Invited Contributor: Carol Joynt

All this kicking up of dust regarding Deep Throat got me to reflecting on Watergate. It was a big part of my life, not only as an American, but as a journalist and a private citizen. Some of the historical characters were friends, Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein, for example, but through my reporting I knew some of the other characters, too. In particular one time Nixon soldier Jeb Magruder. It's an interesting small sidebar to the greater epic. Jeb and I met when I was covering the antiwar movement for UPI. The details are blurry, but I did an interview with him at his White House office for a story on how the Nixon Administration was reaching out to young people who opposed the Vietnam war. He was deputy communications director and had a large corner office at the OEOB adjacent to the White House. When we met I was struck by his ramrod deportment, the banker's pin-striped suit, the sharp trim of his hair and the color photo on the wall of himself, the wife and kiddies with Nixon. He had boy scout good looks. I'd never before met a White House official. I was a young reporter who covered the streets and who was accustomed to interviewing "revolutionaries" with beards and moustaches in jeans and t-shirts. Everything about Jeb was in contrast to the funky protest culture I knew. He was young himself, but to me he seemed like a stiff, an authority figure, a parent. Nonetheless, he was affable and eager to cooperate. After that interview we stayed in touch with occasional phone calls. At one point, he offered to get me a "date" with Henry Kissinger if I would arrange for him a casual "off the record" gathering with a group of SDS (Students for a Democratic Society) leaders who were friends of mine. It's interesting, isn't it, that a date with Kissinger would be regarded as a prize by White House staff. I vaguely remember bringing up the proposed get together with the head of SDS, who was marginally interested, but it never went anywhere. The protest movement felt no need to reach out to the White House.

On another occasion Jeb and I had dinner. Again, at age 21 and covering the streets, if I broke bread with any sources it was usually on the floor of some sparsely furnished crash pad and the meal was bread, an apple or grapes, cheap wine, and maybe some weed. As a generation we hadn't become foodies yet. But looking back, Jeb Magruder's choice of restaurant was a bizarre choice for a reporter/source meal. He took me to The Old Anglers Inn, a remote and romantic hideaway several miles outside of Washington. It's stone facade is rustic and tree-shrouded. It was a weeknight, late, the place was quiet. We were escorted up a spiral staircase to a second floor table for two with a white tablecloth and candlelight. It made me nervous, because the atmosphere was more conducive to romance than business. The other customers, six or eight of them, were all couples. But Jeb was a perfect gentleman. He set down on the table what was probably the prototype for the first Nextel pager. It was a big black contraption, almost the size of a brick, that he explained, "I'm required to carry with me. It's connected to the White House switchboard." Throughout our dinner of filet mignon and red wine, the damned thing kept blaring. There would be a few loud beeps and then a woman's voice would say, "Mr. Magruder, please call the White House. Mr. Magruder, please call the White House." Every time it happened it stopped ours and every other conversation in the small, upstairs room. With each call Jeb excused himself from the table, went to the pay phone, and then returned to resume our dinner. Before dessert, he said, "I've got to get back." As we drove Canal Road to DC, our headlights caught a naked man walking on the roadside. He was young, bearded, slender. "Must be one of your friends," he said. It was such a Nixon thing to say.

Soon enough Jeb quit the White House to go to work for the infamous Committee to Re-Elect the President, where he was deputy director of the campaign. I quit UPI to move to New York to work for Time. We kept in touch. As far as I was concerned, he remained a good source. In the summer of 1972, Warren Beatty staged a lollapalooza fundraiser for democratic presidential nominee George McGovern at Madison Square Garden. I was assigned to cover it. After the event there was a celebrity-crammed party at the Four Seasons Restaurant. The party is memorable to me for many reasons. One was the once in a lifetime moment in which a flirtatious Jack Nicholson, coming face to face with me in a hallway between the Grill and the Pool room, said, "Are you looking for me?" to which I replied to Jack Nicholson, "No, I'm looking for Warren Beatty," and walked away. Oblivious to anything but my job, I wanted Beatty to tell me how much money had been raised. "Call me in the morning at the Carlyle," he said when I found him. "But not before noon."

My call at 12:01 the next day must have woke him because he was groggy. "Ah, what time is it? Geez. Look, I don't have the numbers yet. Can you come over here? By the time you get here I'll know something." I'd been up till near dawn fending off a tipsy David Frost. It was a writing day. I had on blue jeans and a work shirt. Was this any way to arrive for a hotel room assignation with Warren Beatty? Here's my moment and I'm a wreck. It didn't matter anyway. When I arrived at Mr. Beatty's door, and was let in by his publicist, John Springer, in the background I caught a glimpse of Julie Christie as she flitted from the bedroom to the bathroom in a diaphanous flowered voile robe. Springer was very warm, as was his way. Beatty, in his "Shampoo" mode, was barefoot in jeans and a loose-hanging white collared shirt. Preppy mixed with Malibu stud. Utterly adorable. He was tired and a little mussed up, only adding to the appeal. A room service waiter brought a tray of green bottles. Perrier. Something new to me. Springer said, "Warren has to talk to one local reporter and then he wants to spend some time with you. Is that okay?" I nodded. Warren talked in muffled tones to the woman who was with him in the suite's living room, and then he thanked her, zeroed in on her with those eyes, shook her hand, put his hand on her shoulder and walked her past me. Her face was frozen in a blissed out daze. Would that soon be me?

In a whirlwind, John Springer departed. Julie Christie emerged from the back bedroom in jeans, t-shirt and suede jacket and looked like $5 million bucks. Her hair was a beguiling mop of blond and caramel curls. Her voice was British honey. She plopped herself on the sofa next to me and said sweetly, "Time Magazine, eh? I've read Time." Christie had the kind of cool that makes you wish it could be bottled and sold over the counter. The front door swung open and in swarmed Art Garfunkel, Nicholson and Goldie Hawn. They were a charge of kinetic energy, slapping hands, talking a mile a minute, greeting Beatty and Christie with hugs and kisses. Christie got up. "We're off to eat. Poor Warren has to work." I felt like a slug among the butterflies, but a slug happy to be where she was. They charged out the door and took all their noise and glamour and energy with them, leaving Warren Beatty behind and alone with me. It was quiet. Sunshine streamed in the window and onto the coffee table. I remained on the sofa and he sat in the chair beside me and for the next 45 minutes he did not make one pass at me. Once he learned I'd just moved to NY from DC he talked nonstop politics, Washington and Nixon. He offered me food, beverages. He was delighted to learn we went to neighboring high schools. "I was a football player," he said with pride. "Remember the Hot Shoppes?" I nodded. "What did you eat there?" he asked. "The steak and cheese with an orange freeze," I said. He flashed a smile of recognition like a kid who learned we share a love for the same toys. The phone rang, and he ignored it. It rang again, and he ignored it. It rang again and he got up with a frustrated sigh and answered it. His face turned confused. "Oh, okay. Yeah, she's here," he said. He aimed the receiver at me. "It's for you."

I approached the phone with curiosity and uncertainty. Who would be calling me here? "Carol? It's Jeb," he said. "Jeb? How did you find me here?" "Oh," he said, "I've got my ways." This was so strange. Warren Beatty stood off to the side, waiting to resume our political chat. Jeb was emphatic: "I'm in New York. Can we get together? I've got to talk to you." Watergate was upon us. CREEP was under fire. Jeb was in one of the eyes of one of the many storms. His name was in the news. I said I could meet him for breakfast. "Okay," he said. "Come to the Westbury Hotel at 8:30 a.m. I'll be waiting." Beatty was mildly amused when I later explained the interruption to him. It seemed he believed everyone connected with Washington lived lives of intrigue. I was eager to talk more, but the phone rang again. It was Julie Christie. She wanted Warren to stop to come join her and the others at a restaurant. He gave me a look of apology, and he gave me those eyes, too. When I walked out of the Carlyle I'm sure my face was frozen in a blissed out gaze. A couple years later, sitting next to NYTimes reporter Judy Klemesrud at a party, I recounted my Warren Beatty story. "You mean he didn't chase you around?" she asked, shocked but laughing. "Carol, he chases every woman reporter around the room. He chased me around his suite at the Beverly Wilshire. My GOD! What did you do wrong?" Dejected, I said, "I hope it's cause he just got out of bed with Julie Christie."

The next morning I rose early, got in a cab and arrived at The Westbury just before 8:30. The man at reception raised his eyebrows when I asked for Jeb Magruder. "Ah, Mr. Magruder," he said. "I'm afraid he's long gone." What? "We have a breakfast appointment." The man was consoling. "That may be, Miss, but Mr. Magruder checked out at 5 o'clock this morning in quite a rush." Later that day, Jeb called me. "I'm in Connecticut," he said. "I can't talk. I'll call you later." It was quite a while later when I heard from him. Many months later. By then his world was falling apart and I had started work as a writer for Walter Cronkite at CBS News. He called one day out of the blue. His neck was under the guillotine and it looked like he would be charged and would probably face prison (he did spend 7 months in prison for a perjury and obstruction of justice conviction). He was morose. "By the way, Jeb," I said, "I'm still curious. What happened to you that morning when we were supposed to have breakfast and you fled town before dawn?" He gave a morbid little laugh. "Oh, yeah. That. Liddy was chasing me," he said. "I was afraid he wanted to kill me. I had to hide."