All the President's Men Read online

  “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,” h
e 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.”

  But there was a fifth check, for $25,000. It was slightly wider than the others, and was dated April 10. Bernstein copied it, as he had the other four, just as if he were drawing a facsimile. It was a cashier’s check, drawn on the First Bank and Trust Co. of Boca Raton, Florida, No. 131138, payable to the order of Kenneth H. Dahlberg. Dardis returned to the room as Bernstein finished copying. The $25,000 had been deposited on April 20, along with the four Mexican checks, making a total deposit of $114,000. Four days later, Barker had withdrawn $25,000. The remaining $89,000 had been withdrawn separately.

  “We’re still trying to find out who this Dahlberg guy is,” said Dardis. “You ever hear of him?”

  Bernstein said he hadn’t.

  Dardis handed Bernstein the Xeroxed phone records and said, “Come back at nine tomorrow and we can talk. I’ve gotta run.”

  Thanks, said Bernstein, I really appreciate the help.

  Bernstein walked down the hallway, turned the corner and then charged for the elevator. It was seven o’clock. He called Woodward from a pay phone in the lobby, told him about the fifth check and dictated all the numbers and other details. Then he went back to his hotel to look for Kenneth H. Dahlberg.

  There was no answer at the bank in Boca Raton. The Boca Raton police department gave him the name and phone number of a bank officer who could be reached in emergencies. The banker had never heard of Dahlberg. The check was signed by an officer of the bank whose first name was Thomas; the last name was illegible. There were two officers at the bank named Thomas, but neither remembered the transaction. Bernstein asked the second for the name and phone number of the bank’s president.

  The president knew Dahlberg only slightly as the owner of a winter home in Boca Raton, and as a director of a bank in Fort Lauderdale. That bank’s president was James Collins.

  Yes, Collins said, Dahlberg was a director of the bank. As he was describing Dahlberg’s business interests, Collins paused and said, “I don’t know his exact title, but he headed the Midwestern campaign for President Nixon in 1968, that was my understanding.”

  Bernstein asked him to please repeat the last statement.

  It was nine o’clock when Bernstein called Woodward. Sussman answered the phone. Woodward was talking to Dahlberg, he said. For Chrissakes, Bernstein shouted, tell him Dahlberg was head of Nixon’s Midwest campaign in ‘68.

  “I think he knows something about it,” said Sussman. “I’ll call you right back.”

  In Washington, Woodward had checked Boca Raton information and found a listing for Dahlberg. The number was disconnected. He, too, had called the police and had been told that Dahlberg’s home was in a neighborhood which had its own gates and private security guardposts. Woodward called the guard on duty there, who would say nothing except that Dahlberg stayed there only in the winter.

  Woodward asked a Post librarian if there was anything on Dahlberg in the clipping files. There was not. Sussman asked for a check of the picture files. A few moments later, he dropped a faded newspaper picture on Woodward’s desk. It was a photograph of Senator Hubert H. Humphrey standing next to a small man with a jubilant smile. The man was identified in the caption as Kenneth H. Dahlberg.

  Was Dahlberg a Democrat? The picture had no dateline. On a chance, Woodward called information for Minneapolis, the largest city in Humphrey’s home state, and got a number for a Kenneth H. Dahlberg. Not sure it was the right Dahlberg, Woodward dialed. When Dahlberg came on the phone, Woodward said he had tried him at his Florida home first. Was that a winter home?

  “Yes,” Dahlberg said.

  About the $25,000 check deposited in the bank account of one of the Watergate burglars . . .

  Silence.

  The check which, as you know, has your name on it. . . .

  Silence.

  We’re writing a story about it and if you want to comment . . .

  Dahlberg finally interrupted. “I don’t know what happened to it. I don’t have the vaguest idea about it. . . . I turn all my money over to the committee.”

  The Nixon re-election committee?

  “Yes.”

  Didn’t the FBI ask you how your check ended up in Barker’s bank account?

  “I’m a proper citizen, what I do is proper,” Dahlberg responded. His voice was tense. Then he seemed to relax for a moment and asked Woodward’s indulgence. “I’ve just been through a terrible ordeal,” he explained. “My dear friend and neighbor Virginia Piper was kidnaped and held for two days.”*

  Woodward asked again about the check.

  Dahlberg acknowledged that it was his, refused to discuss it and hung up. Minutes later, he called back. He said he had been hesitant to answer questions because he was not sure Woodward was really a Post reporter. He paused, seeming to invite questions.

  Whose money was the $25,000? Woodward asked.

  “Contributions I collected in my role as Midwest finance chairman.”

  Woodward was quiet. He was afraid he might be sounding too anxious.

  “I know I shouldn’t tell you this,” Dahlberg resumed.

  Tell me, Woodward thought. Tell me.

  “Okay. I’ll tell you. At a meeting in Washington of the [campaign] committee, I turned the check over either to the treasurer of the committee [Hugh W. Sloan, Jr.] or to Maurice Stans himself.”

  Woodward couldn’t wait to get off the line. Stans was Nixon’s chief fund-raiser and CRP’s finance chairman.

  It was 9:30 P.M., just an hour from deadline for the second edition. Woodward began typing:

  A $25,000 cashier’s check, apparently earmarked for the campaign chest of President Nixon, was deposited in April in the bank account of Bernard L. Barker, one of the five men arrested in the break-in and alleged bugging attempt at Democratic National Committee headquarters here June 17.

  The last page of copy was passed to Sussman just at the deadline. Sussman set his pen and pipe down on his desk and turned to Woodward. “We’ve never had a story like this,” he said. “Just never.”

  3

  Now, SIX WEEKS after Mitchell’s initial statement affirming CRP’s dedication to the traditional American electoral process,
the committee’s protestations of non-involvement in Watergate were disintegrating. Woodward telephoned Clark MacGregor, Mitchell’s successor as manager of the Nixon campaign, and told him what the Post had learned.

  “I know nothing about it,” MacGregor said.

  “These events took place before I came aboard,” he continued. “Mitchell and Stans would presumably know about this.” He sounded disgusted, less with Woodward, it seemed, than with Mitchell and Stans.

  Earlier that evening, George McGovern had announced that his running mate, Senator Thomas F. Eagleton of Missouri, was withdrawing from the Democratic ticket, after his medical history had been made an issue in the campaign.* More than ever, Richard Nixon’s re-election seemed assured.

  • • •

  The next morning, Woodward talked again to Dahlberg.

  “Obviously, I’m caught in the middle of something. What it is I don’t know,” Dahlberg said. He was now certain that he had given the $25,000 check to Maurice Stans personally, on April 11.

  Stans’ secretary told Woodward that there would be no immediate comment. She said Stans was “agonized over the confusing circumstances” which made it impossible for him to explain what had actually happened and thus reaffirm his own integrity.

  At the White House, Ron Ziegler said the President continued to have full confidence in Stans, and referred inquiries about the $25,000 to CRP. The committee’s statement, issued over Clark MacGregor’s name, said that further comment would not be “proper” because the matter was under investigation.

  Woodward telephoned Philip S. Hughes, director of the new Federal Elections Division of the General Accounting Office—the federal auditing agency.

  Unlike the Justice Department and the FBI, which are part of the Executive Branch and report to the President, the GAO is the investigative arm of Congress and therefore operates independently of the Executive. Hughes said that the story in that day’s Post had revealed “for the first time [that] the bugging incident was related to the campaign finance law. . . . There’s nothing in Maury’s [Stans] reports showing anything like that Dahlberg check.”