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Knowing by and large that their cases were frail, lawyers for the Watergate defendants counted on goading Judge John Sirica into outbursts and mistakes that would constitute reversible errors upon appeal. "The government has a lock case," one lawyer commented, "but Sirica may blow it." Even Sirica's confidential law clerk, Todd Christofferson, admits, "A lot of people expected he wouldn't be able to restrain himself."

The temptations were severe. Lawyers chorused objections, wrangled with opposing attorneys, among themselves and sometimes with the judge even after he had overruled them. But canny old John Sirica was not about to fill what defense lawyers publicly—and provocatively—called their "errors bags." When he felt his temper rising, his control slipping ever so slightly, he called a recess.

Sirica would slip away from his bulletproof bench and into his chambers. Christofferson, a bright, genial 26-year-old Mormon from Utah, would be there, and the two men would talk quietly about the trial. "In private, he has a great gentleness," says Christofferson. Before long, Sirica, refreshed, would return to the fray.

After four of the five Watergate defendants were found guilty two weeks ago, one defense lawyer was asked what judicial errors he was counting on for his appeal. "A couple of things of substance," he replied glumly. "The rest is a lot of crap."

All in all, it was a historic performance by Judge Sirica, the wiry little boxer-turned-jurist who once dropped out of George Washington University Law School because "I couldn't understand anything they were talking about." In the past two years he has irrevocably linked his name to that of Watergate. It began in 1972 when, as Washington, D.C.'s Chief Federal Judge, he assigned himself the case of the seven burglars. Angered by their refusal to expose their superiors, Sirica frightened them with provisional sentences of up to 40 years, aimed at persuading them to talk. One, James McCord, did, providing the fatal crack in the case.

When Sirica chose himself to preside over the trial of former Nixon aides John Ehrlichman and H. R. Haldeman, former Attorney General John Mitchell and two other men, the defendants—and even some civil libertarians—objected that he was too close to the case to be objective. Sirica ignored them and saw the trial through all of its 61 days.

"I've tried longer cases," Sirica says. "One lasted for 10 months—this one didn't hold a candle to that. It was a civil case—there were actually 100 lawyers in it. Certainly, there was a lot of emotion in this case, but other cases have taken more out of me."

Still, Sirica chose to add an hour to his working day, rising at 4 a.m. instead of his usual 5. He would make a quick breakfast of English muffin and orange juice, then read the voluminous legal documents central to the case. Over the years Sirica has found that he tires after 9:30 or so at night, and he tries to do most of his legal reading at dawn. During the trial he was usually in bed by 10 p.m. He and his wife Lucile avoided social engagements during the week and frequently turned down invitations for the weekend. "I wanted to get as much rest as possible," he said.

Sirica drove himself the half hour from his northwest Washington home to the courthouse. Later, he was assigned a contingent of federal marshals, who chauffeured him and guarded his home. "I know I'm not the most popular man in the world," he says reflectively, "but if there is somebody out there who wants to do me bodily harm, that's their business—I don't worry about it."

Once at the courthouse, Sirica strode briskly to his office, located at his request on the second floor. (He dislikes elevators, having been trapped in one years ago.) There, he conferred with law clerk Christofferson, who has stayed with the judge for 30 months. (The usual tenure is one year.) Christofferson, in fact, was Sirica's only confidant during the trial. "We talked back and forth," Sirica says. "He did a tremendous job. We could say what we thought." The trial was a taboo subject at home. "My wife and I talked about what married people talk about—the kids, and what we're going to have for dinner."

Court convened promptly at 9:30 and adjourned as late as 6 p.m. During the 90-minute lunch break, Sirica occasionally ate in the judges' dining room, but more often had something sent up from the cafeteria, or boiled a can of soup on a hotplate in his office. Frequently he pulled the curtains, sprawled on his leather sofa and dozed off for 45 minutes. A marshal banged on the door just before the afternoon session, and Sirica would wake himself by splashing cold water on his face in his private bath. "The nap helped me to think better," he says. "Getting up at 4 a.m., that's a pretty long day."

He remains trim and athletic, mainly by mixing a brisk regimen of walking with an occasional round of golf, but at 70, Sirica was physically taxed by the trial. "This case took a lot out of him," says Christofferson. "He's pretty spry, but the first part—selecting the jury and hearing the pretrial motions—that was particularly grueling." After court the judge would often head for the Congressional Country Club, where he is a member, to bake out the tensions in the heat of a sauna.

Now, with the trial at an end, Sirica will wind down, catch up on his correspondence and spend some time at home. One of his projects, he vows, will be to lose the few pounds he gained during the trial. "It was lack of exercise," he confided last week. "I love to walk—three-and-a-half miles today."

He politely refuses to discuss any aspect of Watergate or the trial, although he concedes he may do so eventually, when all appeals in the case have been exhausted. He has been approached by publishers, but won't even discuss the possibility of writing a book. He has no intention of becoming inactive and plans to resume a full schedule within three or four weeks. His most pressing duty, of course, and for him the most unpleasant, will be to sentence the former President's men. A down-to-earth man—hardly the choleric "Maximum John" of courthouse reputation—Sirica has no affection for what he calls "the most difficult part of a judge's work." He adds, "You have to make a final decision, and there's nobody between you and God."

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