Behind Judiciary's Closed Doors

A few members of the House Judiciary Committee agree with the mounting criticism in Congress that the pace of the committee's work has been all too slow. Says one: "We've been going through the forest marking Xs on the trees so we can find our way out later. Now we're looking for our way out." But most members support Chairman Peter W. Rodino and Chief Counsel John Doar in their contention that they had no choice. As Rodino explained early on: "The only thing we can do is to present the data. There's no other way we can do it."

Perhaps. But now that the committee's initial round of closed-door sessions is completed, it can be seen that at least part of the problem these past seven weeks was the committee's leisurely, three-day-a-week schedule. Members straggled into their seats on the two-tiered walnut dais in Room 2141 of the Rayburn House Office Building, many often late for sessions that began at 9:30 a.m. and usually ended by 5:15 p.m. They had to recess for every quorum and roll call on the House floor, and also broke for 1 3/4-hr. lunches.

The committee's procedural rules inevitably led to frustration on the part of many members. They resented being prohibited from studying the evidence in advance of the sessions. Each morning they found black loose-leaf binders on their desks containing the evidence that would be presented to them that day by Doar or, less frequently, Minority Counsel Albert Jenner. After directing the members to the proper page, Doar would begin reading, often referring to the documentary records, which were also in the notebooks. His style of presentation was intentionally bland.

Jenner was slightly livelier in manner and, though selected by the Republicans, came across more like a prosecutor than Doar. Observed Republican Hamilton Fish Jr. of New York: "Doar deliberately cultivates a monotone to try to avoid revealing personal biases or coloring the facts. It's awfully dull." Indeed, within an hour after the opening of the first day of hearings, Democratic Representative James Mann of South Carolina fell asleep.

Shortly afterward, Rodino tried to ease the monotony by having another lawyer read, with Doar breaking in to make explanatory comments and cite the supporting documents. It did not work well enough; the next day St. Clair, exhausted by his routine of 14-hour workdays, dozed briefly. But naps were rare, and the daily attendance of the 38 members was excellent.

On a typical day, the committee plowed through three 250-page notebooks. There were 14 books dealing with the Watergate break-in and coverup, three for the ITT scandal (presented entirely by Jenner), three for the milk-fund case and 16 for other matters like campaign dirty tricks and Nixon's taxes. Occasionally members donned earphones to listen to one of the 19 presidential tapes obtained so far.

During the lawyers' presentations, committee members were supposed to interrupt only to ask questions that would clarify a point. In the interest of bipartisan harmony, however, Rodino interpreted that standard broadly. As a result, the sessions often bogged down in seemingly interminable--and sometimes irrelevant--questions or debates. Once the members argued for 90 minutes over whether certain material should be labeled "fact" or "evidence." Finally they decided to call it a "statement of information."

There were other time-wasting debates. Nearly a day was devoted to arguing over whether the committee should meet in closed or open sessions. Another half-day was spent debating whether the committee should decide in advance what constituted an impeachable offense. The committee postponed the decision, chiefly to avoid a partisan showdown. But Republican Representative Delbert Latta of Ohio, a Nixon defender, maintained in retrospect: "If we'd defined an impeachable offense to begin with, we wouldn't have gone so slowly. It would have been clear that largely unproven charges weren't going to be relevant." He was referring to allegations of misconduct that were arguably constitutional or legal, such as impoundment of funds, the secret bombing of Cambodia and the ITT case. The evidence on those matters took one full day and two afternoons to present.

Order was enforced by electronic means. Before speaking, a member had to push a button that winked a light on the console in front of Staffer Louis Vance, who turned on the member's microphone. Only Presidential Special Counsel James St. Clair did not have a microphone. Under the rules, he was allowed to say nothing unless he obtained permission in advance from Rodino. St. Clair's principal functions were to relay the committee's evidence to the White House and, two or three times a day, defend the President to reporters gathered outside the door.

Because the sessions were secret and the membership was large, the 21 Democrats and 17 Republicans received nothing like the personal publicity that the seven members of the Senate Watergate Committee got. Compared with members of other congressional committees, Judiciary's are younger (average age: about 50), better educated (all have law degrees) and more liberal. All but two Democrats are considered sure votes for impeachment; until lately, from three to six Republicans were thought to be leaning toward it.

Rodino, 65, attempted in procedural disputes to be more the committee's chairman than its ranking Democrat. Thus he was long able to maintain a high degree of bipartisanship. In this situation, party leadership on a day-to-day basis fell to the senior Democrat, Harold Donohue of Massachusetts. But he is 73 and feeling his age. By default, Jack Brooks of Texas, 51, became a central figure on the Democratic side.

Donohue rarely spoke during the closed sessions and was known to get confused during votes. On one occasion, after he mistakenly voted in favor of what promised to be a close motion, Rodino had to correct him by firmly announcing: "The member votes nay."

At the end of each session, the members escaped through side doors or again threaded their way through the reporters, who often numbered more than 100. "They're like vultures," Rodino told a friend. "I know because nobody gets hounded more than I do." Almost always, the first Congressman out of the door was Republican Freshman Joseph J. Maraziti, 62, of New Jersey, who would rush to the microphones and television cameras to declare that Nixon was innocent. Colleagues nicknamed him "the streaker." Quipped one newsman: "Reporters were trying to buttonhole 38 members, and one member was trying to buttonhole 38 reporters."

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