The newsroom buzzed with electric energy, phones ringing incessantly, and the clatter of typewriters blending into a chaotic symphony.
Carl Bernstein sat at his desk, staring at the phone. He had just made the call. His pulse raced. He didn't need to say much; the editors had understood the gravity of what he had.
The Watergate scandal was about to be revealed to the masses, finally.
Bob Woodward leaned over his desk across the newsroom while scribbling notes furiously. Glancing at Bernstein with his eyes questioning, conveying his thoughts.
Bob saw Bernstein nodding his head. But that was enough for Bob to understand.
Bob straightened up, feeling the pressure that was about to arrive soon.
"They're printing it," Bernstein said, his voice low, almost in disbelief.
"They're actually printing it, and Richard can not do anything about it now."
Reaching for his jacket, Bob said.
