throat lozenges and insisting that the Watergate investigation had been “a massive special,” a “full-court press,” with “no holds barred.” Then, without being asked, he volunteered that he had turned over the files of the investigation to John Dean and could not guarantee that Dean hadn’t shown them to Donald Segretti.

The Senators were astonished. Woodward was relieved that Bernstein wasn’t there to hear Gray’s testimony. He had been maintaining for months that they should write a story on Dean’s receipt of the files. Woodward hadn’t thought it important, which was exactly what Gray was presently contending, without much success. He was offering to make the FBI’s Watergate files available to the Senators. But the impression that Pat Gray had acted as valet for John Dean, more than 20 years his junior, had sunk in. The Gray hearings were going to become the Dean hearings as well. That was clear.

The next day, Thursday, Bernstein read his file on John Dean. Dean, who had come into possession of the contents of Howard Hunt’s safe after June 17, had waited at least seven days to turn them over to the FBI. One notation indicated that two notebooks belonging to Hunt had not been listed in Dean’s inventory. A Justice Department attorney told Bernstein that the prosecutors had first heard of them on October 11, when Hunt had filed a motion demanding the return of belongings he had left at his office.

“The White House claimed they never saw the notebooks,” Bernstein was told. “We didn’t know what to think. We still don’t.”

He called Hunt’s attorney, William Bittman. Bittman confirmed the story and told Bernstein that the notebooks contained names and addresses which the prosecutors had told him might lead to others involved in the Watergate conspiracy. “We thought the FBI had them and had used them in their investigation. I was going to argue that the government’s whole case was tainted because their information had come from material [the notebooks] obtained in an illegal search. I was
going to call Dean and other people at the White House to show that Hunt was still using his office in June and that he had not abandoned his property in the White House.

“When we found the FBI never got the notebooks, the whole issue became moot,” Bittman said. “All I can say is  . . . that the whole thing was very strange. I don’t know where they went.”

Bernstein asked how useful Hunt thought the notebooks would be in building a case against higher-ups.

“I’ll let you guess,” Bittman said. “Valuable enough for someone to want them to disappear.”

On Friday, March 2, at an impromptu news conference, President Nixon announced that he would claim executive privilege against any demand that Dean testify at the Gray hearings. The story of the missing notebooks and Dean’s role in turning over the material in Hunt’s safe ran with an account of the President’s remarks.

Four days later, Gray told the Senators he was “unalterably convinced” that Dean had withheld nothing from Howard Hunt’s safe. Almost simultaneously, the White House issued a statement asserting that Dean had turned over all its contents.
*
But the matter was eclipsed by a more startling development at the hearings.

That afternoon, a group of reporters, including Woodward, filed into Tom Hart’s anteroom to pick up copies of documents Gray had supplied in answer to some of the Senator’s earlier questions. One was headed “Interview with Herbert W. Kalmbach.”

“Mr. Kalmbach said that in either August or September, 1971, he was contacted by Mr. Dwight Chapin and was informed that Capt. Donald H. Segretti was about to get out of the military service and that he may be of service to the Republican Party.” It was all there. Kalmbach had admitted, in the interview, that he had paid Segretti for undercover activities, on instructions from Chapin. In one irretrievable step, Patrick Gray had undermined the basic claim of White House innocence. In the process, he had helped establish the credibility of the
Washington Post.

Bernstein and Woodward had difficulty finishing the Gray story by
deadline. Newspapers, networks, radio and television stations were phoning for comments on the
Post’s
“vindication.” Almost all the callers used that word.

Bernstein’s and Woodward’s story reflected 10 months of pent-up anger and frustration. They threw quote after quote of White House denials back at the President’s men. But the article was unintentionally packaged like an ax murder. Leading the paper under a three-column head: “FBI Chief Says/Nixon’s Aides/Paid Segretti,” the text was juxtaposed with oversized pictures of Chapin, Kalmbach and Segretti. The unfortunate combination of their placement running down the side of page and the captions under the pictures made them look like mug shots sent over from homicide. “Chapin: reported Segretti available. . . . Kalmbach: just a disbursing agent. . . . Segretti: linked to Nixon staff.” In the excitement, the effect went unnoticed at the
Post.
But not at the White House. The reporters were told by officials there and elsewhere in the administration that the story’s treatment had generated as much hatred of the
Post
as anything.

Bradlee, usually sensitive to such things, had been too pleased by the day’s events to notice. Between calls for interviews, he raced around the office, pounding Rosenfeld on the shoulder, attempting to exchange a jive handshake with Sussman (who almost lost his pipe) and proclaiming that Pat Gray had rescued the free press.

For the next two weeks, the reporters watched in amazement as, day after day, Gray attested to the ineptitude—if not the criminal negligence—of his supervision of the FBI’s investigation. Deep Throat’s implicit suggestion that Nixon had been frightened into nominating Gray became increasingly plausible as the nominee demonstrated a dangerous candor.

On March 22, Gray testified that John Dean had “probably” lied when he told the FBI on June 22 that he did not know if Howard Hunt had an office in the White House. The White House issued a statement “unequivocally” denying Gray’s charge, and Dean demanded a “correction.”

•   •   •

The day before, CRP’s subpoenas of the
Post’s
reporters and news executives had been thrown out of court.

14

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, March 23, Woodward was walking down a corridor near the editorial-page offices when Herblock, the
Post
cartoonist, stopped him. “Hey, did you hear about McCord’s letter to the Judge? I heard it on the radio.”

The last time somebody had brought him news of Watergate from the radio, Woodward thought, the Haldeman story had blown up. No, he hadn’t heard, he said, and waited.

“Yeah, McCord’s saying there was perjury and pressure to keep quiet, and others are in on it.”

As Woodward bounded into the newsroom, Howard Simons, standing near the national desk, was waving a piece of wire copy and shouting.

It was the text of a letter from McCord to Sirica:

“Several members of my family have expressed fear for my life if I disclose knowledge of the facts in this matter. . . . In the interests of justice  . . . of restoring faith in the criminal justice system  . . .” McCord was coming forward to tell what he knew. Woodward studied the letter’s charges: Political pressure had been applied to the defendants to plead guilty and remain silent. Perjury had occurred during the trial. Others involved in Watergate were not identified in testimony.

McCord had requested a meeting with Sirica after sentencing, “ . . . since I cannot feel confident in talking with an FBI agent, in testifying
before a grand jury whose U.S. Attorneys work for the Department of Justice, or in talking with other government representatives.”

Woodward wondered whether McCord could prove his charges. An image of John Mitchell being led off by marshals flashed through his mind.

Simons, jubilant, told Woodward, “Find out what the hell he’s talking about—who committed perjury, who else was involved, who applied pressure.” He called Mrs. Graham in Singapore.

Bradlee was subdued. The letter might be a giant step, but it was vague.

“Names, fellas, we want names,” he said.

•   •   •

That Sunday, both reporters were in the office finding out that Howard Simons’ directions were more difficult to follow than to state. If McCord had yet told anybody what he had in mind when he unburdened himself, it was a well-kept secret. The prosecutors doubted that McCord knew much. The White House lid was on tight. The few presidential aides who returned phone calls knew nothing; they called back because they hoped to learn something from the reporters.

In mid-afternoon, Woodward was notified that Samuel Dash, the chief counsel of the Senate Watergate committee, was going to hold a press conference in an hour. Bernstein took a cab to Capitol Hill. Dash was sitting in his office behind a steel-gray desk, waiting for the camera crews to make their final adjustments. Speaking from notes, he said that he had interviewed McCord in two long, tape-recorded sessions over the weekend. McCord had “named names” and begun “supplying a full and honest account” of the Watergate operation. Bernstein could not understand why Dash was holding a press conference. He was not giving concrete details, merely building expectations about whatever it was that McCord had told him. There were going to be public hearings by the Watergate committee at which McCord would certainly testify. The press could blow the Watergate committee’s investigation out of the water if McCord’s charges leaked and could not be proved.

He went back to the office and unenthusiastically began to see if he could find a committee source who would say what McCord had said. He had made half a dozen unsuccessful calls when the item moved over the
Los Angeles Times
wire. McCord had told Dash that Jeb Magruder
and John Dean had had advance knowledge of the Watergate bugging operation and were involved in its planning. The story was by Ron Ostrow and Robert Jackson. Bernstein knew they wouldn’t take a flier unless their source was absolutely reliable.

The information about Magruder was no surprise, but there had been no real hint from anyone that Dean had had anything to do with planning the bugging. If the man named by the President to investigate the bugging had been one of its planners, the consequences seemed incalculable. Already, the White House had issued a statement denying categorically the charges against Dean. The statement did not mention Magruder: the Nixon men had cut him loose.

Simons arrived at the office wearing hiking boots. Since receiving the initial tip on the Watergate break-in on June 17, he had been the senior editor most involved in the day-to-day progress of the story.

By evening, Bernstein had called more than 40 people—Senators, members of the Watergate committee staff, lawyers, CRP and White House sources, Justice Department officials, friends of McCord, even his minister. Nothing. He and Simons decided he would write a story quoting the
Times
and noting that the
Post
had been unable to confirm that McCord had made the allegations. Then Simons got a call from a lawyer who said he represented John Dean. He was threatening to file a libel suit if the
Post
ran the allegations about Dean. Simons told Bernstein to quote the threat and name the lawyer.

Simons sensed Bernstein’s frustration at the day’s events. He told him to get accustomed to being beaten on stories. The days when the
Post
had dominated the Watergate story were over.

The next morning, Bernstein and Woodward searched frantically for confirmation of the
Times
account and came up finally with three people on Capitol Hill who said it was correct. One, a Republican politician, said McCord’s allegations were “convincing, disturbing and supported by some documentation.”

At the White House, Ron Ziegler announced that the President had personally telephoned Dean and expressed “absolute and total confidence” in him.

•   •   •

Watergate was going to burst. The McCord allegations were only part of the pressures building against the dam which Deep Throat had
talked about. The rush was still distant, but it was streaming closer: Dean, Magruder, Mardian, Mitchell and—most important—H. R. Haldeman were likely to be swept away in the flood.

Woodward decided to ask the deputy press secretary, Gerald Warren, for an interview with the President. It was a long shot, an almost embarrassingly long one, but Woodward had always been struck by Richard Nixon’s affinity for the unexpected. If the President could open negotiations with Red China, why not with the
Washington Post?

Woodward phoned Warren and asked if he could come over for a discussion. Warren hesitated then said, “Sure.” Woodward didn’t have a White House press pass. Warren said he would leave Woodward’s name at the gate.

March 27 was a warm, sunny day and Woodward worked up a moderate sweat walking the five blocks to the White House. The press lounge in the West Wing was deserted. He waited in a stiff-backed upholstered chair. After about 10 minutes, Warren came out of a long back hallway and took Woodward to his office; not much bigger than a dressing closet, it was just large enough for his desk and chair and a chair for a visitor. Warren, tall, bespectacled and neatly groomed, is rather scholarly in appearance and demeanor.