All the President's Men

by Woodward, Bob

  McCartney’s article, which appeared in the July-August 1973 issue of the Columbia Journalism Review, recorded Bradlee’s reaction to the official news:

  It was 11:55 A.M. on April 30, and Benjamin Crowninshield Bradlee, 51, executive editor of the Washington Post, chatted with a visitor, feet on the desk, idly attempting to toss a plastic toy basketball through a hoop mounted on an office window 12 feet away. The inevitable subject of conversation: Watergate. Howard Simons, the Post’s managing editor, slipped into the room to interrupt: “Nixon has accepted the resignations of Ehrlichman and Haldeman and Dean,” he said. “Kleindienst is out and Richardson is the new attorney general.”

  For a split second, Ben Bradlee’s mouth dropped open with an expression of sheer delight. Then he put one cheek on the desk, eyes closed and banged the desk repeatedly with his right fist. In a moment he recovered. “How do you like them apples?” he said to the grinning Simons. “Not a bad start.”

  Bradlee couldn’t restrain himself. He strode into the Post’s vast fifth-floor newsroom and shouted across rows of desks to . . . Woodward . . . “Not bad, Bob! Not half bad!” Howard Simons interjected a note of caution: “Don’t gloat,” he murmured, as Post staff members began to gather around. “We can’t afford to gloat!”

  Bradlee came through the city room, whooping. “Never,” he kept saying. “Never, never, never, never.” Bernstein and Woodward sat at the desks. Woodward suggested they take a walk.

  That night at nine, the President 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. . . . Today, in one of the most difficult decisions of my Presidency, I accepted the resignations of two of my closest associates. . . . Bob Haldeman and John Ehrlichman—two of the finest public servants it has been my privilege to know. . . . 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 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. A copy aide dropped a UPI wire story:

  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 the Post, and 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 over enthusiastic 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.”

  Bernstein took the copy and laid it on Woodward’s desk. Later, Woodward called Ziegler at the White House to thank him.

  “We all have our jobs,” Ziegler replied.

  • • •

  Bernstein and Woodward had been sitting on the Dean story for a week; they had not been able to develop information on exactly what Dean was going to say about the President’s involvement in the cover-up. On Saturday, May 5, they had just finished writing a story about the mood of uncertainty and lack of morale in the White House when a long teletype message came from the wire room. It was a press release from Newsweek. Woodward assumed the worst—the news magazines put out a press release on Saturday night only when they had an exceptionally important story.

  The Newsweek story said that Dean was prepared to describe two incidents in the previous year that led him to conclude that Nixon knew about the Watergate cover-up. The first was in September 1972, after the Watergate indictments had been returned, and they had gone no higher than Liddy. Dean was summoned to the Oval Office by Haldeman and found the President and his chief of staff “all grins.” Dean quoted the President as saying, “Good job, John, Bob told me what a great job you’ve been doing.” The second occurred in December, Dean alleged, when Ehrlichman told him the President had, in effect, approved executive clemency for Howard Hunt.

  Simons, Rosenfeld, Sussman and Woodward gathered around Woodward’s desk. Bernstein was out of town. Woodward said that he thought he could confirm the story easily. He called a senior White House aide. Reluctantly, the aide said that Dean had given substantially the same account to him. A little later, a senior Senate committee aide told him, “That’s Dean’s story, or part of it.”

  • • •

  The disclosure that Hunt and Liddy had supervised the burglary of Daniel Ellsberg’s psychiatrist’s office had inextricably linked Watergate and the Ellsberg trial in Los Angeles. In the newsroom, the two stories were often referred to as Watergate East and Watergate West. In early May, Bernstein and Woodward decided to go with a story saying that two New York Times reporters’ telephones had been wiretapped as part of the investigation of the Pentagon Papers leak. Months before, Deep Throat had told Woodward their names—Neil Sheehan and Hedrick Smith—but, even now, the reporters could not find a second source, so the names weren’t used. They did find, however, that there was a possibility that Ellsberg had been overheard on a tap. That figured, since Ellsberg had leaked the papers to Sheehan.

  At Ellsberg’s trial, the prosecution was insisting there were no taps involving Ellsberg. Now Judge Matthew Byrne asked the government to search its records again for evidence that Ellsberg might have been overheard on any wiretap.

  The new acting FBI director, William D. Ruckelshaus, found one. The logs were missing, but Ruckelshaus had been told by his aides that Ellsberg had been overheard at least once—not on Sheehan’s phone, as it turned out, but on the home telephone of Morton Halperin, a former member of the National Security Council staff of Dr. Henry Kissinger. Ruckelshaus’ announcement that Halperin’s phone had been tapped for 21 months was the first confirmation that the administration had used wiretaps to investigate news leaks. Moreover, it established that the government had illegally failed to disclose all its wiretap information to Ellsberg’s defense attorneys.

  Several days later, on May 11, Judge Byrne dismissed all the charges against Ellsberg. Government misconduct, he stated, had ‘incurably infected the prosecution.”

  The next Monday, May 14, Ruckelshaus announced that, as part of the administration’s search for news leaks, 17 wiretaps in all had been ordered in 1969-71. The missing logs had been located; they had been in John Ehrlichman’s safe in his White House office. Ruckelshaus did not disclose the names of the 13 government officials and four reporters whose phones had been tapped. The question was—who had authorized it?

  Woodward placed a direct call
to a top FBI official. The official was not oblique: some of the wiretap authorizations had come to the FBI either orally or by letter from Henry Kissinger.

  Incredulous, Woodward called a former FBI man.

  “I know Kissinger gave some authorizations,” he said.

  The White House switchboard put Woodward directly through to Kissinger’s office. It was about 6:00 P.M.

  “Hello,” the familiar voice said in a heavy German accent.

  Woodward explained that they had information from two FBI sources that Kissinger had authorized the taps on his own aides.

  Kissinger paused. “It could be Mr. Haldeman who authorized the taps,” he said.

  How about Kissinger? Woodward asked.

  “I don’t believe it was true,” he stated.

  Is that a denial?

  A pause. “I frankly don’t remember.” He might have provided the FBI with the names of individuals who had seen or handled various documents which had been leaked. “It is quite possible that they [the FBI] construed this as an authorization. . . . In possible individual cases it is possible that I pointed out who handled what document to my deputy [General Alexander Haig], who in turn would have passed on the information to the FBI.”

  Woodward said that two sources had specified that Kissinger had personally authorized the taps.

  A brief pause. “Almost never,” he said.

  Woodward suggested that “almost never” meant “sometimes.” Was Kissinger then confirming the story?

  Kissinger raised his voice angrily. “I don’t have to submit to police interrogation about this,” he said. Calming down, he went on, “If it is possible, and if it happened, then I have to take responsibility for it. . . . I’m responsible for this office.”

  Did you do it? Woodward asked.

  “You aren’t quoting me?” Kissinger asked.

  Sure he was, Woodward said.

  “What!” Kissinger shouted. “I’m telling you what I said was for background.”

  Woodward said they had made no such agreement.

  “I’ve tried to be honest and now you’re going to penalize me,” Kissinger said.

  No penalty intended, Woodward said, but he could not accept retroactive background.

  “In five years in Washington,” Kissinger said sharply, “I’ve never been trapped into talking like this.”

  Woodward wondered what kind of treatment Kissinger was accustomed to get from reporters.

  Kissinger had an effective way of moving back and forth from anger to tranquility. “I talked in order to be helpful,” he said next. And then, angrily, “What conceivable motive would I have had in granting you an interview?”

  Woodward said that he would check with the Post’s diplomatic reporters to see if different rules about background and on-the-record conversations were observed.

  “You’ve totally violated any procedure I’ve ever had with any reporter,” Kissinger announced, and said goodbye.

  Woodward consulted Murrey Marder, the Post’s chief diplomatic reporter. Did reporters usually allow Kissinger to determine, after an interview, whether it was going to be on the record, off the record or only for background.

  Well, yes and no. Marder said. Technically, Woodward was right, but most reporters who covered Kissinger regularly let “Henry” place statements on background after the conversation. Half an hour later, Marder came by Woodward’s desk to say that Henry had called him to complain bitterly about his interview with Woodward. Marder, Bernstein and Woodward went into Howard Simons office to discuss what had happened.

  Marder took a middle line, joking, “Henry may blame the collapse of Paris negotiations on us.”

  Simons’ phone rang. He picked it up, gave a few grunts and switched the call to the speaker phone so everyone could hear.

  “Tell the assembled multitude, Bennie,” Simons said.

  It was Bradlee, speaking from his home in a stiff German accent. “What are you guys doing?” he asked. “I just got a call from Henry. He’s mad.”

  Simons explained.

  “You decide what to do,” Bradlee said. “I’ll play reporter and read you what Henry said and you can use it if it will help.”

  Simons smiled. “Is it on background?”

  Kissinger, moving up the line from Marder to Bradlee, was doing what is known in diplomatic circles as “hardening your position.” His statement to Bradlee was that it was “almost inconceivable” that he could have authorized the wiretapping.

  “Almost inconceivable” is not a denial, Woodward noted, and argued for the story.

  But it was nearly eight, too late for the first editions. Simons decided to hold it a day.

  Woodward was angry. He felt the editors had waffled on the story because of Kissinger’s position. Bernstein disagreed. The information from the FBI sources had come so easily—perhaps they were part of an effort to shift responsibility from Haldeman and Ehrlichman to Kissinger. It was worth waiting a day to find out.

  As it turned out, though, the story could not wait a day. Sy Hersh had it. A day later, he wrote in the Times that Kissinger had played a role in fingering some of his aides as possible leaks. Marder did the story for the Post a day after that.

  Nearly everyone at the Post involved in reporting Watergate had reached a state of perpetual exhaustion. No one had been enthusiastic about a somewhat ambiguous story that would take a whole evening to coordinate and write.

  • • •

  On May 17, the Watergate hearings were scheduled to begin. During the preceding week, the reporters put together a long story that included details they had been collecting for months. The disclosure of the 17 wiretaps and the burglary of Ellsberg’s psychiatrist were two more incidents in the pattern of White House vigilante activities Deep Throat had talked to Woodward about.

  The undercover work went back to 1969, and included these operations: the Secret Service had forwarded information on the private life of a Democratic presidential candidate to the White House; Senator Eagleton’s health records had arrived in John Ehrlichman’s office before they were leaked to the press; Haldeman personally ordered an FBI investigation of CBS news correspondent Daniel Schorr in 1971. It added up to a broad campaign of illegal and quasi-legal operations. The account appeared on May 17.

  The night of May 16, on the eve of the hearings, Woodward set out for a meeting with Deep Throat. It would be the first since Haldeman and Ehrlichman had resigned, and Woodward figured his friend would be in a good mood. At their last meeting, Deep Throat had told him they could meet earlier, say about 11:00 P.M.

  Cabs were easier to find at that hour, and the trip did not take as long as usual, but Deep Throat was in the garage when Woodward arrived. He was pacing about nervously. His lower jaw seemed to quiver. Deep Throat began talking, almost in a monologue. He had only a few minutes; he raced through a series of statements. Woodward listened obediently. It was clear that a transformation had come over his friend. Woodward had dozens of questions, but Deep Throat held up his hand.

  “That’s the situation,” he said when he had finished. “I must go this second. You can understand. Be—well, I’ll say it—be cautious.”

  He stepped away and hurried from the garage.

  Woodward got out his notebook and wrote it all down. When he got back to his apartment a little after midnight, he called Bernstein.

  Can you come over? Woodward asked.

  Sure, Bernstein said. At Woodward’s apartment building, he rang the outside buzzer. Woodward met him at the elevator.

  What’s up? Bernstein asked.

  Woodward put his finger over his lips to indicate silence.

  Bernstein wondered if Woodward had gone crazy or if it was some gag. They walked down the hall to Woodward’s apartment. Once inside, Woodward put on some music. A Rachmaninoff piano concerto. Bernstein noted what awful taste Woodward had in classical music. Woodward then drew the draperies over the large windows overlooking the city to the east. At his dining-room table, Wo
odward typed out a note and passed it to Bernstein.

  Everyone’s life is in danger.

  Bernstein looked up. Has your friend gone crazy? he asked.

  Woodward shook his head rapidly, indicating to Bernstein not to speak. He typed another note.

  Deep Throat says that electronic surveillance is going on and we had better watch it.

  Bernstein signaled that he wanted something to write with. Woodward gave him a pen.

  Who is doing it? Bernstein wrote.

  C-I-A, Woodward mouthed silently.

  Bernstein was disbelieving. While the Rachmaninoff piano concerto played on, Woodward began typing as Bernstein read over his shoulder:

  Dean talked with Senator Baker after Watergate committee formed and Baker is in the bag completely, reporting back directly to White House. . . .

  President threatened Dean personally and said if he ever revealed the national security activities that President would insure he went to jail.

  Mitchell started doing covert national and international things early and then involved everyone else. The list is longer than anyone could imagine.

  Caulfield* met McCord and said that the President “knows that we are meeting and he offers you executive clemency and you’ll only have to spend about 11 months in jail.”

  Caulfield threatened McCord and said “your life is no good in this country if you don’t cooperate. . . .”

  The covert activities involve the whole U.S. intelligence community and are incredible. Deep Throat refused to give specifics because it is against the law.

  The cover-up had little to do with the Watergate, but was mainly to protect the covert operations.

  The President himself has been blackmailed. When Hunt became involved, he decided that the conspirators could get some money for this. Hunt started an “extortion” racket of the rankest kind.