All the President's Men

June 17, 1972. Nine o'clock Saturday morning. Early for the telephone. Bob Woodward fumbled for the receiver and snapped awake. The city editor of The Washington Post was on the line. Five men had been arrested earlier that morning in a burglary at Democratic headquarters, carrying photographic equipment and electronic gear. Could he come in?

Woodward left his apartment in downtown Washington and walked the six blocks to the Post. He checked in with the city editor and learned with surprise that the burglars had not broken into the small local Democratic Party office but the headquarters of the Democratic National Committee in the Watergate office-apartment-hotel complex.

As Woodward began making phone calls, he noticed that Carl Bernstein, one of the paper's two Virginia political reporters, was working on the burglary story, too.

Oh, God, not Bernstein, Woodward thought, recalling several office rumors about Bernstein's ability to push his way--and his by-line--onto a good story.

Bernstein was a college dropout. He had started as a copyboy at the Washington Evening Star when he was 16, became a full-time reporter at 19 and had worked at the Post since 1966. He occasionally did an investigative series and had covered both the courts and city hall. But he preferred doing long discursive articles about the capital's people and neighborhoods.

That morning, Bernstein had made copies of notes from reporters at the scene, then told the city editor that he would do some more checking around. The city editor shrugged acceptance and Bernstein began calling everybody he could reach at the Watergate--desk clerks, bellmen, maids, waiters in the restaurant.

Between calls, Bernstein looked across the newsroom to Woodward's desk about 20 feet away. He could see that Woodward was also working on the story.

That figured, Bernstein thought. Woodward was a prima donna who played heavily at office politics. Bernstein thought his rapid rise at the Post had had less to do with ability than with his establishment credentials: Yale, Navy Officers Corps, lawns, staterooms and grass tennis courts. (He'd even been invited to Presidential aide John Ehrlichman's tennis party at Camp David but hadn't been able to attend.)

They had never worked on a story together. Woodward was 29, Bernstein 28.

•

The Post's first Watergate story described an elaborate attempt by five burglars to bug the Democratic headquarters. The next day, June 18, the reporters wrote that one of the five burglars was James McCord, security coordinator for the Committee for the Re-election of the President. Attorney General John Mitchell issued a statement denying that McCord was acting under instructions from him or from any other senior official at CRP.

After midnight, Woodward received a call at home from Eugene Bachinski, the Post's regular night police reporter.

Bachinski had something from one of his police sources. Two address books, belonging to two of five men arrested inside the Watergate, contained the name and phone number of E. Howard Hunt, with the small notations "W. House" and "W. H."

At the office the next day, Woodward called an old friend and sometime source who worked for the Federal Government. The friend said hurriedly that the break-in case was going to "heat up," but he couldn't explain and hung up.

Woodward picked up the telephone and dialed 456-1414--the White House. He asked for Howard Hunt. The switchboard operator rang an extension. There was no answer. "There is one other place he might be," the operator said. "In Mr. Colson's office." Charles W. Colson was President Nixon's special counsel and "hatchet man."

"Mr. Hunt is not here now," Colson's secretary told Woodward, and gave him the number of a Washington public-relations firm, Robert R. Mullen & Company, where she said Hunt worked as a writer.

Woodward called the Mullen public-relations firm and asked for Howard Hunt. On reaching him, Woodward asked Hunt why his name was in the address books of two of the men arrested at the Watergate.

"Good God!" Hunt said. Then he quickly added, "In view that the matter is under adjudication, I have no comment," and slammed down the phone.

The story, on June 20, was headlined, "White House consultant tied to bugging figure."

That morning at the Florida White House in Key Biscayne, Presidential press secretary Ronald L. Ziegler briefly answered a question about the break-in at the Watergate by observing: "Certain elements may try to stretch this beyond what it is." Ziegler described the incident as "a third-rate burglary attempt" not worthy of further White House comment.

•

Bernstein meanwhile set out to learn what he could about Colson. He called a former official of the Nixon Administration who he thought might be able to supply some helpful biographical data. Instead of biography, the man told Bernstein: "Whoever was responsible for the Watergate break-in would have to be somebody who doesn't know about politics but thought he did. I suppose that's why Colson's name comes up.... Anybody who knew anything wouldn't be looking over there for real political information. They'd be looking for something else ... scandal, gossip."

The man knew the inner workings of the White House, of which Bernstein and Woodward were almost totally ignorant, and, better yet, he maintained extensive contacts with his former colleagues.

Bernstein asked if he thought there were any possibility that the President's campaign committee or--even less likely--the White House would sponsor such a stupid mission as the Watergate raid. Bernstein waited to be told no.

"I know the President well enough to know if he needed something like this done, it certainly wouldn't be a shoddy job," said the former official. But it was not inconceivable that the President would want his campaign aides to have every piece of political intelligence and gossip available. "There was always a great preoccupation at the White House with all this intelligence nonsense," he said. "Some of those people are dumb enough to think there would be something there."

This picture of the White House was in sharp contrast to the smooth, well-oiled machine Bernstein was accustomed to reading about in the newspapers: those careful, disciplined, look-alike guards to the palace who were invariably referred to as "the President's men."

•

On the evening of September 14, Bernstein knocked at the front door of a small tract house in a Washington suburb. The owner of the house was a woman who worked for Maurice Stans, the finance chairman for CRR. "She knows a lot," he had been told.

A woman opened the door and let Bernstein in. "You don't want me, you want my sister," she said. Her sister came into the room. He had expected a typical bookkeeper, a woman in her 50s, probably gray; but she was much younger.

"Oh, my God," she said, "you're from The Washington Post. You'll have to go, I'm sorry."

Bernstein tried to hold his ground. He had the feeling he was either going out the door any minute or staying till she had told the whole story.

Her hands were shaking. She looked at her sister, who shrugged her shoulders noncommittally. Bernstein decided to take a chance. He took a notebook and pencil from his inner breast pocket. The bookkeeper stared at him. She was not going to say anything that they probably didn't know already, Bernstein told her, and absolutely nothing would go into the paper that couldn't be verified elsewhere.

"There are a lot of things that are wrong and a lot of things that are bad at the committee," the bookkeeper said. "I was called by the grand jury very early, but nobody knew what questions to ask. People had already lied to them." The bookkeeper had worked for Hugh Sloan, the treasurer for CRP. "Sloan is the sacrificial lamb. His wife was going to leave him if he didn't stand up and do what was right. He left CRP because he saw it and didn't want any part of it."

How much money was paid out?

"A lot."

More than half a million?

"You've had it in print."

Finally it clicked. Sometimes he could be incredibly slow, Bernstein thought to himself. It was a slush fund of cash kept in Stans's safe.

(On Saturday, August 26, four days after the President was renominated in Miami, Woodward received a Government Accounting Office report that listed 11 "apparent and possible violations" of the new campaign-contributions law and referred the matter to the Justice Department for possible prosecution. It also stated that Maurice Stans maintained a secret slush fund in his office totaling at least $350,000.)

Hugh Sloan knew the whole story, too, she said. He had handed out the money.

•

Two days later, Bernstein called Sloan at his McLean, Virgina, home. Sloan said he had to clean up the house before his in-laws arrived, but if the reporters could get to McLean quickly, they could stop by for a few minutes.

Sloan was dressed in sports clothes and, except for the broom he was holding in his hand, he still looked like the Princeton undergraduate he once had been. He introduced himself to Woodward, who immediately volunteered to help clean up the house. Sloan declined the offer and served coffee.

Bernstein and Sloan discussed an allegation that Mitchell almost certainly knew of the cash outlays from the secret fund. Was he one of those authorized to approve disbursements?

"Obviously," Sloan said. There were five people with authorizing authority over the fund, and Mitchell was one of them. Stans was another.

How had it worked? How had Mitchell exercised his authority over the fund? By voucher?

Bernstein and Woodward avoided looking at each other. While Attorney General of the United States, John Mitchell had authorized the expenditure of campaign funds for apparently illegal activities against the political opposition.

•

It was past noon when the reporters got to the office. They met with executive editor Ben Bradlee, managing editor Howard Simons, metropolitan editor Harry Rosenfeld and city editor Barry Sussman in Bradlee's office, a comfortable carpeted room with a picture window looking out into the newsroom.

"Listen, fellas," said Bradlee, "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 said they could.

Bradlee stood up. "Well, then, let's do it."

And, he presumed aloud, the reporters realized the implications of such a story, that 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 the biggest step yet.

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 six 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 (continued on page 315)All The President's Men(continued from page 192) 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.

That night, Bernstein 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.

Bernstein (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.

Mitchell: Jeeeeeeeeesus. You said that? What does it say?

Bernstein: I'll read you the first few paragraphs. (He got as far as the third. Mitchell responded "Jeeeeeeeeesus" every few words.)

Mitchell: 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. [Katherine Graham is publisher of The Washington Post.]

Bernstein: Sir, about the story--

Mitchell: Call my law office in the morning.

He hung up.

•

During a routine telephone check with a Justice Department official, Bernstein asked if the official had ever heard of Donald Segretti, who seemed to be involved in CRP's "dirty tricks" against rival campaigns. It had been a throwaway question.

"I can't answer your question, because that's part of the investigation," the Justice official replied.

There could be no discussion of Segretti, because he was part of the Watergate investigation, right?

That was correct, but the official would not listen to any more questions about Segretti.

On Saturday, October seventh, Bernstein called again.

"No, I can't talk about him," the official said once more. "That's right, even though he's not directly linked to Watergate, to the break-in. Obviously, I came across him through the investigation. Yes, political sabotage is associated with Segretti. I've heard a term for it, 'ratfucking.' There is some very powerful information, especially if it comes out before November seventh," the day of the election.

The official refused to say anything more.

Bernstein hit with another call.

"Ratfucking?" The word struck a raw nerve with a Justice Department attorney. "You can go right to the top on that one. I was shocked when I learned about it. I couldn't believe it. These are public servants? God. It's nauseating. You're talking about fellows who come from the best schools in the country. Men who run the Government!"

Bernstein wondered what "right to the top" meant. Mitchell?

"He can't say he didn't know about it, because it was strategy--basic strategy that goes all the way to the top. Higher than him, even."

Basic strategy that goes all the way to the top. The phrase unnerved Bernstein. For the first time, he considered the possibility that the President of the United States was the head ratfucker.

•

Woodward had a source in the Executive branch who had access to information at CRP as well as at the White House. His identity was unknown to anyone else. Woodward had promised he would never identify him, or his position, to anyone. Further, he had agreed never to quote the man, even as an anonymous source. Their discussions could be only to confirm information that had been obtained elsewhere and to add some perspective.

In newspaper terminology, this meant the discussions were on "deep background." Woodward explained the arrangement to managing editor Howard Simons one day. He had taken to calling the source "my friend," but Simons dubbed him "Deep Throat." The name stuck.

At first Woodward and Deep Throat talked by telephone, but as the Watergate stakes increased, Deep Throat's nervousness grew. He didn't want to talk on the telephone but said they could meet somewhere.

Deep Throat didn't want to use the phone even to set up the meetings. So when Woodward had an important inquiry to make, he would move a flowerpot with a red flag in it from its regular position at the front of his apartment balcony to a spot near the rear. During the day, Deep Throat would check to see if the pot had been moved. If it had, he and Woodward would meet that night about two A.M. in a predesignated underground garage.

If Deep Throat wanted a meeting--which was rare--there was a different procedure. Each morning, Woodward would check page 20 of his New York Times, delivered to his apartment house before seven A.M. If a meeting was requested, the page number would be circled and the hands of a clock indicating the time would appear in a lower corner of the page. Woodward did not know how Deep Throat got his paper.

In their meetings, Deep Throat talked about how politics had infiltrated every corner of Government--a strong-arm take-over of the agencies by the Nixon White House. Junior White House aides were giving orders to the highest levels of the bureaucracy. He had once called it the "switchblade mentality"--and had referred to the willingness of the President's men to fight dirty and for keeps, regardless of what effect the slashing might have on the Government and the nation. There was little bitterness on his part. Rather, Woodward sensed the resignation of one whose fight had been worn down in too many battles.

"Check every lead," Deep Throat advised. "It goes all over the map, and that is important. You could write stories from now until Christmas or well beyond that.... Not one of the games [his term for undercover operations] was free-lance. This is important. Every one was tied in."

Woodward asked about the White House.

"There were four basic personnel groupings for undercover operations," Deep Throat said. The November Group, which handled CRP's publicity, including false ads in newspapers; a convention group, which handled intelligence gathering and sabotage planning for both the Republican and the Democratic conventions; a primary group, which did the same for the primaries of both parties; and the Howard Hunt group, which was the "really heavy operations team.

"You can safely say that 50 people worked for the White House and CRP to play games and spy and sabotage and gather intelligence. Some of it is beyond belief, kicking at the opposition in every imaginable way. You know some of it."

Deep Throat confirmed items on a list of tactics that Woodward and Bernstein had heard were used against the political opposition: bugging, following people, false press leaks, fake letters, canceling campaign rallies, investigating campaign workers' private lives, planting spies, stealing documents, planting provocateurs in political demonstrations.

The White House had been willing to subvert--was that the right word?--the whole electoral process? Had actually gone ahead and tried to do it?

Deep Throat confirmed it all.

•

[Editor's note: In the months ahead, the reporters, along with their peers at other news organizations, would trace the scandal to the highest levels of the Nixon Administration. In the end, a free and dogged crew of journalists was able to expose a secretive and corrupt Executive branch.]

At nine o'clock on the night of April 30, 1973, President Nixon addressed the nation on network television. Bernstein and Woodward went into Howard Simons' office to watch the speech with him and Mrs. Graham.

"The President of the United States," the announcer said solemnly. Nixon sat at his desk, a picture of his family on one side, a bust of Abraham Lincoln on the other.

"Oh, my God," Mrs. Graham said. "This is too much."

The President began to speak: "I want to talk to you tonight from my heart.... There had been an effort to conceal the facts both from the public, from you, and from me.... I wanted to be fair.... The easiest course would be for me to blame those to whom I delegated the responsibility to run the campaign. But that would be a cowardly thing to do.... In any organization, the man at the top must bear the responsibility. That responsibility, therefore, belongs here in this office. I accept it.... It was the system that has brought the facts to light ... a system that in this case has included a determined grand jury, honest prosecutors, a courageous judge, John Sirica, and a vigorous free press.... I must now turn my full attention--and I shall do so--once again to the larger duties of this office. I owe it to this great office that I hold, and I owe it to you--to our country....

"There can be no whitewash at the White House.... Two wrongs do not make a right.... I love America.... God bless America and God bless each and every one of you."

•

The day after the President's April 30 speech, Bernstein was at his desk reading The New York Times and the Washington Star-News. A copy aide dropped the following U.P.I. wire copy on his desk:

White House press secretary Ronald Ziegler publicly apologized today to The Washington Post and two of its reporters for his earlier criticism of their investigative reporting of the Watergate conspiracy.

At the White House briefing, a reporter asked Ziegler if the White House didn't owe the Post an apology.

"In thinking of it all at this point in time, yes," Ziegler said, "I would apologize to Mr. Woodward and Mr. Bernstein.... We would all have to say that mistakes were made in terms of comments. I was overenthusiastic in my comments about the Post, particularly if you look at them in the context of developments that have taken place.... When we are wrong, we are wrong, as we were in that case."

As Ziegler finished, he started to say, "But--" He was cut off by a reporter who said: "Now, don't take it back, Ron."

Later, Woodward called Ziegler at the White House to thank him.

"We all have our jobs," Ziegler replied.

Copyright © 1974 by Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward