All the President's Men (9 page)

“Everything else I know is hearsay,” she said. “I’ve done my duty, I told the DA. . . . The whole thing is being very well covered up and nobody will ever know what happened.”

The Prince George’s County Police Department could do a better job than the FBI, and she was through with presidential politics forever. She asked Bernstein to walk back to the office with her, to avoid any appearance of furtiveness. While they were waiting to cross the street at 17th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, Maurice Stans pulled up to 1701, across the avenue, in his limousine.

“He was an honest man before all this started,” she said. “Now he’s lying too.”

Bernstein studied Stans from across the street as the Secretary entered the building.

“Okay,” she said, “I’ll tell you, but it won’t do any good. And don’t ever call me, or come to see me or ask any questions about how I know. LaRue, Porter and Magruder. They all knew about the bugging, or at least lied to the grand jury about what they knew. And Mitchell. But Mitchell is mostly speculation. Take my word on the other three. I know.”

Frederick LaRue, Herbert L. Porter and Jeb Stuart Magruder had all left the White House staff to join CRP.

About five o’clock, the woman telephoned Bernstein. She sounded almost hysterical. “I’m in a phone booth. When I got back from lunch, I got called into somebody’s office and confronted with the fact that I had been seen talking to a
Post
reporter. They wanted to know everything. It was high up; that’s all you have to know. I told you they were following me. Please don’t call me again or come to see me.”

Later that night, Bernstein went to her apartment and knocked on the door.

“Go away,” she said, and Bernstein and Woodward went off to bang on other doors.

About the same time, Clark MacGregor called the
Post’s
executive editor, Ben Bradlee, to complain about the visits. Bradlee did not tell the reporters about it until months later, but he recalled that MacGregor had asked for an appointment with him and Katharine Graham, the publisher of the
Post.
The appointment was made for the next day, but was canceled by MacGregor. “He wanted to talk about
your excesses. There were five women in CRP, he said, who had been harassed by you two. And I said, ‘That doesn’t sound like my boys at all.’ And he gave me the names. . . . I said, ‘Well, how did they harass them?’ and MacGregor said, ‘They knocked on the doors of their apartments late at night and they telephoned from the lobby.’ And I said, ‘That’s the nicest thing I’ve heard about either one of them in years.’ ”

•   •   •

On the evening of September 14, Bernstein knocked at the front door of a small tract house in the Washington suburbs. Ever since he had lunched with the woman from CRP, he had had a feeling that the owner of this house was the person who had gone back to the prosecutors. He had asked around. “She knows a lot,” he was told. The woman worked for Maurice Stans.

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 woman in her fifties, probably gray; it was his image of a bookkeeper, which is what she was. But she was much younger.

“Oh, my God,” the Bookkeeper said, “you’re from the
Washington Post.
You’ll have to go, I’m sorry.”

Bernstein started figuring ways to hold his ground. The sister was smoking and he noticed a pack of cigarettes on the dinette table; he asked for one. “I’ll get it,” he said as the sister moved to get the pack, “don’t bother.” That got him 10 feet into the house. He bluffed, telling the Bookkeeper that he understood her being afraid; there were a lot of people like her at the committee who wanted to tell the truth, but some people didn’t want to listen. He knew that certain people had gone back to the FBI and the prosecutors to give more information. . . . He hesitated.

“Where do you reporters get your information anyhow?” she asked. “That’s what nobody at the committee can figure out.”

Bernstein asked if he could sit down and finish his cigarette.

“Yes, but then you’ll have to go, I really have nothing to say.” She was drinking coffee, and her sister asked if Bernstein would like some. The Bookkeeper winced, but it was too late. Bernstein started sipping, slowly.

She was curious. “Somebody is certainly giving you good information if you knew I went back to the prosecutors.” Then she rattled off a few names that Bernstein tried to keep in his head; if she was mentioning them as possible sources, they must be people who either had some information or were unhappy with the way things were going down at the committee.

He went into a monologue about all the fine people he and Woodward had met who wanted to help but didn’t have hard information, only what they had picked up third and fourth hand.

“You guys keep digging,” she said. “You’ve really struck close to home.”

How did she know?

“I ran the totals for the people. I have an adding machine and a deft hand.” The way she said it was almost mocking, as if she knew she had been watching
Naked City
too much. She shook her head and laughed at herself. “Sometimes I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’m an accountant. I’m apolitical. I didn’t do anything wrong. But in some way, something is rotten in Denmark and I’m part of it.” Then she started guessing sources again and Bernstein tried to keep the names straight in his head. She was glancing at his coffee cup. He tried not to look tense, and played with her dog. She seemed to want to talk about what she knew. But to the
Washington Post,
the enemy? Bernstein had the feeling he was either going out the door any minute or staying till she had told the whole story.

“My only loyalties are to Maurice Stans, the President’s re-election and the truth,” she said.

Bernstein had heard that Stans’ wife was sick and in the hospital. He asked how Mrs. Stans was, and then inquired if the Secretary was going to end up a fall guy for John Mitchell.

“If you could get John Mitchell, it would be beautiful. But I just don’t have any real evidence that would stand up in court that he knew. Maybe his guys got carried away, the men close to him.”

What guys?

Her hands were shaking. She looked at her sister, who shrugged her shoulders noncommittally. Bernstein thought he had an ally there. The sister got up to get another cup of coffee. He took a gulp and handed his cup to her. She refilled it. Bernstein decided to take a chance. He removed 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.”

Sally Harmony?

“She and I have not discussed it. . . . But Sally—and others—lied.” The Bookkeeper had worked for Hugh Sloan, and after he quit, she was promoted to work for Stans. “There were a few of us they were worried about who got promotions.

“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 because he saw it and didn’t want any part of it. We didn’t know before June 17, but we put two and two together on June 19 and figured it out.”

She changed the subject. A few days earlier, the
Post
had reported that there was another participant in the bugging whose identity had not been disclosed; and that he had been granted immunity from prosecution and was talking.

The Bookkeeper started to speculate out loud: “Baldwin? He wasn’t even on the payroll.”

She tried two other names.

Bernstein shook his head. (He had no idea who it was.) “It has to be one of those three,” she said. “I’m pretty sure it’s Baldwin.”

Bernstein asked if she knew who had received transcripts of wiretapped conversations.

“I don’t know anything about how the operational end of the espionage worked,” she said. “I just know who got the money and who approved the allocations. And from what I can see, you’ve got all the names. Track a little upstairs and out of the finance committee,” she advised. “It was the political people. . . . It won’t make any difference. You’ve got to get the law on your side if anything is going to be done. The indictments are going to get the seven and that’s it. The power of the politicians is too strong.”

How many people were paid?

“Thirteen or fourteen from the fund, but only six or seven are involved. The grand jury didn’t even ask if there were any payments that were extra-legal.”

Did Stans know who received such payments?

“He knew less than I knew. My loyalty is to Hugh and Mr. Stans,” she stressed. “For some reason, Mr. Stans feels we have to take the heat for a while.” She had talked to Sloan that morning and he had mentioned a story in the
New York Daily News
that gave the impression that Sloan knew of the bugging operation. “I told him he should sue, but all he said was ‘I want out.’ The grand jury didn’t ask him the right questions either, I guess.”

Who knew all the answers to the right questions?

“Liddy and Sally Harmony. She has more information than I have. But she has never talked to me about what she knows. I urged her time and time again to do what’s right. Sally got promoted, too.” She was now working for Robert Odle.

Was Odle involved?

“Certainly not in knowing anything about the bugging. He’s a glorified office boy, Magruder’s runner. Jeb’s definitely involved, of course. It was all done on the political side, that’s common knowledge. All the people involved are with the political committee, not finance.” But she wouldn’t say who, beyond Magruder. Magruder was CRP’s second-in-command. Bernstein started guessing, picking names that he remembered from the GAO list. Lang Washburn? He had forgotten that Washburn was in finance, not on the political side.

“Are you kidding? Lang’s so dumb that the Monday after the bugging he called everybody in finance together to say that we had nothing to do with it. And then he asked Gordon to say a few words to the kids. At which point Gordon Liddy got up and made a speech about how this one bad apple, McCord, shouldn’t be allowed to spoil the whole barrel.”

Bernstein asked the sister for another cup of coffee and tried another name.

“Never. The White House got him out because he didn’t like to do all the crazy things they wanted.”

Who?

“Right under Mitchell,” the Bookkeeper suggested.

Bernstein tried LaRue and Porter. She didn’t respond. He tried again. Silence.

What evidence did she have that Mitchell’s assistants were involved?

“I had the evidence, but all the records were destroyed. . . . I don’t know who destroyed them, but I’m sure Gordon did some shredding.”

Was it hard evidence?

“It wouldn’t positively say they planned the bugging; it wouldn’t necessarily implicate them with this, but it would come pretty close.”

How could she tell it linked them to the bugging?

“There was a special account before April 7. Back then, they were just expenditures as far as I was concerned; I didn’t have any idea then what it was all about. But after June 17 you didn’t have to be any genius to figure it out. I’d seen the figures and I’d seen all the people. And there were no receipts.” Liddy was among those who received the money, she said. “Gordon’s a case of loyalty to the President. He’ll never crack. He’ll take the whole rap.”

The Bookkeeper was looking at Bernstein’s coffee cup again, having second thoughts. “There are too many people watching me,” she said. “They know I’m privy and they watch me like a hawk.” She was convinced her phones were tapped.

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 the slush fund of cash kept in Stans’ safe.

“I never knew it was a ‘security fund’ or whatever they called it,” she said, “until after June 17. I just thought it was an all-purpose political fund that you didn’t talk about—like to take fat cats to dinner, but all strictly legal.”

$350,000 in dinners? How was it paid out?

“Not in one chunk. I know what happened to it, I. added up the figures.” There had been a single sheet of paper on which the account was kept; it had been destroyed, the only record. “It was a lined sheet with names on about half the sheet, about fifteen names with the amount distributed to each person next to the name. I saw it more
than once. The amounts kept getting bigger.” She had updated the sheet each time a disbursement was made. Sloan knew the whole story too. He had handed out the money.

Bernstein asked about the names again. He was confused because there were about 15 names on the sheet, yet she thought only six were involved. Which six?

“Go down the GAO report; I think they’ve all been before the grand jury. They’re easy to isolate; a couple have been named in the press but not necessarily in connection with this.”

How were the funds allocated?

Telephone calls had something to do with how the money was doled out. Only three of the six had actually received money. “The involvement of the others includes answering some telephone calls,” she stated.

Who were the six? he asked again.

“Mitchell’s principal assistants  . . . the top echelon. Magruder is one.”

He started throwing out more names. No use. He tried initials: if she told him their initials, she could truthfully say that she had never given Bernstein the names, and he would at least be able to narrow down the candidates. Early in the conversation, she had not answered when he had asked if LaRue and Porter were involved. He tried L.

“L and M and P, and that’s all I’m going to give you,” the Bookkeeper said.

Bernstein finished his coffee. He wanted to be able to come back, and he had already pushed too hard. Thanking her at the door, he asked who at the committee might know something and be willing to talk about it. She mentioned the name of the woman who had been followed to lunch with Bernstein.