"ALL THE PRESIDENT'S MEN" by William Goldman Based on the novel "All The President's Men" by Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward 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 powerful men in America have to be afraid of...? They look at each other, neither has a clue. HOLD. Now-- CUT TO: THE RED KARMANN GHIA moving along a residential are