As the amounts collected mounted into the tens of millions, fertile minds brooded over ways to use them. By far the boldest ideas were the brainchildren of Gordon Liddy, and he outlined them at 4 P.M. on January 27, 1972, in the office of the attorney general at the Department of Justice. His audience consisted of Mitchell, Magruder, and John Dean, special counsel to the President. Displaying colored diagrams with such code names as Target and Gemstone, Liddy lectured for a half-hour on a million-dollar operation which included the tapping of Democrats’ phones, bludgeoning anti-Nixon demonstrators, and kidnapping antiwar leaders, who would be held in Mexican camps during the Republican national convention, then scheduled to be held in San Diego. One of the more imaginative aspects of the plan called for leasing a yacht and hiring prostitutes during the Democratic convention in Miami Beach. The girls (who would be “the best in the business,” Liddy promised) would elicit important information from lusty Democrats and lure them into lewd positions. They would then be photographed by hidden cameras.
It is impossible to say what effect all this had on Liddy’s eminent listeners. He himself never talked to federal prosecutors afterward, preferring to remain in jail. Mitchell later told congressional investigators that the submission had been “beyond the pale,” Magruder said he was “appalled,” and Dean called it “mind-boggling.” All that can be said with certainty is that Liddy was invited back the following week for another try, and on the afternoon of February 4 he presented a cheaper, $500,000 version, featuring the clandestine cameras and wiretaps. He passed around eight-by-ten-inch charts describing proposed breaking-and-entering operations at the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami Beach, McGovern’s campaign offices on First Street in southwest Washington, and the Washington headquarters of the Democratic National Committee in the Watergate complex. According to Magruder, the attorney general “didn’t feel comfortable” with this rendition either, and Liddy was told to try once again.
The winter wore on, the President flew to China and back, and Liddy still hadn’t received a green light for the project. Early in March he and Hunt approached Colson, asking him to intercede with the Republican high command. Phoning Magruder, Colson said, “Gordon Liddy’s upset. He’s trying to get started on an intelligence operation, and he can’t seem to see anybody.” He urged Magruder to “get off the stick and get the budget approved for Liddy’s plans.” The undertaking was now budgeted at $250,000. There were no provisions for assault, abductions, or prostitution, but the proposal to burglarize and bug Democratic and McGovern headquarters remained. On March 30 Magruder flew down to Key Biscayne, where Mitchell was taking a brief holiday in the sun, and laid this final presentation before him. Three men were present—Magruder, Mitchell, and Fred LaRue, a southern Republican strategist—and later each had a different recollection of what transpired. Whatever the precise words used, the plan was accepted, and only Mitchell had the power to do that. Liddy had his green light.
The following week Magruder authorized CREEP’S treasurer, Hugh Sloan Jr., to pay out $83,000 to Liddy. Of this, $65,000 was turned over to McCord on April 12; he spent most of it in New York on electronic surveillance equipment. McCord added another man to the assembling Watergate cast on May 1 when he contacted Alfred C. Baldwin III, whose name he had found in the register of the Society of Former Agents of the FBI. All the recruit was told then was that he was wanted as a temporary bodyguard for Martha Mitchell—no plum, as Baldwin realized, but he was assured that if he did a good job it might be “a stepping-stone to a permanent position.” Martha didn’t think much of her new escort. She later said that he deliberately led her into a hostile demonstration, told all her friends that he was a Democrat, and “walked around in front of everybody in New York barefoot.” He was, she said, “the most gauche character I have ever met.” But McCord liked Baldwin. He promoted him, moved him into room 419 of Washington’s Howard Johnson motel, just across Virginia Avenue from the Watergate, and told him he would be doing some undercover surveillance of radicals in the capital. Returning to the room on the afternoon of Friday, May 26, the former FBI man was surprised to find McCord there, twirling the dials of an elaborate radio receiver. “We’re going to put some units over there tonight,” McCord said, gesturing across the street, “and you’ll be monitoring them.” To show how bugs worked, he dismantled the phone in the motel room, inserted a device, and tested it by dialing a local number for a recorded message. If Baldwin handled this job well, he was told, he would be given a similar assignment at the Democratic national convention.
Four days earlier a team of Cuban exiles led by Barker had flown to Washington from Miami and registered at another hotel under assumed names. Now they were moved into the Watergate Hotel. Baldwin’s motel room had the advantage of providing a view of Democratic headquarters on the sixth floor of the Watergate complex, but the Cubans’ new rooms were closer to the objective. Closer still was the Continental Room of the Watergate Hotel, and it was there, that evening, that Hunt, Liddy, and the Cubans opened the first act of what would turn out to be a classic comedy of errors. With wealthy Republican campaign contributors paying the bill, they ordered $236 in food and wine—almost $30 per man. After the meal everyone left the Continental Room except Hunt and Virgilio Gonzales, Barker’s locksmith. These two hid in an adjoining room until waiters had locked up; then Gonzales tried to open a door at the end of the hall which would have let them into a stairwell leading to the sixth floor and the offices of the Democratic National Committee, or, as those familiar with it called it, the DNC. But the latch there was too difficult for Gonzales. So, to their dismay, was the other lock, leading to their escape route through the dining room. Left with no alternative, they settled down for a long and uncomfortable night while their gastric juices gently broke down their share of the banquet.
The others hadn’t been idle, but they had been just as ineffectual. Led by Liddy, they had left Virginia Avenue for First Street and McGovern headquarters. The entrance was bathed in light from a nearby street lamp. Opening a dispatch case, Liddy produced a high-powered pellet pistol wrapped in a towel. “Shall I take that out?” he asked, gesturing at the bright light. He was capable of it; a few days earlier he had fired it in a toilet at the staid Hay-Adams Hotel, just across Lafayette Square from the White House. This time McCord discouraged him. The mission had to be aborted anyway. A drunk was loitering in the entrance of the building. He wouldn’t leave, and at 5 A.M. they gave up and returned to their beds on Virginia Avenue.
The next evening Hunt took an elevator to the DNC headquarters and walked down through the building, taping door locks open as he went so that McCord and the Cubans could reach their goal from the garage in the Watergate basement. Wearing rubber gloves and carrying walkie-talkies, cameras, and flashlights, the raiding party reached the target area at 1:30 A.M. Two hours later McCord had planted taps in the telephones of Lawrence F. O’Brien’s secretary and of R. Spencer Oliver, a party official. Barker, who was under the impression that they were looking for proof that Castro was financing the Democrats, found no evidence of it. In fact, this night was as unproductive as the one before. They were again unable to penetrate McGovern’s offices. And the bugs were a disappointment. One didn’t work at all, and the other phone, Baldwin discovered, was largely used by secretaries to arrange assignations with married politicians. According to Magruder, Mitchell, after reviewing some two hundred conversations that Baldwin had monitored, said that the information was “worthless,” that the money had been wasted, and that he wanted them to try again.
The second and final act of the farce was played out on the night of Saturday, June 17. It began when the Cubans checked into rooms 214 and 314 in the Watergate Hotel and sat down to another banquet. McCord taped the garage door and then crossed to Baldwin’s room at Howard Johnson’s, where he checked new equipment—soldering irons, batteries, wires, and screwdrivers—which he had purchased earlier in the day. At 12:45 A.M. an important new actor appeared onstage. His name was Frank W
ills, and he was a Negro watchman at the Watergate. Discovering the tape, he concluded that it had been left by a maintenance man; removing it, he crossed to Howard Johnson’s for a cup of coffee. At about the same time McCord, looking out of Baldwin’s window, saw the lights go off in the DNC offices. He phoned Hunt, who was in Watergate room 214 with Liddy, to say that the coast was clear. Patting the radio receiver, McCord said to Baldwin, “Any activity you see across the street, you just get on this unit and let us know.” Then he joined the Cubans—Barker, Gonzales, Frank Sturgis, and Eugenio R. Martinez—in the garage. Aghast at finding the door again fastened, they appealed to Gonzales, and this time the locksmith was able to pick the lock open. There was some discussion over whether continuing with the job was an unacceptable risk. They decided to go ahead and mounted steps to the sixth floor, taping latches on the way. At 1:50 A.M. watchman Wills, finishing his coffee, returned to find the garage door taped for the second time. He telephoned the police, and at 1:52 A.M. his call was relayed to Metropolitan Police Car 727, an unmarked cruiser. Inside were three members of the District’s “Bum Squad”—plainclothes men wearing T-shirts, windbreakers, and cheap slacks.
It is now 2 A.M., a historic hour. The Bum Squad parks and enters the Watergate, observed by Baldwin, who is standing on the little balcony outside his Howard Johnson’s room, enjoying, in his later words, the “beautiful night.” Since the three policemen are in informal clothes, he is unalarmed, but when lights begin appearing across the way he quickly radios: “Base headquarters, base one, do you read me?” In room 214 of the Watergate Hotel Hunt replies: “I read you; go on; what have you got?” Baldwin: “The lights went on on the entire eighth floor.” Hunt: “We know about that. That is the two o’clock guard check. Let us know if anything else happens.” At this point the thrifty Barker, who has been listening to the exchange, turns off his walkie-talkie to save the batteries. Minutes later lights start flickering on and off on the sixth floor, and Baldwin sees two of the plainclothesmen there. One of them is holding a pistol. Baldwin: “Base one, unit one, are our people in suits or are they dressed casually?” Hunt: “Our people are dressed in suits. Why?” Baldwin: “You have some trouble, because there are some individuals out there who are dressed casually and have got their guns out.” Hunt—sounding, according to Baldwin, “a bit frantic”—tries to rouse the raiding party, yelling: “Are you reading this? Are you reading this?” Because of the economy-minded Barker, there is no response. It is probably too late anyway. McCord is in the process of dismantling O’Brien’s phone when one of the officers sees an arm. He shouts: “Hold it! Stop! Come out!” Baldwin and Hunt hear a walkie-talkie switched on; a hoarse voice whispers into it: “They got us.” Then the officers see ten rubber-gloved hands go up. McCord asks: “Are you gentlemen the Metropolitan Police?” The plainclothesmen affirm it, and the Watergate Five are placed under arrest.
Hunt called Howard Johnson’s: “Are you still across the street?” Baldwin replied, “Yes I am,” and Hunt told him, “Well, we’ll be right over.” Looking down from his balcony, Baldwin saw Hunt and Liddy emerge. Shortly thereafter Hunt burst into his room. Distraught, he asked, “What is going on, what is going on?” Baldwin said, “Come and see.” The street below was swarming with uniformed patrolmen, motorcycles, and police cruisers; McCord, Barker, Gonzales, Sturgis, and Martinez were being led off in handcuffs. Hunt moaned, “I have got to use the bathroom,” ran into the toilet, used it, ran out, called a lawyer, and asked Baldwin for McCord’s address. They looked about at the electronic litter. Logs of previously intercepted conversations lay around; McCord’s wallet and keys were on the bed. “Get all the stuff out of here and get yourself out of here!” Hunt said. “We will be in touch. You will get further instructions.” As he dashed for the door Baldwin called after him, “Does this mean I won’t be going to Miami?”
The Washington Post’s account of the break-in appeared on the front page of its Sunday edition, but few papers gave it that much prominence. The New York Times carried thirteen inches inside under the head FIVE CHARGED WITH BURGLARY AT DEMOCRATIC QUARTERS, and most other editors played it down even more. Nevertheless, it was the most interesting story in the papers for certain high officers of the U.S. government and the Republican party, among them H. R. Haldeman, John Ehrlichman, John Mitchell, Maurice Stans, Charles Colson, Gordon Strachan, John Dean, Jeb Magruder, Fred LaRue, and, probably, the President of the United States.
A year later, during the hearings of the Senate Select Committee on Presidential Campaign Activities, chaired by Sam J. Ervin Jr. of North Carolina, Magruder was asked when this glittering array of outlaws decided to cover its tracks, and he answered in a puzzled tone, “I don’t think there was ever any discussion that there would not be a cover-up.” It was an involuntary reaction, and it began that morning of June 18 in Los Angeles, where several of them were holding meetings on campaign strategy. They were at breakfast in the Beverly Hills Hotel when, at about 8:30 A.M., Magruder took a call in the dining room from Liddy. “Can you get to a secure phone?” Liddy asked. Magruder said he couldn’t and asked what was wrong. Liddy said, “There has been a problem.” Magruder asked, “What kind of problem?” Liddy told him: “Our security chief has been arrested at the Watergate.” “Do you mean Jim McCord?” “Yes.” Hanging up, Magruder muttered to LaRue, “You know, I think last night was the night they were going into the DNC.” LaRue told Mitchell, who said, “This is incredible.”
Their first response was to protect McCord, then the only one of the five captives known to them. According to Magruder, Mitchell proposed that Liddy approach Richard Kleindienst, the new attorney general, and ask him to spring McCord. Mitchell denied it, but someone at the Beverly Hills Hotel phoned Liddy at 9 A.M. California time—noon in Washington—and told him to do just that. Liddy found Kleindienst at the Burning Tree Country Club and put it to him in the locker room. Kleindienst not only refused to go along; he ordered his visitor to leave the club at once and then called Henry Petersen, who headed the Justice Department’s criminal division, and instructed him that under no circumstances would he tolerate special treatment for the Watergate Five.
The FBI had already entered the case, which was beginning to develop unusual aspects. The papers implicating Hunt had been found in Barker’s pocket. The prisoners had been carrying $1,300 in $100 bills, and another $3,200 in $100 bills had been discovered in the Cubans’ rooms at the Watergate Hotel. Liddy, trying to destroy all evidence of his involvement, had used the shredder at CREEP headquarters to get rid of all documents in his possession, including his $100 bills. Strachan was searching Haldeman’s White House files on his instructions and removing everything linking him to the burglars. Magruder phoned an assistant and directed him to take home a Gemstone file because, he said, he was afraid Democrats might raid his office in retaliation. And Howard Hunt was on the lam.
Dean, Colson, and Ehrlichman had held a hurried council of war over what advice they should give to Hunt. According to Dean, Ehrlichman proposed that he be told to leave the country. Dean made the call and then began to worry. Is it, he asked the others, really wise for the White House to give orders of that sort? “Why not?” Ehrlichman replied. “He’s not a fugitive from justice.” But Colson agreed with Dean, who made a second call canceling the instruction. Hunt decided to flee anyway. He cleaned out his desk, leaving only an empty whiskey bottle and a few Librium tablets. Then he flew to California, where he holed up in the home of a friend until he could no longer resist the pressure to turn himself in. The FBI was on his trail. They had already found Liddy, who had aroused suspicion by refusing to talk to them. Mitchell fired him for that, which seems hypocritical of him, but Liddy understood; he had told Magruder and Dean that he had “goofed,” that “I am a good soldier and will never talk,” and that “if anyone wants to shoot me on the street I am ready.”
Meantime the presidential staff had been agonizing over the fact that disowning Hunt was almost impossible, since he was sti
ll on the White House payroll. Dean ordered Hunt’s safe in room 552 of the Executive Office Building cleaned out. An aide brought him the contents: a black briefcase or dispatch case and a cardboard box containing, among other things, four walkie-talkies, a tear gas canister, four shoulder harnesses, the forged State Department Vietnam cables from 1963, evidence of his attempt to persuade Life that the forgeries were genuine, a folder of the Pentagon Papers, the CIA’s Ellsberg profile, and Hunt’s reports on Chappaquiddick. Dean looked over this extraordinary accumulation and gasped, “Holy shit!”
In California, meantime, Mitchell had issued a hurried statement trying to explain away McCord, who, he said:
…is the proprietor of a private security agency who was employed by our committee months ago to assist with the installation of our security system. He has, as we understand it, a number of business clients and interests, and we have no knowledge of those relationships. We want to emphasize that this man and the other people involved were not operating either on our behalf or with our consent. I am surprised and dismayed at these reports. There is no place in our campaign or in the electoral process for this type of activity, and we will not permit or condone it.
The Glory and the Dream: A Narrative History of America, 1932-1972 Page 192