All the President's Men (5 page)

Nevertheless, Woodward and Bernstein could not find anyone else who had even heard the story about money in a brown envelope. They spent hours and hours getting nowhere, and not just on that question.

Officials at the White House and CRP were in the business of sending reporters on wild-goose chases. There had been leaks that the Watergate break-in was the work of anti-Castro Cubans out to prove that the Democrats were receiving contributions from Cuba.
*

The Watergate story had stalled, maybe even died. The reporters could not understand why. Bernstein’s administration contact, the former official, was also unable to get any useful information and joked—or so Bernstein thought—that the White House had “gone underground.”

Bernstein, protesting, was shipped back to Virginia politics. Woodward decided to take a vacation.

On July 22, the day Woodward left for Lake Michigan, the Long Island afternoon paper
Newsday
reported that a former White House aide named G. Gordon Liddy, who had been working as a lawyer for the campaign committee, had been fired by Mitchell in June for refusing to answer FBI questions about Watergate.

Liddy, 42, had come from the White House as CRP’s general counsel on December 11, 1971, and had later been appointed finance counsel, handling legal advice on campaign finances and contributions. Like McCord, he was an ex-FBI agent, but Devan Shumway, the committee’s spokesman, said Liddy’s duties were unrelated to security or intelligence gathering.

At the White House, Ken Clawson acknowledged that in late 1971 Liddy had worked there on “law enforcement” problems, as a member on the staff of John D. Ehrlichman, President Nixon’s principal assistant for domestic affairs.

Three days later, on his day off from Virginia’s political wars, Bernstein received a call at home from Barry Sussman. Could he come in? The
New York Times
had a front-page story reporting that at least 15 calls had been placed from Barker’s phones in Miami to CRP. More than half of the calls were made between March 15 and June 16 to a telephone in an office shared by Liddy and another lawyer.

Bernstein had several sources in the Bell system. He was always reluctant to use them to get information about calls because of the ethical questions involved in breaching the confidentiality of a person’s
telephone records. It was a problem he had never resolved in his mind. Why, as a reporter, was he entitled to have access to personal and financial records when such disclosure would outrage him if he were subjected to a similar inquiry by investigators?

Without dwelling on his problem, Bernstein called a telephone company source and asked for a list of Barker’s calls. That afternoon, his contact called back and confirmed that the calls listed in the
Times
had been made. But, he added, he could not get a fuller listing because Barker’s phone records had been subpoenaed by the Miami district attorney.

You mean the FBI, or the U.S. Attorney’s office, don’t you?

“No, the phone company in Miami said it was the local district attorney,” the man said.

Why should a local district attorney be interested in the records? Before rewriting the
Times
story, Bernstein called the U.S. Attorney in Miami, who said that he had made no such request.

Bernstein then began phoning the local district attorneys in the Miami area. On the third call, he reached Richard E. Gerstein, the state’s attorney for Dade County—metropolitan Miami. His office had subpoenaed the records and was trying to determine if Florida law had been violated by persons involved in the break-in. Gerstein did not know what was in the records, but his chief investigator, Martin Dardis, would. Gerstein would instruct Dardis to cooperate if the
Post
would not reveal that it was dealing with his office. That evening, Bernstein received a phone call from Dardis.

Dardis was in a hurry and didn’t want to talk on the telephone. He had subpoenaed some of Barker’s telephone and bank records, and Bernstein was welcome to fly down to Miami and discuss them. Bernstein asked him if he knew the origin of a sum of $89,000
*
that Assistant U.S. Attorney Silbert said had been deposited in and withdrawn from Barker’s bank account in Miami that spring.

“It’s a little more than $89,000,” said Dardis.

More like $100,000? asked Bernstein.

“A little more.”

Where had the money come from?

“Mexico City,” Dardis replied. “A businessman there, a lawyer.”

He would not give Bernstein the lawyer’s name, but said he would discuss it if Bernstein came to Florida. He could not see Bernstein for a few days, so they agreed to meet on Monday, July 31. Sussman approved the trip.

Bernstein habitually arrived at airports moments before departure time. Monday as he ran for the plane, he grabbed a
Post
and a
New York Times
from a newsstand and sprinted for the gate. He was off the ground when he read the three-column
Times
headline: “Cash in Capital Raid Traced to Mexico.” Bernstein directed his ugliest thoughts to Gerstein and Dardis. The
Times
story, under Walter Rugaber’s byline, carried a Mexico City dateline. Bernstein was almost certain that Rugaber had gotten the information in Miami and then flown to Mexico to file. The story cited “sources close to the investigation” without mentioning the FBI, the federal government or the Justice Department. Rugaber had traced the $89,000 in Barker’s bank account to four cashier’s checks
*
issued at the Banco Internacional to Manuel Ogarrio Daguerre, a prominent Mexico City lawyer.

Bernstein called Sussman from the Miami airport. Should he go to Mexico City and let Woodward, who was back from vacation, deal with Dardis by phone? Sussman thought Bernstein should stay in Miami at least for the day.

Half an hour later, Bernstein checked in at the Sheraton Four Ambassadors, Miami’s most expensive hotel. He asked the desk clerk for Walter Rugaber’s room number.

“Mr. Rugaber checked out over the weekend,” the clerk said.

•   •   •

The office of the state’s attorney of Dade County, Florida, occupies the sixth floor of the Metropolitan Dade County Justice building,
directly across a narrow, palm-lined lane from the county jail. Bernstein took the elevator up, stepped into the reception room and asked for Dardis. A receptionist told him that Mr. Dardis had left his apologies but had had to go out on a case. She had no idea when he would be back. Bernstein started reading magazines.

An hour passed. Uniformed policemen, shirt-sleeved detectives with snub-nosed thirty-eights tucked into their holsters, defendants and prosecutors streamed through. Many stopped to chat with the receptionist, whose name was Ruby, and to ask how “the boss”—Gerstein—was doing in his campaigning. Ten days earlier, he had announced that he was running for an unprecedented fifth term as the local prosecutor.

Bernstein asked Ruby about Gerstein. He was a Democrat, 48 years old, a World War II bomber pilot and the biggest vote-getter in the history of the state’s attorney’s office. “Everybody loves him,” Ruby said.

Bernstein thumbed through a local afternoon paper. “Gerstein Cracks Interstate Baby-Sale Racket,” read the headline. Oh boy, Bernstein muttered to himself. The Democratic primary was scheduled for September 12. He imagined a headline for September 11: “Gerstein Cracks Watergate Case.”

Another half-hour passed. Bernstein asked Ruby if she could reach Dardis by car radio.

“He’s not available just now, but he’ll be calling in soon,” she said.

Bernstein walked across the hall to the county registrar’s office and asked the clerk for copies of all the subpoenas issued by Gerstein’s office during July. She returned with an accordion file arranged by days of the month. Bernstein sorted through them until he found one issued to Southern Bell, the local telephone company, demanding the return of all records of long-distance calls billed to Bernard L. Barker or Barker Associates, his real-estate firm. Another had been issued to the Republic National Bank for Barker’s bank records. There were similar subpoenas to other banks and to the phone company for “any and all documents and records” pertaining to the other three Watergate suspects from Miami. Dardis’ name was on each. Bernstein took notes on all the subpoenas in the file which bore Dardis’ name. Then he called Woodward from a pay phone.

Woodward had not reached Ogarrio and had been unable to confirm
the
Times
story anywhere else. He had picked up an interesting piece of information on Capitol Hill, however. The Miami men had bought their photo equipment and had paid for some processed film at a camera shop in a Cuban neighborhood in Miami.

Bernstein sat down with the Miami yellow pages and started calling photo shops. Another hour passed. Still no Dardis. Was his secretary in? “She’s with Mr. Dardis,” the receptionist said. Bernstein was trying to explain his deadline problems to Ruby when Gerstein strode past with a retinue of aides. Bernstein recognized him from the afternoon paper.

Could he please see Mr. Gerstein? It was half plea, half demand. Ruby transmitted the message. Bernstein was escorted to Gerstein’s outer office. His secretary said he was in conference. Half an hour later, the door opened and Gerstein invited Bernstein in. The state’s attorney was about six foot five and wore an immaculate tropical-weight tattersall suit.

“Tell me where the case stands,” Gerstein began. “I can’t get the FBI to tell me anything.”

Bernstein replied that he would welcome the opportunity to spend a leisurely afternoon discussing Watergate with Gerstein, but it was now almost five o’clock and the
Post’s
first-edition deadline was only two hours away. (Actually, it was closer to three hours away, but Bernstein was taking no more chances.) If Bernstein could get that day’s story out of the way, then they could talk. He had come to Miami expecting an appointment in the early afternoon and, presumably, information that would lead to a story Instead, as he explained to Gerstein, the story had been in that morning’s
New York Times,
and its source was off God-knows-where.

“I don’t know what Dardis has,” Gerstein said. “I’ve let Martin handle the whole thing because I’ve been so damn busy. I know there are some checks, but I’m not sure what they show. I’ll get you in with Dardis as soon as I hear from him.”

Bernstein thanked Gerstein. On his way out of the office, he thought of something. Trading information with a source was a touchy business and a last resort, but he was having no success with the photoshop tip from Woodward. So he passed it on to Gerstein.

If anything turns up, how about a call? Bernstein asked.

“Sure,” said Gerstein.

Another 45 minutes passed in the reception room. Bernstein called Woodward from the pay phone. You wouldn’t believe this place, he said. I wait here all day, I finally get to see Gerstein, and he wants to ask
me
questions.

After he hung up, Bernstein turned down a hallway, opened a door marked
NO ADMITTANCE
and spotted Dardis’ name on a door. A secretary was on the phone. “Yes, Mr. Dardis,” she was saying. “Okay, I’ll bring it right in.”

As calmly as possible, Bernstein introduced himself and explained that he had been waiting all afternoon to see Mr. Dardis.

“Mr. Dardis is in conference,” she said. “I’m sorry, but you’re not allowed back here. If you’ll go back to the reception room, we’ll call you.”

Bernstein thanked her and headed back to Ruby’s domain; they were locking the doors.

He hurried back past the
NO ADMITTANCE
sign, walked past Dardis’ office, then around the corner and into Gerstein’s office. Gerstein was on his way out.

Look, Bernstein said, exploding. If there was some reason why the state’s attorney’s office couldn’t talk about what it had or couldn’t let the
Post
disclose what it had, just say so. But they had been jerking his chain all day. Dardis was in his office, he had probably been there for hours and  . . .

“I’ll get you in right away,” said Gerstein. “I don’t know what’s going on. I’m sorry.” He seemed genuinely apologetic. Bernstein went back to the locked reception room through an inner doorway. A few moments later, Dardis walked in. He was short, with a red face and a redder nose. His ancient blue blazer was frayed at the elbows.

Immediately, he glanced at his watch. “Christ, I’ve got a seven o’clock appointment,” he said. “I’ve gotta be out of here at ten of. Can’t we discuss this tomorrow? Jesus!”

Bernstein tried to stay cool. If they could just go through the checks quickly, then tomorrow they could spend some time and  . . .

“Okay, okay.” Dardis was irritated. “Hey, what’s the idea of all this
New York Times
crap with Gerstein? You trying to get me in trouble with my boss? You were supposed to deal with me, not him. Come on back to the office. Let’s do this quick.”

Bernstein sat down in front of Dardis’ desk as the chief investigator
opened a file cabinet with a combination lock, pulled out a folder and withdrew a sheaf of telephone toll slips, stapled together. He threw them across the desk to Bernstein. “You can look through these while I sort out the bank stuff.”

Bernstein started scribbling furiously.

“Hey, a guy I used to work with is with the Washington field office of the Bureau,” Dardis said. “You know him? Name of  . . .”

Bernstein kept scribbling, shaking his head no.

Dardis took out the bank statements and peered at them like a dealer studying his hand. He started reading aloud transactions from what he said was Barker’s bank account.

“Christ, I’ll never get out of here by ten of,” he said.

Look, Bernstein said, you got a Xerox machine?

Dardis said he couldn’t risk Xeroxing the bank statements or the checks. “Somebody could trace it back to me,” he said.

Okay, suggested Bernstein, you go Xerox the rest of the phone records and I’ll copy the checks.

“Fine, but hurry up, for Christ’s sake,” said Dardis.

The Mexican checks were exactly as the
Times
had described them—each was drawn on a different American bank and endorsed on the reverse side with an illegible signature, directly above a typed notation: “Sr. Manuel Ogarrio D. 99-026-10.”