"ALL THE PRESIDENT'S MEN"
by
William Goldman
Based on the novel
"All The President's Men"
by
Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward
Pre-rehearsal version March, 1975
Start with as few credits as possible. When they're over--
FADE IN ON:
A TINY BLACK PIECE OF TAPE.
We see it in the center of the large, dimly lit screen. As
the tape is pressed around a door--
BEGIN THE BREAK-IN SEQUENCE.
It's a major piece of action, running maybe five minutes and
it's all as detailed and accurate as we can make it, with as
many "if only's" included as possible. ("If only" the tape
had been attached up and down instead of around the door,
Wills wouldn't have spotted it and alerted the police; "if
only" the first police car called had gone to investigate,
Baldwin, watching from the Howard Johnson Motor Inn, would
have seen their uniforms and radioed Hunt and Liddy in time
for them to have gotten to the five burglars and then safely
away.)
The break-in ends when Leeper arrests the five men. He thought
he only had one guy, so when ten hands were raised he was
surprised. The hands are all encased in Playtex rubber
surgical gloves. HOLD on the hands a moment; then--
GO TO:
A DARK APARTMENT.
The phone rings. WOODWARD fumbles for the receiver, turns on
the bed light. He listens a moment.
WOODWARD
No, no trouble, Harry, be right down.
(he hangs up)
Son of a bitch.
He lies back. The apartment is one room, a small terrace
beyond. Not much of a place.
WOODWARD lies still, staring at the ceiling. He blinks, blinks
again. HOLD...
CUT TO:
THE ENORMOUS FIFTH FLOOR OF THE WASHINGTON POST.
It looks, early of a Saturday morning, pretty deserted. Those
reporters that are around are young, bright, and presently
involved in nothing more taxing than drinking coffee and
thumbing through the papers.
HARRY ROSENFELD surveys the scene from his office doorway as
WOODWARD approaches, hangs his coat at his desk, not far
from where ROSENFELD is standing.
ROSENFELD
Where's that cheery face we've come
to know and love?
WOODWARD
You call me in on my day off because
some idiots have broken into local
Democratic Headquarters--tell me,
Harry, why should I be smiling?
ROSENFELD
As usual, that keen mind of yours
has pegged the situation perfectly.
(chomps on some Maalox
tablets)
Except (a) it wasn't local Democratic
Headquarters, it was National
Democratic Headquarters--
(WOODWARD is surprised--
he hadn't known)
--and (b) these weren't just any
idiots, these were special idiots,
seeing as when they were arrested at
2:30 this morning, they were all
wearing business suits and Playtex
gloves and were carrying--
(consults a piece of
paper)
--a walkie-talkie, forty rolls of
film, cameras, lock picks, pen-sized
tear gas guns, plus various bugging
devices.
(puts paper down)
Not to mention over two thousand
dollars, mostly in sequenced hundred
dollar bills.
WOODWARD
Preliminary hearing at Superior
Courthouse?
ROSENFELD
(nods)
Two o'clock, work the phones 'til
you go.
CUT TO:
THE CRIMINAL COURTS BUILDING.
WOODWARD hurries along, goes inside as we
CUT TO:
A CORRIDOR INSIDE. WOODWARD comes down it, looks around,
sees a door marked "Counsel's Offices" and heads toward it.
Now--
CUT TO:
A CLERK AT A DESK as WOODWARD comes up. Behind them, two
lawyers are clearly angry about something, talking and
gesticulating to each other.
WOODWARD
(to the COUNSEL'S
CLERK)
Could you give me the names of the
lawyers for the men arrested in the
Watergate.
CLERK
These two were appointed--
(indicates the angry
men)
--only now it turns out the burglars
got their own counsel.
(he starts to laugh)
FIRST ANGRY LAWYER
(to CLERK)
When you gonna stop thinking it's so
funny.
SECOND ANGRY LAWYER
(To CLERK)
We wouldda done a terrific job
protecting those guys.
(neither lawyer, by
the way, is Clarence
Darrow)
FIRST ANGRY LAWYER
You think we're not as good as some
hotshot fancy lawyer?--
CUT TO:
THE COURTROOM and business is booming. Muggers, pimp, hookers,
their families and friends. In the scene that follows, a
constant counterpoint is what's going on up at the front as
an endless succession of petty criminals caught the previous
night, the aforementioned muggers, pimps, and hookers, are
shuttled in, given a quick appearance before a JUDGE who
sets bond, and then shuttled out.
In the audience, one man stands out--DOUGLAS CADDY. He is
extremely well-dressed and obviously successful. Beside him
sits another smaller man, who is unshaven and squints.
WOODWARD moves in, sits alongside CADDY.
WOODWARD
Mr. Caddy? My name's Bob Woodward,
I'm from the Post and I wanted to
ask about how you happened to come
on this case--
CADDY
--I'm not here.
WOODWARD
(nods)
OK.
He takes out a small notebook, writes, muttering aloud as he
does.
WOODWARD
Douglas Caddy, the attorney of record,
when questioned about his presence
in the courtroom, denied he was in
the courtroom, "I'm not here," Mr.
Caddy said.
CADDY
(impatiently)
Clearly, I am here, but only as an
individual, I'm not the attorney of
record.
(indicating unshaven
man)
Mr. Rafferty has that position.
Whatever you want, you'll have to
get from him, I have nothing more to
say.
And as he gets up, walks off--
CUT TO:
THE WATER FOUNTAIN IN THE CORRIDOR. There is a small line.
CADDY waits at the end of it.
WOODWARD
(moving in behind him)
Mr. Rafferty was very helpful. Four
Cuban-Americans and this other man,
James McCord.
CADDY
Look, I told you inside--
WOODWARD
--you have nothing more to say, I
understand that.
CADDY turns away; WOODWARD goes right on.
WOODWARD
What I don't understand is how you
got here.
CADDY
I assure you, there's nothing
mysterious involved.
WOODWARD
Probably you're right, but a little
while ago, I was talking to a couple
of lawyers who'd been assigned to
represent the burglars.
CADDY
So?
WOODWARD
Well, they never would have been
assigned if anyone had known the
burglars had arranged for their own
counsel. And that could only mean
the burglars didn't arrange for their
own counsel--they never even made a
phone call.
(looks at CADDY)
So if they didn't ask for you to be
here, how did you know to come?
Without a word, CADDY turns, leaves the line without getting
a drink. Silently, WOODWARD watches. Now--
CUT TO:
CADDY seated as before beside RAFFERTY. WOODWARD's voice
come from behind him, and as CADDY turns, WOODWARD is seated
one row back.
WOODWARD
Did you know to come because one of
the other men involved in the break-
in called you?
CADDY
(turning)
There is no reason to assume other
people were involved.
WOODWARD
Your clients were arrested with a
walkie-talkie; they didn't need that
to talk among themselves.
CADDY looks at WOODWARD, turns back.
CADDY
(turning back)
They are not my clients.
WOODWARD
You're a lawyer and you're here--
CADDY
--I met one of the defendants, Mr.
Barker, at a social occasion once--
(stops himself)
--I have nothing more to say.
WOODWARD
(leaning forward as
CADDY turns away
again)
A Miami social occasion?
(explaining)
Mr. Rafferty told me the Cubans were
from Miami.
CADDY
(sighing)
Barker's wife called me at three
this morning; her husband apparently
had told her to call if he hadn't
called her by then.
WOODWARD
It was really nice of you to come,
since you'd only met him once.
CADDY
Are you implying you don't believe
me?
WOODWARD
I have nothing more to say.
CADDY
You don't mind getting on people's
nerves, do you?
WOODWARD considers this a moment. Then--
WOODWARD
Nope.
And on that word--
CUT TO:
THE COURTROOM as without warning, it quiets. There is suddenly
a tremendous air of expectancy, you can feel it. Now we see
why as five men in dark business suits are led in; they've
been stripped of belts, ties, and shoelaces. McCord is taller
than the others. They stand, facing the JUDGE, backs to the
audience.
WOODWARD sits watching as the proceedings start, but it's
hard to hear. He concentrates as the JUDGE starts speaking.
JUDGE
Will you please state your
professions.
The five men do not move or reply. Then, after a long pause,
Barker says--
BARKER
Anti-Communists.
JUDGE
Anti-Communists?
(perplexed)
That, sir, is not your average
occupation.
WOODWARD starts moving forward now, down an aisle, moving
past kids and whores and all the rest, trying to hear what
the hell's going on. At the front of the spectator's section
is a fence-like wooden barricade about three feet high. As
he approaches it--
The JUDGE indicates the bald burglar.
JUDGE
Your name, please.
MCCORD
James McCord.
JUDGE
Will you step forward, sir.
(MCCORD obeys)
WOODWARD at the bench is leaning forward, trying to hear but
it's hard.
JUDGE
And what is your occupation, Mr.
McCord?
MCCORD
(softly)
Security consultant.
JUDGE
Where?
MCCORD
(softer)
Government. Recently retired.
JUDGE
Where in government?
MCCORD
(we can't really make
this out)
...Central... Intelligence...
Agency...
JUDGE
(he can't either)
Where?
MCCORD
(clearing his throat)
The C.I.A.
And on these words,
ZOOM TO:
CLOSE UP--WOODWARD leaning over the fence practically falling
over it in a desperate straining effort to catch what's going
on.
WOODWARD
(stunned)
Holy shit.
Now from the courtroom--
CUT TO:
THOUSANDS AND THOUSANDS OF WASHINGTON POSTS.
We are at the end of the press run, the papers are all
assembled and being cabled and sent off by machine to various
places. As the papers continue to roll past--
A UNION TYPE EMPLOYEE grabs a paper, looks at the front page.
The Watergate story, headlined whatever it was headlined, is
visible. The byline was by Alfred E. Lewis. The union type
Post employee glances at the article--
UNION POST EMPLOYEE
(reading half-aloud)
"Five men, one of whom said he is a
former employee..."
(stops reading, gives
a shrug)
Schmucks.
And he turns happily to the sports section--
CUT TO:
A CLOSE UP OF HUNDRED DOLLAR BILLS.
It's new money and looks as if it's been recently ironed.
Someone is going through the cash, making a quick count.
During this--
FIRST VOICE (V.O.)
Hurry it, huh, Bachinski?
BACHINSKI
You said I could look at it--
PULL BACK TO REVEAL
We're in a room in a police station and two men are present.
One, a COP, is nervous as hell and constantly aware of the
door. The other, BACHINSKI, is taking hurried notes in a
reporter's type notebook as he examines the evidence.
COP
--I said look, not memorize--
BACHINSKI
--almost done, give it a rest, all
right...
(and he looks at an
address book, he
stops)
CUT TO:
THE ADDRESS BOOK. Beside the name "Howard E. Hunt" is the
notation "W.House." Now, BACHINSKI hurriedly opens the other
book to the letter "H" and there is the same name, "Howard
E. Hunt" and beside it, the letters, "W.H."
COP (V.O.)
What'd you find?
BACHINSKI (V.O.)
Beats me. These notebooks belonged
to Cuban guys?
COP (V.O.)
S'right.
BACHINSKI (V.O.)
It's gotta mean either White House
or whore house, one or the other.
We HOLD on the HUNT name, and the address notations. Then--
CUT TO:
WOODWARD'S APARTMENT - NIGHT.
The phone rings, waking him. He fumbles for the phone and
the light, finally gets them both.
WOODWARD
Bachinski?
(reaches for a notebook)
What?--hold it--
(gets it open, starts
to write)
--OK, go on, go on...
CUT TO:
A BOX OF MAALOX TABLETS.
ROSENFELD is opening them, we're in his office, WOODWARD
sits across the desk, holding the notebook we saw him writing
in.
ROSENFELD
...go on, go on...
WOODWARD
That's everything Bachinski had, I
think it's worth following up.
ROSENFELD
Don't know; who the hell's Howard
Hunt?
(crunches tablets)
It's probably nothing but check it
out. Just go easy, it could be crazy
Cubans.
HOWARD SIMONS sticks his head in the office.
SIMONS
Anything?
ROSENFELD
Woodward's onto a new wrinkle with
the break-in thing--absolute page
one stuff--
SIMONS
--in other words, you got nothing,
you're thumbsucking.
ROSENFELD
(shrugs)
Could develop.
SIMONS
Let me see what you get, but don't
jump--The New York Times thinks it's
crazy Cubans.
He moves on. ROSENFELD turns quickly to WOODWARD.
ROSENFELD
OK, get on this W.House guy and do a
better job then you did on McCord.
WOODWARD
I did all right on McCord.
ROSENFELD
Then how come the Associated Press
were the ones found out that Mr.
McCord is security coordinator for
the Committee to Re-elect the
President, otherwise known as CREEP?
WOODWARD
(getting it straight)
The head of security for the
reelection of a Republican President
got caught bugging the national
offices of the Democrats? What the
hell does that mean?
ROSENFELD
(hasn't the foggiest)
Mr. John Mitchell, the head of CREEP,
says it means nothing.
(reads)
"...This man and the other people
involved were not operating on either
our behalf or with our consent. These
is no place in our campaign or in
the electoral process for this type
of activity, and we will not forget
it or condone it."
WOODWARD
(getting up)
You can't believe that.
ROSENFELD
As a rough rule of thumb, as far as
I can throw Bronco Nagurski, that's
how much I trust John Mitchell...
Now--
CUT TO:
A MOON-FACED MAN RINGING A TRIANGLE.
CUT TO:
THE NEWSROOM as the triangle sound echoes.
HOWARD SIMONS leaves large Managing Editor's office, walks
past another office, knocks twice on the glass wall.
Inside the Executive Editor's office, BEN BRADLEE sits. As
SIMONS knocks, he turns, nods. He appears, for the moment,
deep in thought.
HARRY ROSENFELD on the opposite end of the room hurries out
of his office, following a bunch of editors, all of them
heading across the huge room. As he passes WOODWARD's desk
ROSENFELD pauses.
ROSENFELD
What'd you get on W.House?
WOODWARD
(massaging his neck)
Lotsa hints--
ROSENFELD
(not happy)
I can't sell hints to Simons--
(stops, looks at piece
of yellow paper)
--you called everyone you know?
(WOODWARD makes a nod)
Call someone you don't know.
WOODWARD continues to rub his neck as ROSENFELD hurries off,
all the editors still moving toward the place where the moon-
faced man intermittently rings the triangle.
WOODWARD picks up the sheet of yellow paper from his desk.
Lined, legal-sized, it is crammed with names and numbers and
addresses. They are in no neat order; looking at them it's
almost like following a path; chicken tracks in ink. WOODWARD
mutters "to hell with it" and reaches for a thick book, flips
it open.
NOW WE SEE THE BOOK: It's the Washington Phone Directory and
we're in the W's. As WOODWARD's finger stops, we can see
he's looking at the White HOuse entry number. There it is,
just like your name and mine. Listed.
Now WOODWARD starts to dial, visibly nervous, a fact he tries
very hard to keep out of his voice tone.
WHITE HOUSE OPERATOR (V.O.)
White House.
WOODWARD
(casually)
Howard Hunt, please.
Throughout the following call, we stay on WOODWARD's face,
hear the other voices.
WHITE HOUSE OPERATOR (V.O.)
Mr. Hunt does not answer.
WOODWARD is delighted he's even there.
WOODWARD
Thanks, anyway--
And he's about to hang up, when--
WHITE HOUSE OPERATOR (V.O.)
I'll bet he's in Mr. Colson's office.
Let me connect you.
SECRETARY (V.O.)
Charles Colson's wire.
WOODWARD
(a little more excited)
Howard Hunt, please.
SECRETARY (V.O.)
Mr. Hunt isn't here just now.
WOODWARD
Thanks, anyway.
And he's about to hang up again when--
SECRETARY (V.O.)
Have you tried Mullen and Company
Public Relations? He works at Mullen
and Company Public Relations as a
writer. The number is 555-1313. I'm
sorry I couldn't be more helpful.
WOODWARD
Listen, forget it.
He hangs up, sits there. His hands are a little twitchy...
HOLD. Now--
CUT TO:
ROSENFELD hurrying (he always hurries) toward his office.
WOODWARD, looking for something in his desk throughout this
scene, speaks to him.
WOODWARD
Who's Charles Colson?
ROSENFELD
(stops dead)
I would liken your query to being in
Russia half a century ago and asking
someone, "I understand who Lenin is
and Trotsky I got too, but who's
this yokel Stalin?"
WOODWARD
Who's Colson, Harry?
ROSENFELD
The most powerful man in America is
President Nixon, probably you've
heard his name.
WOODWARD, unfazed by anything, continues to open drawers,
close them, as ROSENFELD rolls on.
ROSENFELD
The second most powerful man is Robert
Haldeman. Just below him are a trio:
Mr. Erlichman is Haldeman's friend,
and they protect the President from
everybody which is why they are
referred to as either The German
Shepherds or the Berlin Wall. Mr.
Mitchell we've already discussed.
Mr. Colson is the President's special
counsel.
WOODWARD
(rising)
Thanks, Harry.
(looks at ROSENFELD)
Know anything about Colson?
ROSENFELD
Just that on his office wall there's
a cartoon with a caption reading,
"When you've got them by the balls,
their hearts and minds will follow."
WOODWARD nods, heads back toward the files as we
CUT TO:
WOODWARD AT HIS DESK dialing the phone.
He's got the Colson file spread out now, and we see pictures
of the man and articles the Post had done on him. But
basically what we see is WOODWARD plugging away on the goddamn
phone and you'd think his finger would fall off from all the
dialing and you know his voice is tiring as this montage
goes on, you can hear it grow raspy. But a lot of what a
reporter does he does on the phone, and that's what we're
compressing here. The dialing never stops, the voices are
continuous.
WOODWARD
Hello, I'm Bob Woodward of the Washing
Post and...
(beat)
Mullen and Company Public Relations?
Could you tell me when you expect
Mr. Hunt?
(surprised)
He is?
HUNT (V.O.)
Howard Hunt here.
WOODWARD
Hi, I'm Bob Woodward of the Post and--
HUNT (V.O.)
(impatient)
--yes, yes, what is it?
WOODWARD
I was just kind of wondering why
your name and phone number were in
the address books of two of the men
arrested at Watergate?
HUNT (V.O.)
(blind panic)
Good God!
And he bangs the phone down sharply--
--more dialing SOUNDS. Now snatches of conversation--
WOODWARD
I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Bennett,
but we're doing some investigating
of one of your employees, Howard
Hunt.
BENNETT (V.O.)
Well, if you've been doing some
investigating then obviously it's no
secret to you that Howard was with
the C.I.A.
WOODWARD
(he hadn't known)
No secret at all.
More dialing. Then--
WOODWARD
(tired, voice deeper)
Hello, C.I.A. This is R.W. Woodward,
of the Washington Post--get me
Personnel--
Dialing again. WOODWARD's voice is showing genuine fatigue.
WOODWARD
Hi, I'm Bob Woodward of the Washington
Post--and--what's that?--you've never
heard of me?--I can't help that--you
don't believe I'm with the Post?--
what do you want me to do, Madam,
shout "extra--extra"?
There is the SOUND of the phone being slammed down in his
ear. Hard. Now--
CUT TO:
ROSENFELD AND SIMONS approaching WOODWARD who is working at
his desk. He has put in a lot of hours on this and looks it.
ROSENFELD
Whaddya got, whaddya got?
WOODWARD
Hunt is Colson's man--
(to SIMONS, explaining)
--that's Charles Colson, Nixon's
special counsel--
(SIMONS almost says
something, decides
against it)
--they both went to Brown University--
(consulting his notes)
--Hunt worked for the C.I.A. till
'70, and this is on deep background,
the FBI thinks he's involved with
the break-in.
SIMONS
What else have you got?
WOODWARD
According to White House personnel,
Hunt definitely works there as a
consultant for Colson. But when I
called the White House Press office,
they said he hadn't worked there for
three months. Then the P.R. guy said
the weirdest thing to me.
(reading)
"I am convinced that neither Mr.
Colson nor anyone else at the White
House had any knowledge of, or
participation in, this deplorable
incident at the Democratic National
Committee."
He looks up at them.
SIMONS
Isn't that what you'd expect them to
say?
WOODWARD
Absolutely.
ROSENFELD
So?
WOODWARD
(he's got something
and he knows it)
I never asked them about Watergate.
I only said what were Hunt's duties
at the White House. They volunteered
that he was innocent when nobody
asked was he guilty.
ROSENFELD
(to SIMONS)
I think we got a White House
consultant linked to the bugging.
SIMONS
(nods)
Just be careful how you write it.
CUT TO:
WOODWARD TYPING LIKE MAD, makes a mistake, corrects it, types
on muttering to himself, and--
CUT TO:
ROSENFELD IN HIS OFFICE munching a handful of Maalox tablets
and--
CUT TO:
WOODWARD taking a sheet from his typewriter, hurrying off
and--
CUT TO:
ROSENFELD taking the sheet from WOODWARD--
WOODWARD
Here's the first take--
ROSENFELD nods, shows him out and--
CUT TO:
WOODWARD BACK AT HIS MACHINE typing faster then before, makes
another mistake, starts to correct it, glances around and--
CUT TO:
ROSENFELD IN HIS OFFICE gesturing to somebody but not WOODWARD
and--
CUT TO:
WOODWARD watching as BERNSTEIN appears in view from behind
the wide pillar by WOODWARD's desk, heads toward ROSENFELD's
office. WOODWARD shrugs, goes back to his typing, makes a
typo immediately, glances over toward ROSENFELD's office,
freezes as we--
CUT TO:
ROSENFELD handing some papers to BERNSTEIN. They look, from
this distance, suspiciously like WOODWARD's story.
CUT TO:
BERNSTEIN hurrying out of ROSENFELD's office, and--
CUT TO:
WOODWARD watching BERNSTEIN until he disappears out of sight
behind the pillar. WOODWARD hesitates, finally goes back to
his typing, makes another mistake, fixes it, makes still
another, his temper is shortly to make itself known--
CUT TO:
ROSENFELD as WOODWARD hands him another sheet of paper.
WOODWARD
This is all of it, Harry.
ROSENFELD NODS, takes it, immediately starts to read as we--
CUT TO:
WOODWARD AT HIS DESK watching as ROSENFELD gestures again.
There is a pause. Then BERNSTEIN appears from behind the
pillar and--
CUT TO:
ROSENFELD handing BERNSTEIN another sheet of paper. BERSTEIN
nods, takes it, walks back toward his desk, disappears behind
the pillar again. WOODWARD is starting to steam. Now--
CUT TO:
BERNSTEIN AT HIS DESK typing magnificently, his hands rising
and falling like Rubinstein's. Behind him is the pillar and
for a moment there is nothing--then, very slowly, a figure
peers out from behind the pillar--it is WOODWARD.
He watches. BERNSTEIN continues to type, then after a moment,
rests, thinks, shifts around in his chair and as his glance
starts toward the pillar--
CUT TO:
THE PILLAR. WOODWARD is gone.
CUT TO:
BERNSTEIN typing madly away.
THE PILLAR. WOODWARD is visible again, eyes very bright...
now--
CUT TO:
BERNSTEIN finishing typing, his hands moving majestically.
WOODWARD comes up behind him, stands looking a second.
Then--
WOODWARD
We have to talk.
BERNSTEIN nods, grabs the papers both that he's been typing
and that he's been copying from.
And as he rises--
PAN TO:
WOODWARD AND BERNSTEIN walking silently out of the newsroom
then turning left down a darker corridor, passing bulletin
boards and wall lockers and it's all nice and quiet as they
amble on, nodding to the few people they pass on their way
and after a while they turn right and enter the coffee lounge
which is empty; the walls are lined with Norman Rockwell
reproductions and various kinds of vending machines are
visible, selling coffee or milk or fruit or sandwiches and
there are some plastic tables and chairs and the minute they
are alone, the silence ends.
WOODWARD
What the hell were you doing rewriting
my story--
BERNSTEIN
--I sure couldn't hurt it, could I?--
WOODWARD
--it was fine the way it was--
BERNSTEIN
--it was bullshit the way it was--
WOODWARD
--I have to stand here and listen to
the staff correspondent from Virginia?--
BERNSTEIN
(a sore subject)
--what have you been here, nine
months?--I been in this business
since I was sixteen--
WOODWARD
--and you've had some fucking meteoric
rise, that's for sure--by the time
you turn forty you might be the head
of the Montana bureau--
BERNSTEIN
--you only got the job because both
you and Bradlee went to Yale--
WOODWARD
--Bradlee went to Harvard--
BERNSTEIN
--they're all the same, all those
Ivy League places--they teach you
about striped ties and suddenly you're
smart--
WOODWARD
--I'm smart enough to know my story
was solid--
BERNSTEIN
--mine's better--
WOODWARD
--no way--
BERNSTEIN
(handing them over)
--read 'em both and you'll see--
And as WOODWARD glances at the two stories--
CUT TO:
BERNSTEIN watching. Now--
CUT TO:
WOODWARD. He glances from one story to the other. Then,
disconsolately--
WOODWARD
...crap...
And he sinks down in a chair.
BERNSTEIN
Is mine better?
WOODWARD nods.
WOODWARD
(handing the stories
back)
What is it about my writing that's
so rotten?
BERNSTEIN
(as he exits)
Mainly it has to do with your choice
of words.
And as he goes, leaving WOODWARD just sitting there--
CUT TO:
BERSTEIN, re-entering the newsroom, returning to his desk.
He starts to insert some papers into his typewriter,
hesitates, lights a cigarette. He inhales, as, behind him,
WOODWARD briefly is visible going to his desk behind the
pillar.
Finally BERNSTEIN inserts the paper, starts to type as
WOODWARD (V.O.)
(from behind the pillar)
Carl?
BERNSTEIN
(turns)
Yeah?
WOODWARD
(pushing his chair
briefly into view)
Fuck you, Carl.
And as he rolls forward again, out of sight--
CUT TO:
RICHARD NIXON ON THE TUBE.
(It's the June 22 Press Conference.) He talks on about
something, it doesn't matter exactly what here, the point
is, it should include that strange smile of his that kept
appearing when the man should not have been smiling. Hints
of pressure maybe, that's all, and once it's established--
PULL BACK TO REVEAL:
WOODWARD sitting alone, gloomily staring at the set. We're
in the Post Cafeteria, it's the next morning, and the place
is pretty much empty. He sips the coffee, it tastes rotten.
BERNSTEIN moves up behind him, carrying a cup of coffee of
his own. He stands by WOODWARD briefly.
BERNSTEIN
You heard?
(WOODWARD glances up)
They put us both on the break-in
thing. Simons liked the way we worked
together.
(WOODWARD nods,
BERNSTEIN sits down)
Listen, I'm sorry I said your story
was bullshit.
WOODWARD
It's OK; I'm sorry I called you a
failure.
BERNSTEIN
Forget it, the main thing--
(stops)
--did you call me a failure?
WOODWARD
I was sure trying.
CUT TO:
WOODWARD, BERNSTEIN, AND NIXON. The way it's shot, it's almost
as if they're watching each other; NIXON staring out from
the TV set, answering questions. WOODWARD and BERNSTEIN sip
coffee. We don't know yet--or better, they don't know it
yet, but these are our adversaries.
CUT TO:
WOODWARD AND BERNSTEIN, without NIXON now. They sit at the
table. Occasionally, NIXON is audible in the background.
WOODWARD
All right, what do we know?
BERNSTEIN
Let me lay a little theory on you--
WOODWARD
(cutting him off)
--I'm not interested in theory. What
do we know? For example, Hunt's
disappeared.
BERNSTEIN
Well, Barker tried to get blueprints
of the Miami Convention Center and
the air-conditioning system.
WOODWARD
And McCord was carrying an application
for college press credentials for
the Democratic convention.
(to BERNSTEIN)
The Times has got to be full of it--
it can't be crazy Cubans.
BERNSTEIN
What, though?
(points to Nixon)
It can't be the Republicans--he'd
never allow something as stupid as
this, not when he's gonna slaughter
McGovern anyway.
WOODWARD
Right. Nixon didn't get where he got
by being dumb--
(stops abruptly)
--listen, that was a Watergate
question--
CUT TO:
NIXON ON THE TUBE. Serious now.
NIXON
The White House has had no involvement
whatever in this particular incident.
CUT TO:
WOODWARD AND BERNSTEIN staring at the set thinking...
CUT TO:
WOODWARD AND BERNSTEIN walking toward BERSTEIN'S desk.
WOODWARD
Hey?
BERNSTEIN
Hmm.
WOODWARD
What do you think he meant, this
particular incident? Were there
others? How would we find out? You
know anyone important?
BERNSTEIN
(sits, shakes his
head)
I lived here all my life, I got a
million contacts, but they're all
bus boys and bellhops.
The reporter KEN RINGLE at the next desk watches them a
moment. Then--
RINGLE
What do you need?
BERNSTEIN
Someone inside the White House would
be nice.
RINGLE
(writes down phone
number)
Call her. She worked for Colson, if
that's any help.
As BERNSTEIN grabs for the phone--
CUT TO:
A SECRETARIAL POOL IN A LARGE OFFICE.
BERNSTEIN is talking off to one side with an attractive girl.
GIRL
Kenny's crazy, I never worked for
Colson, I worked for an assistant.
Colson was big on secrets anyway.
Even if I had worked for him, I
wouldn't have known anything.
BERNSTEIN
Nothing at all you can remember?
SECRETARY
(headshake)
Sorry.
(pause)
Now if it was Hunt you were interested
in--
BERNSTEIN
--Howard Hunt?
SECRETARY
Sure. Him I liked, he was a very
nice person. Secretive too, traveled
all over, but a decent man.
BERNSTEIN
Any idea what he did?
SECRETARY
Oh, the scuttlebutt for awhile was
he was investigating Kennedy--
BERNSTEIN
--Teddy Kennedy?
SECRETARY
Sure. I remember seeing a book about
Chappaquiddick on his desk and he
was always getting material out of
the White House Library and the
Library of Congress and--
And as she goes on, quickly--
CUT TO:
THE NEWSROOM.
BERNSTEIN is at his desk, telephoning. WOODWARD stands
alongside.
BERNSTEIN
White House Library, please.
We hear the other end of this phone call clearly.
OPERATOR (V.O.)
One moment.
LIBRARIAN (V.O.)
(elderly-sounding
lady)
Library.
BERNSTEIN
Hi. Carl Bernstein of the Washington
Post. I was just wondering if you
remember the names of any of the
books that Howard Hunt checked out
on Senator Kennedy.
LIBRARIAN (V.O.)
I think I do remember, he took out a
whole bunch of material. Let me just
go see.
SOUND of the phone being laid down.
BERNSTEIN
--what do you think?--
WOODWARD
--Hunt doesn't seem like your ordinary
consultant.
BERNSTEIN
Maybe a political operative of some
sort--
WOODWARD
--a spy, you mean?
BERNSTEIN
It makes sense; Hunt worked for the
C.I.A. and the White House was
paranoid about Teddy Kennedy.
LIBRARIAN (V.O.)
Mr. Bernstein?
BERNSTEIN
Yes, ma'am.
LIBRARIAN (V.O.)
What I said before? I was wrong. The
truth is, I don't have a card that
Mr. Hunt took out any Kennedy
material.
(WOODWARD and BERNSTEIN
listen, and now there
is something in her
voice that wasn't
there before: fear)
I remember getting that material out
for somebody, but it wasn't Mr. Hunt.
The truth is, I've never had any
requests at all from Mr. Hunt.
(beat)
The truth is, I don't know Mr. Hunt.
There is the SOUND of the phone being dropped into its cradle.
BERNSTEIN continues to hold his. He and WOODWARD just look
at each other. Now--
CUT TO:
THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS.
Now, as WOODWARD and BERNSTEIN get out of a cab, start inside--
CUT TO:
A MALE LIBRARIAN IN HIS OFFICE.
LIBRARIAN
You want all the material requested
by the White House?
PULL BACK TO REVEAL
WOODWARD and BERNSTEIN standing there. The nod. One of them
maybe says "yessir," the other maybe "please." The LIBRARIAN
moves out of his office into a corridor. They go with him.
No one else is around. The LIBRARIAN looks at them, quickly--
LIBRARIAN
All White House transactions are
confidential.
And just like that, he's back into his office, and as he
shuts the door--
CUT TO:
WOODWARD AND BERNSTEIN walking along through the Library of
Congress.
WOODWARD
You think they are confidential? I
don't know anything about how this
town works, I haven't lived here a
year yet.
BERNSTEIN
We need a sympathetic face.
On the word "face"--
CUT TO:
A BEARDED YOUNG-LOOKING CLERK. We're in the reading room of
the library, and WOODWARD and BERNSTEIN are with him.
YOUNG CLERK
You want every request since when?
BERNSTEIN
(to WOODWARD)
When did Hunt start at the White
House?
WOODWARD
July of '71.
BERNSTEIN
About the past year.
CLERK
(starts to smile)
I'm not sure you want 'em, but I got
'em.
Now--
CUT TO:
WOODWARD AND BERNSTEIN seated at a table with from anywhere
between 10 to 20 thousand slips of paper. In front of them,
seated at a high desk, the bearded clerk looks down on them,
shaking his head. It's a staggering amount of work to thumb
through.
CLERK
I can't believe you guys are actually
doing this.
WOODWARD
(to the clerk)
You do a lot of things when you're
on a story.
(to BERNSTEIN, quietly)
Can you believe we're actually doing
this?
(BERNSTEIN can't)
Now we have a series of shots of the two of them going through
the slips; it took them hours and hours, and the afternoon
darkened as they worked. And they're tired. Now--
CUT TO:
WOODWARD AND BERNSTEIN getting back into a cab.
BERNSTEIN
That was fun.
(slams the door)
What now?
WOODWARD
I met a Presidential aide once at a
social occasion.
BERNSTEIN
(stunned)
And you haven't called him?--
As the taxi pulls off--
CUT TO:
ROSENFELD
reading an article by BERNSTEIN's desk. WOODWARD sits on an
adjacent desk.
ROSENFELD
(to BERNSTEIN)
You got accurate notes on the White
House librarian?
(BERNSTEIN nods)
OK, we'll leave space for the White
House denial and we should be set.
Suddenly he gestures and we--
CUT TO:
BRADLEE STANDING ACROSS THE ROOM. Without a nod, he moves
toward ROSENFELD.
CUT TO:
WOODWARD AND BERNSTEIN, nervously watching BRADLEE come. As
soon as BRADLEE is within earshot, ROSENFELD starts his sell.
ROSENFELD
Benjy, we got a present for you.
Above the fold on page one for sure.
It may not change our lives one way
or the other. Just a good, solid
piece of American Journalism--
(beat)
--that The New York Times doesn't
have.
BRADLEE by this time has taken the story, grabbed an
unoccupied chair, sat down, started to read. His only response
to ROSENFELD is an intermittent "uh-huh, uh-huh."
CUT TO:
WOODWARD AND BERNSTEIN, watching as the silence goes on.
ROSENFELD too. He wants the story too, but he doesn't want
it like WOODWARD and BERNSTEIN do. They were, as they said,
proud of their work. The silence goes on. Finally BRADLEE
looks up.
BRADLEE
You haven't got it.
(before they can reply)
A librarian and a secretary say Hunt
looked at a book.
(shakes his head)
Not good enough.
He begins editing the piece, slashing paragraphs out of it.
WOODWARD
I was told by this guy at the White
House that Hunt was investigating
Teddy Kennedy.
BRADLEE
How senior?
WOODWARD
(edgy)
You asking me to disclose my source?
Other reporters are watching now. BRADLEE is impatient, as
always.
BRADLEE
Just tell me his title.
WOODWARD
I don't know titles.
BRADLEE
Is he on the level of Assistant to
the President or not?
WOODWARD doesn't know. BRADLEE continues to hack at their
piece. Done, he stands, walks away.
BRADLEE
Get some harder information next
time.
WOODWARD and BERNSTEIN watch him go, they are embarrassed,
angry, crushed. HOLD on their faces. Then--
CUT TO:
WOODWARD'S APARTMENT - MORNING
He is in pajamas and lugging a flower pot out to the balcony,
positioning it so it would be visible to anyone passing in
the alley below. He takes a stick with a red flag, jams it
into the flower pot. He's nervous and he makes several
adjustments, making sure the red flag is secure and won't
fall.
CUT TO:
WOODWARD down in the alley, staring up at his apartment. The
flag is clearly visible. It's early. He checks his watch,
hurries out of the alley.
CUT TO:
THE CITY ROOM - NIGHT
Deserted except for a few older Front Page types, reporters
whose legs have given out, playing cards in a corner of the
room. WOODWARD is working at his desk until he glances up at
a wall clock. It's almost one on the button and as he rises--
CUT TO:
WOODWARD racing down the stairway of the Post; as he hits
the lobby, he turns and we
CUT TO:
OUTSIDE THE POST - NIGHT
WOODWARD appears in the side exit, walks off. When he gets
out of sight of the paper, he starts to run. Now--
CUT TO:
WOODWARD turning a corner, running on. Up ahead is a cab--
CUT TO:
WOODWARD IN THE CAB sitting forward tensely. Occasionally,
various monuments are briefly visible, lit up in the b.g.
WOODWARD takes out some money as we
CUT TO:
THE CAB stopping. WOODWARD pays, gets out. The cab pulls
away. When it is out of sight, WOODWARD starts to run again.
CUT TO:
A STREET as WOODWARD runs by. It's not the nicest area in
the world. He is going faster now.
CUT TO:
A CAB GASSING UP AT A STATION. WOODWARD hurries to it, gets
in and--
CUT TO:
THE SECOND CAB roaring along some Washington streets.
CUT TO:
WOODWARD INSIDE THE CAB. He looks at his watch, tries not to
seem nervous. But his fingers are drumming, drumming and--
CUT TO:
THE SECOND CAB stopping, as WOODWARD gets out, pays. The cab
starts off, but slowly. WOODWARD waits. The cab doesn't turn
as the first one did. WOODWARD still waits. Finally the cab
turns and the second it does, WOODWARD starts to run again
and--
CUT TO:
WOODWARD turning a corner, running on and--
CUT TO:
ANOTHER CORNER as WOODWARD turns it, finally stops and catches
his breath as we--
CUT TO:
A GIGANTIC UNDERGROUND TYPE GARAGE
CUT TO:
WOODWARD ENTERING THE GARAGE. It's an eerie place, and his
heels make noise and if you wonder is he edgy, yes he's edgy.
He comes to the ramp leading down to lower levels, hesitates.
CUT TO:
THE RAMP. It seems to descend forever.
CUT TO:
WOODWARD starting down. HOLD on him as he walks. Down he
goes, the shadows deepening, then disappearing, then covering
him again. He continues on. He must be at least at the first
underground level now but he doesn't stop, and we don't stop
watching him as he continues to go down, turning, the SOUND
of his shoes softer now and he's a smaller figure as we watch
him circle around and around until we--
CUT TO:
ANOTHER LEVEL UNDERGROUND. Dimly lit. A few cars parked here
and there. WOODWARD hesitates on the ramp, looks around.
THE GARAGE. Dark, dark, eerie.
CUT TO:
WOODWARD quietly stepping off the ramp, continuing to glance
this way, that way. Now--
CUT TO:
TWO CARS PARKED BESIDE EACH OTHER.
Nothing unusual about that. But then some cigarette smoke
appears, trailing up and disappearing from between the cars.
As WOODWARD moves forward--
CUT TO:
A MAN SITTING ON HIS HAUNCHES BETWEEN THE CARS, smoking. He
leans with his back against the wall.
DEEP THROAT
I saw the flag signal--what's up?
WOODWARD
Nothing, that's the problem--the
story's gone underground.
DEEP THROAT
You thought I'd help out on specifics?
(headshake)
I'll confirm what you get, try to
keep you on the right track, but
that's all.
(looks at WOODWARD)
Are you guys really working?
(WOODWARD nods)
How much?
WOODWARD
I don't know maybe sixteen, eighteen
hours a day--we've got sources at
Justice, the FBI, but it's still
drying up.
DEEP THROAT
Then there must be something, mustn't
there. Look, forget the myths the
media's created about the White House--
the truth is, these are not very
bright guys, and things got out of
hand.
WOODWARD
If you don't like them, why won't
you be more concrete with me?
DEEP THROAT
Because the press stinks too--history
on the run, that's all you're
interested in.
(inhales)
You come up with anything?
WOODWARD
John Mitchell resigned as head of
CREEP to spend more time with his
family. That doesn't exactly have
the ring of truth.
(DEEP THROAT nods)
Howard Hunt's been found--there was
talk that his lawyer had 25 thousand
in cash in a paper bag.
DEEP THROAT
Follow the money. Always follow the
money.
WOODWARD
To where?
DEEP THROAT
(shakes his head "no")
Go on.
WOODWARD
This man Gordon Liddy--he's going to
be tried along with Hunt and the
five burglars--we know he knows a
lot, we just don't know what.
DEEP THROAT
(lights a new cigarette)
You changed cabs? You're sure no one
followed you?
WOODWARD
I did everything you said, but it
all seemed--
DEEP THROAT
--melodramatic?
(headshakes)
Things are past that--remember, these
are men with switchblade mentalities
who run the world as if it were Dodge
City.
WOODWARD
What's the whole thing about--do you
know?
DEEP THROAT
What I know, you'll have to find out
on your own.
WOODWARD
Liddy--you think there's a chance
he'll talk?
DEEP THROAT
Talk? Once, at a gathering, he put
his hand over a candle. And he kept
it there. He kept it right in the
flame until his flesh seared. A woman
who was watching asked, "What's the
trick?" And he replied. "The trick
is not minding."
DEEP THROAT shakes his head, walks off. WOODWARD stands alone
now, watching. Now the shadows have the other man. Just his
footsteps are audible. WOODWARD stands there... HOLD.
CUT TO:
BERNSTEIN.
It's morning and he's struggling to get his bike down the
steps of his apartment building.
CUT TO:
WOODWARD driving up in his two-year-old red Karmann Ghia. He
roars up alongside BERNSTEIN, waving a folded-up newspaper.
BERNSTEIN
What's that?
WOODWARD
The fucking New York Times.
CUT TO:
The Times spread somewhat tentatively over a mailbox. A small
headline is visible, with the words "Barker," "Liddy," and
"Telephone" in some kind of order. WOODWARD and BERNSTEIN
look at it the best they can.
BERNSTEIN
Goddamnit--
WOODWARD
--see?--
BERNSTEIN
--I'm trying--
WOODWARD
--fifteen phone calls--
BERNSTEIN
---fifteen or more phone calls from
the burglars in Miami to Gordon Liddy
at CREEP--
WOODWARD
Why didn't we get that?
BERNSTEIN
Christ, and I even know somebody at
the phone company--
WOODWARD
--you do?--with access to records?
As BERNSTEIN nods--
CUT TO:
A LITTLE CITY PARK.
A guy shells peanuts. BERNSTEIN hurries up.
BERNSTEIN
Why couldn't you have just dialed me
from the office, Irwin?
IRWIN
'Cause I'm not calling out from the
phone company anymore--
(drops his voice)
--I think the place is bugged.
BERNSTEIN
(taking some peanuts)
So tell me about the Times article.
IRWIN
What do you want to know?
BERNSTEIN
No games, Irwin; give.
IRWIN
(looks at BERNSTEIN)
My big civil rights buddy--
(shakes his head)
--boy, if John Mitchell was after
your phone records, would you be
screaming.
(eats)
What're you onto?
BERNSTEIN
Something maybe big.
IRWIN
And that makes anything you do OK,
is that it?
BERNSTEIN
Just tell me about the goddamn
article.
IRWIN
(shelling away)
It was accurate, but I can't get a
fuller listing for you--all Barker's
phone records have been subpoenaed.
BERNSTEIN
Who by?
IRWIN
A Miami D.A. The guy doing the
investigating is named Martin Dardis.
(finishes his peanuts,
starts off)
BERNSTEIN
Irwin? I really feel bad, doing
something like this--you know that,
don't you?
IRWIN looks at BERNSTEIN for a long time. then--
IRWIN
Don't give me any more of your liberal
shit, OK, Carl?
He walks off, doesn't look back. Now--
CUT TO:
ROSENFELD
at the water fountain on the 5th floor. He chews up a few
Maalox tablets, notices BERNSTEIN steaming up.
BERNSTEIN
Harry, I just talked to a Miami
investigator about Barker--
ROSENFELD
--so?
BERNSTEIN
I think it might be helpful if you'd
send me to Miami.
ROSENFELD heads for his office, BERNSTEIN pursuing.
ROSENFELD
I'm the one sent you to Toronto,
Bernstein--
BERNSTEIN
(trying to head him
off)
--that was awhile ago--
ROSENFELD
--"I think it might be helpful if
you'd send me to Toronto." That was
your spiel then. "The Lifestyles of
Deserters."
(whirls on BERNSTEIN)
I'm still waiting for it.
He enters his office, BERNSTEIN follows.
BERNSTEIN
Down to Miami and back--how much
damage can I do?
ROSENFELD
You're the fella who forgot he rented
a Hertz car, do I have to tell you
they didn't forget to send us the
bill?
And he looks unsympathetically at BERNSTEIN--
CUT TO:
SIMONS circling around the 5th floor. ROSENFELD falls into
step. They keep moving throughout.
ROSENFELD
I can predict the next words you're
gonna say: "anyone but Bernstein."
(SIMONS gestures for
ROSENFELD to continue)
I want to send a reporter to Miami.
SIMONS
Anyone but Bernstein.
ROSENFELD
Howard--
SIMONS
--remember Toronto, Harry.
ROSENFELD
That was awhile ago.
SIMONS
I don't get it--you were the one who
wanted to fire him.
ROSENFELD
I know, I did, but damnit Howard--
(SIMONS looks at him)
For the first time since I've known
him, I think he's really humping...
CUT TO:
BERNSTEIN'S APARTMENT.
A shambles. He is busy doing two things at once, studying
notebooks and packing. Music plays, lovely stuff; the Bach
Brandenburgs. As the phone rings--
BERNSTEIN
(answering)
Yeah?
(pause)
Yes, this is Carl Bernstein.
(stunned)
You're repossessing my bicycle?
(softer)
Listen, I'm sure I paid this month's
installment, so why don't you check
your records before you go around
hassling people?
(pause)
Oh...
And as he stands there--
AN ATTRACTIVE, EFFICIENT-LOOKING WOMAN of BERNSTEIN's age.
She has just entered the apartment. Vivaldi is playing now.
BERNSTEIN
Hannah, I never would have bothered
you but I'm off to Miami and they're
gonna take away my ten speed unless
I get it straightened out fast.
HANNAH
(glancing around the
chaos)
Where are your bills, Carl?
BERNSTEIN
Oh, they're here.
(starts lifting debris
from his desk)
I'm keeping much better records now,
Hannah.
(grabbing a big manila
envelope)
See?
(hands it to her)
HANNAH
(looks inside)
Carl, it's a jungle.
(sits at his desk,
takes out a mass of
papers--glancing at
the top bill)
I suggest you either pay this
immediately or lay in a large supply
of candles.
(studies another bill)
You'd give a stranger the shirt off
your back--except it wouldn't be
paid for.
He smiles, gently begins massaging her shoulders as she
studies his finances.
BERNSTEIN
Hey... very tense.
HANNAH
(nods)
Lot of pressure at the Star.
(looking at the bills)
Carl, when we got married, you were
four thousand dollars in debt; when
we split, you were solvent. That may
prove to be the outstanding single
achievement of my life, and now look
at this.
(sighs)
How much did the damn bike cost?
BERNSTEIN
Five hundred; six maybe.
HANNAH
(looking at paper)
You're two months behind--you got
enough to cover?
BERNSTEIN
I think.
HANNAH
Give me your checkbook then.
BERNSTEIN
It's right under that pile.
He indicates a mound of papers. She pulls it out as he
continues to massage her, more sensually now. She reaches
back, puts her hand on his.
HANNAH
I thought you had to get to Miami.
BERNSTEIN
There's always a later plane.
HANNAH
You're a sex junkie, you know that,
Carl?
BERNSTEIN
Nobody's perfect.
(more rubbing now)
I'm glad you're out of it, Hannah--
you're a terrific reporter and I
turned you into a bookkeeper.
HANNAH looks at BERNSTEIN a moment; then she smiles gently,
shakes her head.
HANNAH
Aw baby, you can get it up... I just
wonder if you'll ever be able to get
it together.
And quickly from that--
CUT TO:
BERNSTEIN
seated perspiring on a hard bench in a stifling office.
Outside: palm trees; we're in Miami. And judging from the
number of cigarette butts strewn around the bench, BERNSTEIN's
been there a while. Waiting. Nervous. And maybe he never
will be able to get it together, who knows.
At the front, a SECRETARY sits filing her nails. Behind her
are a number of closed doors to offices. No one passes without
her OK. The clock hits three in the afternoon as BERNSTEIN
gets up from the bench, goes to the SECRETARY.
BERNSTEIN
Hi, it's me. I'm still here.
SECRETARY
(couldn't be nicer)
I'm so glad.
BERNSTEIN
I'd really like to see Mr. Dardis.
SECRETARY
And you will.
(smiles)
But not now.
BERNSTEIN
I called him from Washington. He's
the one who asked me to be here at
eleven in the morning.
SECRETARY
I told you, he had to go out on a
case.
CUT TO:
THE BENCH as BERNSTEIN slumps back down. He wipes his forehead
with his sleeve, smokes a fresh cigarette, is kind of
interested when a UNIFORMED COP walks up to the SECRETARY,
who is now putting red polish on her nails.
UNIFORMED COP
Is it OK to go on back?
She nods.
CUT TO:
BERNSTEIN watching as the cop walks past the SECRETARY, enters
an office behind.
CUT TO:
THE CLOCK ON THE WALL. IT'S QUARTER OF FOUR NOW.
PULL BACK TO REVEAL
BERNSTEIN, approaching the SECRETARY again. She is working
on her right hand now.
BERNSTEIN
Could you reach Mr. Dardis by car
radio?
SECRETARY
He is not in the car.
(Smiles; she's just
so understanding)
Sorry.
CUT TO:
ANOTHER UNIFORMED COP walking by the SECRETARY's desk.
SECOND COP
Hey, babe.
He enters the same office the first COP did.
CUT TO:
BERNSTEIN. He lights another cigarette, puts it out, then
lights another.
CUT TO:
THE SECRETARY
finishing her manicure. It is almost five o'clock now.
BERNSTEIN, his bench a sea of cigarette butts, slowly gets
up and goes to the SECRETARY.
BERNSTEIN
Mr. Dardis does call in every so
often?
SECRETARY
Well of course.
BERNSTEIN
(quietly)
Good. Just tell him I was here, that
I'm sorry I missed him--
He walks out the double doors.
CUT TO:
BERNSTEIN IN HALLWAY. He looks down the hall. At the end,
opposite the SECRETARY's reception room, is a big glass door
with a sign reading: Office of the Dade County Clerk.
BERNSTEIN goes into a phone booth in the corridor from which
he can see both offices. He puts in a dime, and dials.
BERNSTEIN
Mr. Dardis' office, please.
CUT TO:
SECRETARY. The phone RINGS and she punches the button on the
phone console.
SECRETARY
Mr. Dardis' office.
CUT TO:
BERNSTEIN in phone booth.
BERNSTEIN
This is Mr. Tomlinson in the clerk's
office. Could you come across the
hall for a moment? We've got some
documents your boss probably should
see.
He hangs up.
CUT TO:
BERNSTEIN watching from phone booth as the SECRETARY hurries
across the hallway. As we see her open the door of the clerk's
office, BERNSTEIN bolts out of the phone booth and runs into
the reception room heading straight for the SECRETARY's desk.
CUT TO:
BERNSTEIN at her desk, looking at the telephone console,
receiver in hand. He punches the button marked Intercom and
we can hear it BUZZ somewhere.
VOICE (V.O.)
Dardis.
BERNSTEIN
Carl Bernstein's here to see you--I
don't know why, but he seems angry--
CUT TO:
DARDIS emerging through one of the doors behind BERNSTEIN.
BERNSTEIN see him.
BERNSTEIN
(to DARDIS)
Look, you've been jerking my chain
all day. If there's some reason you
can't talk to me--like the fact that
you've already leaked everything to
The New York Times--just say so.
DARDIS
Listen, I've got a dinner--can't we
do this tomorrow?
BERNSTEIN
(headshake)
I'm on deadline.
CUT TO:
DARDIS' OFFICE. He is fiddling with a combination lock at a
filing cabinet. BERNSTEIN is seated across DARDIS' desk.
DARDIS
You want Barker's phone stuff or his
money stuff?
BERNSTEIN
Whatever.
He hands BERNSTEIN some papers, glances at his watch.
DARDIS
I'll never get out of here in time.
BERNSTEIN
(flying through what
he's been handed)
The telephone calls... we know about
that.
DARDIS
The rest is Barker's bank records.
It's mostly the eighty-nine thousand
in Mexican cashier's checks--
BERNSTEIN
--yeah, that was in The Times this
morning.
BERNSTEIN continues to fly through the papers.
BERNSTEIN
(continuing stops)
What's this Dahlberg check?
And as it's mentioned--
CUT TO:
CLOSE UP--CASHIER'S CHECK. It's drawn on the First Bank and
Trust Company of Boca Raton, Florida, it's dated April 10
and it's for 25 thousand dollars, payable to the order to
Kenneth H. Dahlberg.
DARDIS' VOICE
That the twenty-five grand one?--
Don't know--
CUT TO:
BERNSTEIN starting to copy the check in a meticulous
facsimile. DARDIS watches.
DARDIS
I never could figure just who this
Dahlberg was.
(watching BERNSTEIN)
Think it might be anything?
BERNSTEIN
(casually)
This?
(shrugs)
Naw...
And from here quickly--
ZOOM TO:
BERNSTEIN IN A PHONE BOOTH in the lobby of the Justice
Building. Wildly excited--
BERNSTEIN
--Woodward--Woodward, listen, I don't
know what I got--
(holding the Dahlberg
facsimile)
--and I think the Times has it too--
(big)
--but somewhere there's a Kenneth H.
Dahlberg in this world and we've
gotta find him--
And now comes
THE HUNT FOR DAHLBERG.
This is a compressed montage sequence in which we CUT from
one reporter to the other, both of them desperately trying
to locate a man names DAHLBERG.
WOODWARD is maybe in the reference room of the Post, sweating,
surrounded by Who's Who and Dictionary of American Biographies
and phone books from dozens and dozens of cities--
BERNSTEIN is maybe in the phone booth of the Justice Building,
sweating, with a pile of dimes as he dials away.
This took them hours, and that effort should be visible to
us. They tire, grow punchy, but they keep on, checking phone
book and dialing numbers and God knows what else. The point
is, we want to get to DAHLBERG in a reasonably short amount
of time, but we also want people to know there was effort
involved.
CUT TO:
WOODWARD, bleary, in the reference room, a girl comes in, a
researcher librarian type.
RESEARCHER
Were you after the Dahlberg articles
from the files?
(WOODWARD nods)
There aren't any, sorry.
And now she drops a piece of paper, a photo--
WOODWARD
Whazzis?
RESEARCHER
(shrugs)
Our Dahlberg file.
As she leaves--
CUT TO:
The photo.
It is a picture of Hubert Humphrey standing next to another
man. The caption identifies that other man as KENNETH
DAHLBERG. Now--
CUT TO:
WOODWARD AT HIS DESK.
The room is reasonably quiet. ROSENFELD is visible in his
office. As WOODWARD picks up the phone, gets Minneapolis
information--
CUT TO:
ROSENFELD'S PHONE RINGING. He hurries in, grabs it.
BERNSTEIN'S VOICE (V.O.)
Harry--I know how to get Dahlberg--
ROSENFELD
--Woodward's talking to him know.
CUT TO:
BERNSTEIN, drenched. There are no dimes left. He listens a
moment more, then nods, hangs up, leans back against the
glass, takes a deep breath, closes his eyes as we
CUT TO:
WOODWARD on the phone.
WOODWARD
--this should take only a minute,
Mr. Dahlberg, but we're doing a follow-
up on the break-in--
(pause)
--and I was kind of curious about
your check.
DAHLBERG (V.O.)
...check...?
WOODWARD
The twenty-five thousand dollar one.
(silence)
The one with your name on it.
(silence)
In Bernard Barker's Florida account.
(still nothing)
Bernard Barker, the Watergate burglar--
DAHLBERG (V.O.)
(struggling)
...you're definitely doing a story...?
WOODWARD
Yes, sir.
DAHLBERG (V.O.)
I'm a proper citizen, I'm a decent
man, I don't do anything that isn't
decent or proper.
(WOODWARD waits, pen
ready; tense as hell)
I know I shouldn't tell you this...
WOODWARD's lips are going "tell me, tell me."
DAHLBERG (V.O.)
That twenty-five thousand dollars is
money I collected for Nixon in this
year's campaign.
WOODWARD
I see. And how do you think it reached
Miami?
DAHLBERG (V.O.)
I don't know; I really don't. The
last time I saw it was when I was in
Washington. I gave it to the Finance
department of the Committee to Re-
Elect the President. How it got to
that burglar, your guess is as good
as mine.
WOODWARD
(trying to keep his
voice level)
That checks out with our finding,
thank you, Mr. Dahlberg.
CUT TO:
AN ARTICLE WITH WOODWARD'S NAME ON THE BYLINE.
ROSENFELD holds it.
ROSENFELD
CREEP financed the Watergate break-
in, Jesus Christ.
He starts off.
WOODWARD
One sec'--
WOODWARD takes the story, scrawls BERNSTEIN's name in front
of his on the byline. ROSENFELD watches. As WOODWARD finishes,
he takes the story again, hurries off. Now--
CUT TO:
THE HEADLINE OF THEIR STORY:
"Campaign Funds Found in Watergate Burglar's Account."
Now--
PULL BACK TO REVEAL
that it isn't exactly a gigantic headline piece. As a matter
of fact, as more and more of page one appears, we see that
their story is tucked away at the bottom and as bigger and
bigger headlines are visible--
PULL BACK TO REVEAL
--the whole first page. Plastered across the top in giant
letters is the following: "EAGLETON RESIGNS." And as you
look at the whole page now, you can barely make out the tiny
piddling Watergate story. The point is abundantly clear:
nobody cared a whole lot.
CUT TO:
THE TRIANGLE
being rung like crazy. And as it SOUNDS--
CUT TO:
THE BUDGET MEETING
SIMONS
--OK, last go-round. Foreign, anything
else?
The foreign editor, an enormously thoughtful-looking and
respected man, indicates "no."
SIMONS
(to another editor)
National?
NATIONAL EDITOR
I'll stand with the Eagleton follow-
ups and McGovern not being able to
get a replacement--that's your page
one stuff right there, Howard--
SIMONS
--Metropolitan?--
ROSENFELD
--you are ignoring the importance of
the Dahlberg repercussions--
NATIONAL EDITOR
--nobody gives a shit about the
Dahlberg repercussions--
ROSENFELD
(to NATIONAL EDITOR)
--quit equivocating, say what you
mean--
(to SIMONS and BRADLEE)
--our story got Government Accounting
to start an audit on CREEP's finances--
BRADLEE
--and we printed that, didn't we,
Harry? And when the frigging audit's
done, we'll print that too--
NATIONAL EDITOR
--let me tell what happened when I
was having lunch today at the Sans
Souci--
ROSENFELD
--correction--when you were drinking
your lunch at the bar of the Sans
Souci--
NATIONAL EDITOR
--this White House guy, a good one,
a pro, came up and asked what is
this Watergate compulsion with you
guys and I said, well, we think it's
important and he said, if it's so
goddamn important, who the hell are
Woodward and Bernstein?
ROSENFELD
Ask him what he's really saying--he
means take the story away from
Woodstein and give it to his people
at the National Desk--
NATIONAL EDITOR
--well, I've got some pretty
experienced fellas sitting around,
wouldn't you say so?--
ROSENFELD
--absolutely--and that's all they
do, sit sit sit--every once in a
while, they call up a Senator, some
reporting--
NATIONAL EDITOR
--well, what if your boys get it
wrong--
BRADLEE
(after a beat)
Then it's our asses, isn't it?
SIMONS
(indicates the meeting
is over)
And we'll all have to go to work for
a living.
As the men rise and head for the door, the FOREIGN EDITOR
moves toward BRADLEE and SIMONS who remain seated as before.
FOREIGN EDITOR
I don't think either Metropolitan or
National should cover the story.
(BRADLEE and SIMONS
look at him)
I don't think we should cover the
story, period.
BRADLEE
Go on.
FOREIGN EDITOR
It's not that we're using unnamed
sources that bothers me, or that
everything we print the White House
denies, or that almost no other papers
are reprinting our stuff.
SIMONS
What then?
FOREIGN EDITOR
I don't believe the goddamn story,
Howard, it doesn't make sense.
BRADLEE
It will, it just hasn't bottomed out
yet, give it time.
FOREIGN EDITOR
Ben, Jesus, there are over two
thousand reporters in this town, are
there five on Watergate? Where did
we suddenly get all this wisdom?
BRADLEE and SIMONS say nothing. They respect this guy.
FOREIGN EDITOR
Look--why would the Republicans do
it? --my God, McGovern is self-
destructing before our eyes--just
like Muskie did, Humphrey, the bunch
of 'em.
(sits on the table,
talks quietly on)
Why would the burglars have put the
tape around the door instead of up
and down unless they wanted to get
caught? Why did they take a walkie-
talkie and then turn it off, unless
they wanted to get caught? Why would
they use McCord--the only direct
contact to the Republicans?
BRADLEE
You saying the Democrats bugged
themselves?
FOREIGN EDITOR
The FBI thinks it's possible--the
Democrats need a campaign issue,
corruption's always a good one.
(rises, starts out)
Get off the story, Ben--or put some
people on McGovern's finances; fair
is fair, even in our business.
He leaves. BRADLEE and SIMONS stay where they are, both of
them flattened by what the guy's said. Because they're not
sure he's wrong... HOLD. Now--
CUT TO:
THE PAPERS POURING OUT OF THE ASSEMBLY LINE.
We're back with the UNION GUY from before. He pulls out a
paper again, looks at a story on the front page--
CUT TO:
THE WOODWARD/BERNSTEIN STORY that said the GAO found that
CREEP has mishandled over $500,000 in campaign funds.
UNION GUY
(to another UNION GUY
who's reading over
his shoulder)
What'd'ya think?
SECOND UNION GUY
Politics as usual, someone just got
caught with his hand in the cookie
jar, that's all.
UNION GUY
(he's not so sure)
Big fuckin' cookie jar.
As he turns to the sports section--
CUT TO:
GETTING THE CREEP LIST SEQUENCE.
Either they get it as it is now, or as they really did, from
a Post researcher who knew someone. In ant case, we see the
list, with the columns of names and numbers meaning offices
and phone extensions.
We also see the two of them working, first, making long
attempts at figuring out who worked for whom at CREEP.
Then, once they have that, they begin using the cross-
reference phone books, which are not familiar to moviegoers.
And from these, they begin to get the home addresses of the
various small-fry people who work for CREEP.
Near the end alphabetically, there is a common female name,
Jane Smith or something like that. As BERNSTEIN runs his
finger down the addresses, something strikes him as familiar,
and as he reaches for the phone--
CUT TO:
A CRUMMY-LOOKING BAR - MID-DAY.
BERNSTEIN enters, looks around, then smiles and moves to a
lovely girl with a sweet face who probably weighs 200 pounds.
She is sitting alone in a corner booth. She nods to BERNSTEIN,
can't quite pull off a smile.
BERNSTEIN
(sits across)
This is practically a high school
reunion for us, Jane--I would have
sprung for a classier place.
JANE
Anyplace really public, they'd know
about it--they know everything at
the Committee, Carl--
BERNSTEIN
--you don't really think you're being
followed?
JANE
This girlfriend of mine at the
Committee, the other day she went
back to the D.A. to tell the things
the FBI didn't ask her. That night,
her boss, he knew what she'd done.
They control everything; that's how
they know it all.
BERNSTEIN
FBI too?
JANE
You don't believe me? Well, I was
working the weekend of the break-in
and my God, all the executives were
running around like crazy--you had
to practically wait in line to use
the shredding machine--and when the
FBI came to investigate, they never
even asked me about it.
BERNSTEIN
If you don't like it down there, why
don't you quit?
JANE
I don't know what they'd do to me.
BERNSTEIN
(reaching over)
Hey, easy...
JANE
(headshake)
We're a long way from high school,
Carl...
(she looks at him)
...and I'm scared.
HOLD on her frightened face a moment. Then--
CUT TO:
BERNSTEIN
riding home on his bicycle. He gets to his building, starts
lugging it up when--
JANE'S VOICE (O.S.)
They found out I saw you--
(BERNSTEIN stops,
glances around)
--they wanted to know everything.
(louder)
Don't call me again.
BERNSTEIN
(moving toward her
voice)
I can help if you'll--
JANE (O.S.)
--stay away from me, Carl!
CUT TO:
JANE IN THE DARKNESS. If she was scared earlier, it's panic-
time now. She turns, hurries off.
BERNSTEIN watches her. Suddenly a SOUND comes from the
darkness behind him. He whirls. It was nothing but from the
way he jumped when it happened you can tell the fear is
spreading.
Now from Washington, in darkness--
CUT TO:
ESSEX HOUSE IN MANHATTAN - BRIGHT SUNSHINE.
WOODWARD comes hurrying along, and as he enters the hotel--
CUT TO:
A DESK CLERK shaking his head at WOODWARD.
CLERK
We have no one by the name of Mitchell
registered.
WOODWARD
My mistake, sorry.
And as he goes--
CUT TO:
WOODWARD out on the street, in a phone booth near Essex House.
WOODWARD
Get me John Mitchell, it's urgent.
OPERATOR (V.O.)
That would be room 710, I'll connect
you.
WOODWARD waits anxiously as the connection is made.
MAN'S VOICE (V.O.)
The Mitchells.
WOODWARD
Can I speak to Martha Mitchell,
please.
MAN'S VOICE (V.O.)
Who is this?
WOODWARD
I've met Mrs. Mitchell in Washington,
I'm Bob Woodward of the Post and
tell her--
And the phone clicks dead--
CUT TO:
AN ELEVATOR, the numbers of the floors being lit as it rises.
4--5--6-- WOODWARD stands alone in the elevator. As it reaches
seven and the doors slide open, he steps out and
CUT TO:
THE MARRIOTT SUITE. It's numbered 710. WOODWARD approaches
but as he does the door begins to open so he whirls, knocks
on the door nearest him. Now 710 is wide open and several
maids leave, watched by a large black man.
FIRST MAID
We'll be back after lunch.
BLACK MAN
(it's the voice from
the phone)
We'll be here.
WOODWARD waits by his door as 710 slowly closes. The maids
look at him a moment. He knocks again, louder.
SECOND MAID
I think they went out.
WOODWARD
(shrugs)
I don't mind waiting.
The maids nod, move out of sight. WOODWARD stands tense and
still, watching the closed door numbered 710... Now--
CUT TO:
NATIONAL AIRPORT IN D.C. - LATE AFTERNOON.
People are getting off the shuttle, WOODWARD among them.
BERNSTEIN waits.
BERNSTEIN
(as WOODWARD reaches
him)
See her?
(WOODWARD nods)
Get anything?
WOODWARD
For the paper, no; for us, plenty.
(The two of them head
for the terminal)
I waited a long time and finally
this big guy--I guess a bodyguard--
he left and I knocked and she
remembered me, we talked awhile.
BERNSTEIN
And?--And?--
WOODWARD
(looks at BERNSTEIN)
--she was panicked, Carl--every time
I mentioned Watergate, you could
tell.
BERNSTEIN
Were you eyebrow reading?
WOODWARD
(shakes his head "no")
It was there. I just don't get it; a
CREEP secretary being scared, that's
one thing. But what does the wife of
one of the most power