John OConnor - Postgate: How the Washington Post Betrayed Deep Throat, Covered Up Watergate, and Began Todays Partisan Advocacy Journalism

ADVANCE PRAISE
FOR POSTGATE

John OConnors Postgate is a welcome new piece of the Watergate puzzle. Part memoir as Deep Throats attorney, part deep dive into overlooked aspects of the nations greatest political scandal, Postgate is an investigation of the investigatorshow the Washington Post crafted its coverage of Watergate, what was included and what was left out.

Luke A. Nichter, Author of The Nixon Tapes: 1973

In Postgate , Mark Felts lawyer, John OConnor, continues his masterful duel with Bob Woodward and the Washington Post . Having previously forced Woodward to name Felt as Deep Throat, OConnor now uncovers in Postgate layer upon layer of deceit concealing the true story of Watergate and its journalism. It is a must-read for anyone interested in our countrys most significant scandal.

Len Colodny, Author of Silent Coup: The Removal of a President

John OConnor has done it again. The sleuthing attorney who uncovered the identity of the whistleblower of Watergate, Deep Throatwhen every reporter, historian, and would-be detective failednow sets his sights on the WHY of Watergate. More than forty-five years after the infamous break-in, pundits and politicians still cannot fathom the purpose of the botched political spy escapade. Building his case as the reader would expect from a brilliant courtroom lawyer, OConnor takes us through the corridors of Washington powerincluding the Washington Post , the CIA, the FBI, and the White Houseto discover the most probable answeralong with the episodes real instigators.

Dan Lungren, Former US Representative and Attorney General for California

Chapter Four

MEETING DEEP THROAT

I t was a beautiful, sunny April evening in 2002 when my wife, Jan , and I enjoyed a lively, festive night with our daughter and her Stanford University friends at our home in the Marin County hills. Christy and her best buddies had all taken semesters abroad their junior year, so Jan and I had not seen the group together since their sophomore year. Some, having just returned, had barely socialized with their close friends, so the gathering took on the sense of a reunion.

After we sat down to one of Jan s typical feasts of chicken, pasta, and grilled vegetables, I engaged with this group in what they saw as Christy s goofy fathers Big John badinage, but in fact our conversation soon became meaningful. Because several students had been to South America, I had taken the opportunity to regale the group with stories of my late fathers undercover FBI service in Brazil during World War II. According to German records found after the war, the Germans had identified my father just about the exact moment he disembarked in Rio. I claimed to the table that he was the most easily recognized spy in the history of covert operations.

Nick Jones, a great young guy I had known for a couple of years and liked immensely, interjected. Big John, your dad might have known my grandfather, an FBI agent who also spied on the Germans.

I told Nick that my father often talked about his old FBI friends. Whats your grandfathers name? I asked.

He ended up being a pretty high-level official in the FBI. His name is Mark Felt, Nick responded.

I was stunned, of course. Jan and I had gotten to know Nick well, often making a point to bring too much beer and fried chicken to our Stanford tailgates, then giving the excess to Nick , who we knew to have modest resources, to help him scrape by for the week. I had taken Nick under my wing, knowing that he did not have a father who lived with him. But I had never heard that he lived with a grandfather. The fact that Nick s grandfather was the one and only Mark Felt, of course, blew me away. Do you realize that your grandfather is Deep Throat? I asked Nick .

No, Nick replied, hes always denied it. But, he added, there have been some hints lately that maybe he was Deep Throat. Nick was referring to a visit by Bob Woodward to Mark in 2000 and a recent article written by a childhood campmate of Carl Bernsteins son, Josh , who had claimed that years earlier Josh told him that his father had named Mark Felt as Deep Throat.

This dialogue did not particularly interest the other diners, who likely thought it was more of my nonsense. As they moved on to more interesting conversations, Nick and I continued at some length. I told Nick Id like to visit his granddad and convince him to come out. I thought I knew why his grandfather kept mumhe thought respectable law and order types would look down on him, I said, but I thought otherwise. After all, I told Nick , his grandfather kept our system free of corruption, so I thought that conservative folks would applaud him. I went on to explain why I thought his grandfather was not revealing himself, and why I thought I had the key to get him to come around. I ended by asking Nick to please talk to his mother about permitting me to come up and visit his grandfather. Nick agreed to discuss it with her, and the conversation that night ended.

Later that week, Nick called to tell me his mother was excited. Could I come up this coming Sunday? I eagerly accepted the invitation.

Joan , thin, lively, and pretty, a former actress and Fulbright scholar, was an energetic college Spanish instructor, perhaps fifty-nine years of age, who held down three teaching jobs to pay for her childrens education and care for Mark. She showed me the garage shed converted into an apartment for Mark, introducing me to her dad as a friend of hers and Nick s, a lawyer whom they could all trust.

Mark was a sweet elderly man who sat in his armchair next to his bed in the modest studio watching TV, a beautiful oil painting of his late wife, Audrey , featured above him. He was a friendly man with a firm handshake, bright blue eyes, big smile, and, despite some senility, a leaders way of making me feel comfortable. He seemed pleased when I rattled off, by design, my federal law enforcement credentials: my father was an FBI agent who spied on the Germans; as an assistant US attorney, I worked with FBI agents for six years; I had worked with Bob Mueller , the current director of the FBI; and my fathers partner was Bill Ruckelshaus , former interim director of the FBI, Marks boss, and deputy attorney general during Watergate. I could tell I had his confidence.

He liked my credentials, and clearly we were bonding as law enforcement guys, which was per my strategy. Then I laid it on him directly. I had long admired this fellow, Deep Throat, I told him, who kept our justice system free of corruption. Other prosecutors and agents had felt the same way. We all thought as young law enforcement personnel that Deep Throat was a hero.

Joan and Nick , sitting near us on the bed while Mark and I sat facing each other, were stunned by Marks reaction. His hands, which before I brought up Deep Throat had been resting lightly on the arms of his chair, now gripped them tightly, white-knuckled, at the mention of Deep Throat. But as I praised Deep Throat, his blue eyes seemed to melt, as if I were giving him absolution. Joan and Nick both then knew that Mark was Deep Throat, but I wanted to show them even more proof.

I pulled a trick. I switched the third person he to the second person you in reference to Deep Throat. So, after praising Deep Throat, I told Mark, you should reveal your identity so you can be honored as a hero. And you are a true law enforcement hero, I told him, and the rest of the country in todays day and age would think so too. He did not flinch at or argue with the second-person reference. I could see that the eyes of both Joan and Nick were getting wider in amazement. Their patriarch was the legendary Deep Throat!

While Mark had lost his ability to recall the past in any detail, he was with it in the moment. He had no touch of Alzheimers or other forms of dementia that lessen intelligence and was only deficient in his ability to summon detailed memory, a normal consequence of aging. As I was to learn time and again, Mark would not accede to statements with which he disagreed. Yet that day, he offered me not a pip of protest at my suggestions.