Free All the President's Men by Bob Woodward, Carl Bernstein Page A

volunteer any information to the agents unless asked a specific question they could not evade—especially regarding committee finances.
    What information the reporters were getting at this point came in bits and pieces, almost always from people who did not want to discuss the matter. Their fright, more than anything else, was persuading Woodward and Bernstein that the stakes were higher than they had originally perceived. Indeed, they too were unsettled by the reactions to their visits.
    The trick was getting inside someone’s apartment or house. There, a conversation could be pursued, consciences could be appealed to, the reporters could try to establish themselves as human beings. They always identified themselves immediately as reporters for the Washington Post, but the approach that seemed to work best was less than straightforward: A friend at the committee told us that you were disturbed by some of the things you saw going on there, that you would be a good person to talk to  . . . that you were absolutely straight and honest and didn’t know quite what to do; we understand the problem—you believe in the President and don’t want to do anything that would seem disloyal.
    Woodward could say that he was a registered Republican; Bernstein could argue a sincere antipathy for the politics of both parties.
    Sometimes it worked. People wanted to know who at the committee had given the reporters their names. Which was fine, because Woodward and Bernstein then could explain the necessity of protecting confidential sources, reassuring whomever they were talking to that he or she would be similarly shielded. Once inside, notebooks were never used.
    Then, working around the edges:  . . . Has the FBI talked with you? (“I can’t understand it; they never asked.”) Have things gotten any better since John Mitchell left? (“Left? He might have quit, but he’s in there three times a week telling Fred LaRue and Bob Mardian what to do.”) Little pieces: “Jeb [Magruder] acts really scared, like the roof is going to fall down on him tomorrow.”  . . . “Somebody told me that MacGregor wanted to write a report and tell everything there was to know, but the White House said no.”  . . . “The prosecutors kept asking me if I knew about any other buggings, maybe McGovern headquarters.”  . . . “Top copy, that’s the phrase they keptasking. Had I ever heard anything about the top copy [of wiretap logs] going to the White House?”  . . . “The FBI wanted to know if I saw anybody using the shredder.”  . . . “I heard from somebody in finance that if they ever got a look at the books it would be all over, so they burned ‘em.”  . . . “Sally [Harmony] said Gordon [Liddy] would never talk and neither would she, that she had a bad memory.”  . . . “From what I hear, they were spying on everybody, following them around, the whole bit.” . . . “Please don’t ever call me on the telephone—God, especially not at work, but not here either. Nobody knows what they’ll do. They are desperate.”
    From one incident in early September, the reporters were made aware that the fears were not groundless.
    They had picked up a copy of the committee’s latest expenditure report, which listed the names of all salaried employees. Bernstein noticed the name of someone he had once met and called her for lunch. He suggested half a dozen places where they could meet and not be seen, but she insisted on a sandwich shop where dozens of Nixon campaign workers were at the tables. When they sat down, she explained: “I’m being followed. It’s open here and doesn’t look like I’m hiding anything. People won’t talk on the phones; it’s terrible.”
    Bernstein asked her to be calm. He thought she was overdramatizing.
    “I wish I was,” she said. “They know everything at the committee. They know that the indictments will be down in a week and that there will only be seven. Once, another person