Nixon Vetoes Federal Love and Happiness Act

June 17, 1972.

Nine o' clock, Saturday morning. Woodward's pillow vibrates before the phone rings.

The "bed-shaker," a device the size and weight of a clay mine, often reminded him of an electric razor with two outlets instead of one -- one cable connected to the wall, the other to the phone on his bedside table. People might look at him sideways if he ever brought anyone back to his place to stumble on to it. His neighbors on both sides had asked slightly crass questions about the “buzzing” that woke even them up on occasion.

He takes the seashell out of his ear, setting it on the edge of the mattress before reaching for the phone.

"Woodward."

"There's been a burglary down at the Watergate office complex," Barry Sussman, the city editor replied, spare with all but the most important details of the call. "The burglar was arrested on site about four hours ago. He's being arraigned at the courthouse this afternoon. Get Lewis' report from the desk. Go down there and see what you can find out."

The phone abruptly disconnects, hitting him with an amplified dial tone.

He had been a reporter for just over nine months at the Metro, working the night shift of the police beat. If he didn't know the address of the courthouse by now, he was in trouble. Sussman knew that. He also knew Woodward had been keen to pick up weekend stories, so none of the brief had been phrased as a question.

Still, it was odd to be pulled for a simple burglary when his work over the past few months had broadened into public health and police corruption. Now, it seemed, he was relegated to his old station.

No matter. He puts the seashell back in, gets dressed and walks the six blocks over to the paper.

The Metro offices, never a sedate environment even on the weekends, are alight with activity as he retrieves his messages from the front desk.

He blinks at the text of Lewis's message then calls police headquarters to double-check.

The burglary had been at the Maize offices in the Watergate Hotel complex.

Maize Machines, founded in 1960 by Rob Careers and Rob Wartroba. Woodward was familiar. The company built the adapted phone he used, the "seashell" ear plugs he wore, and the "kernel" implant that had been used to restore his -- and everyone else's -- auditory nerve following the Civil Defense grid hijackings on May 13. The former was as much a patch system for the latter, emitting a high tonal frequency to counter the low grade tinnitus associated with implant sensitivity.

Woodward's ears rang when he worked on naval destroyers. Now that he was stateside, two years on from the disaster, they hissed. He often kept the over-ear loop earplugs turned off even when tucked into place and supplemented ordinary conversation with American Sign Language.

Of course, the company made significantly more than just those three products -- as the factories popping up across the country could attest. President Dean had tapped them to develop the Department of Technology in the months following the May 13 disaster, adding an infusion of military funding to their research and development projects.

It was curious that the company would have an office in the Watergate, well outside the strongholds of their newest plant in Scranton, PA and the Department of Defense in Arlington.

Situated on the banks of the Potomac River in downtown Washington, the Watergate could fairly be described as a concrete fortress for the city's ruling class; the most expensive hotel and cooperative in the city and three adjoining states. But, still, a hotel. A civilian institution that, on paper, a company with military contracts wouldn't -- and shouldn't -- touch.

The Fifth Streeters, a coterie of attorneys named for the location of their offices, were milling around the hallway outside the courtroom; mixing with other court reporters and the standard curiosity seekers, some of whom Woodward recognized.

He approaches with minimal apprehension, scanning for a familiar face. "Excuse me. Can you tell me who was assigned to the case for the man arrested at the Watergate?"

The man who replies barely looks up from the file he's reading.

"I was initially assigned the case, but that was before they told me the burglar had his own counsel."

"Do we know the name of the burglar's counsel?"

"I don't know 'em. 'Looked like a holy roller. Which makes sense, I guess."

"Why's that?"

"Word is the archdiocese of Arlington is footing the bill."

Armed with this tip, Woodward scans the crowds seated in the gallery.

He immediately notices another man in the courtroom following the interpreter. No clerical collar, but an air that reminded Bob of the seminary students who had flowed in and out of Wheaton College and, subsequently, his family's living room. An unctuousness and solemnity, out of place in their current surroundings.

He also fails to jump or turn around when one of the Fifth Street attorneys stumbles against the benches, dropping their briefcase.

Woodward moves to sit in front of the man, turning around to catch his eye.

"Excuse me. May I ask your name, please?"

In addition to speaking the words aloud, he poses the question in American Sign Language. The man -- waxy complexion, square frame glasses, dark shirt with a Roman collar -- stares, plainly mystified at the intrusion.

"I'm Bob Woodward of the Washington Metro."

With this, the initial confusion hardened into a neutral mask.

"My apologies. I wasn't trying to bother you, but I was just wondering if you were here in connection with the Watergate burglary."

Silence.

"See, the reason I'm asking is one of the public defenders here was initially assigned to his case, until they were informed that the gentleman who was arrested had arranged his own counsel."

I AM NOT THE ATTORNEY OF RECORD. I AM AN INTERESTED PARTY.

"You are an attorney, though?"

More silence.

"Why are you here? Did they call you?"

I AM NOT HERE.

Bob nods, retrieving his pad and pen.

A rap of knuckles on top of the pew alerts him enough to look up.

OBVIOUSLY. I AM HERE. I WAS ASKED TO COME.

"By who?"

MISTER STARKEY AND MISS BRANDT.

"Did they call you?" Woodward persists. "It must have been early. The gentleman was arrested at 2:34am and, according to the report, he never made a phone call from the precinct."

I CANNOT SAY MORE.

"Any idea if he contacted the archdiocese prior to the incident?"

I DO NOT KNOW.

Woodward nods, signs that he understands. "Is there somebody who might? Would the Archdiocese or your friend maybe know?"

The raps on the pew are very loud now. The spectacled eyes when he looks up are cold and unblinking. He covers Woodward's pad to prevent him from writing.

I'M NOT HERE, MISTER WOODWARD.

--

The shadow of the Archdiocese soon becomes apparent when the suspect is escorted into the court room.

Woodward's never seen a burglar in a priest's frock before. Even with his background knowledge of the defendant, the sight is startling.

The judge seems equally surprised, but quickly returns to the charges placed in front of him.

"Tarek, Jame. Case 0007. L62. The charges are breaking and entering, burglary in the first degree, damage to federal property."

The voices in the gallery quickly filled in the blanks, some of which Woodward had gleaned from Lewis' report: Father Jame Tarek. An English professor at Gallaudet College for the Deaf. A staunch anti-war activist, he'd been a member of the Alexandria Nine. Recently released from Tavern Hill Prison (formerly Old Capitol Prison or the Old Brick House).

Woodward remembers the case, as a lay reader rather than as a reporter; Metro articles with torn edges pinned to the bulletin board in his old apartment, "Bless the Tareks" on half a dozen signs at the May Day protests the year he moved to Washington.

On June 6, 1968, Tarek, a Jesuit priest, his brother, John, and a group of like-minded activists had used homemade napalm to destroy 1200 records "liberated" from the draft office in Alexandria. They invited the press to take notes (and pictures) of the protest before each fleeing to parts unknown. President Johnson's administration had openly speculated about an escape across the Northern border. The Vatican, no fans of the new Catholic Left, had vigorously denied involvement.

Tarek, the sole member of the group who turned himself in, had gotten three years in Tavern Hill prison and, less than a week before, a pardon from President Dean.

Nine months as a police reporter, Woodward thinks, it was unusual to see someone back in handcuffs this soon.

"Defense counsel, how does your client plea, sir?"

The interpreter signs the words, then repeats the defense counsel's answer.

"Judge, the defendant has elected to stand mute."

The statement causes a scattering of murmurs in the gallery, silenced when the judge addressed a party in the first row.

"Detective Smith, you were the arresting officer. Do you have a bail recommendation?"

"Your honor, due to the defendant's prior conviction, his re-offending despite a presidential pardon, and the amount of damage found at the scene, we are recommending remand without bond."

The severity of the recommendation -- bordering on outrage, given the minimal charge -- is like a match head against glass powder. 

"Sir, would you step forward, please?" the judge asks, motioning Tarek toward the bench.

After a minute of back and forth, bond was set at $100,000. The defendant, still mute, is escorted from the courtroom, eyes still forward; not looking back at his counsel, or the man in the gallery.

--

The payphones are crowded three deep by the time Woodward arrives, notes in hand. Behind the courthouse reporters calling in to their editors, there are lawyers in an array of shark-skin suits waiting to call their assistants and connections at the bail bond office.

One place is notably empty.

The APCOM Teletype booth.

Applied Communications, the brainchild of a deaf insurrection against Bell Telephone, had adapted military teletype machines for use in telephone communications a full five years before the May 13 attacks. Health and Human Services approved an annual budget to expand their build-out in major cities three days before Maize's surgeons put the first kernel implant in President Dean. Government buildings were still being retrofitted with APCOM booths months and years after deafness had been "eradicated" in many of the lower 48 states.

Woodward supervised the use of similar machines on Navy destroyers off the coast of California and Vietnam. Never a "tape ape," as the service called the operators; but armed with a rudimentary knowledge of the device that served him well when the civilian model started popping up in government buildings.

The newsroom, Woodward knew, had two APCOM Teletype machines: a booth next to the copy aides' area, and a standard one next to Mrs. Graham's office. He dials the number for the copy desks and crosses his fingers that there's someone on the ninth floor who happens to be near the machine.

The tri-tone ringer beeps several times while he waits for the aides to notice the flashing light, anticipation building in his stomach. A full two minutes pass before he finally gets a reply:

/CPY DSK. GA/.

Go ahead.