Berks County residents surprised to find their elderly neighbor was Watergate burglar James McCord

May 11-- May 11--In the mid-1970s, James McCord was a household name.

The former CIA and FBI agent was arrested at the Watergate complex in Washington, D.C., while burglarizing the Democratic Party's headquarters in 1972. And it was McCord who broke the silence afterward, implicating several high-level officials in the Nixon White House as the masterminds behind the break-in, setting off a chain of events that would eventually end with the president's resignation.

Despite his notoriety, McCord slipped into obscurity, living his final years in a Berks County community that was unaware of his significance in American history. He was so removed from the public's consciousness that it would be nearly two years before major news outlets even reported his death, on June 15, 2017, at age 93.

There was no obituary. And no notice of his burial, though it took place in the national cemetery at Fort Indiantown Gap in Lebanon County.

McCord had been hiding in plain sight, not difficult for a man who was part of a CIA unit that specialized in covert operations and took part in the Bay of Pigs invasion. Property records show he shared a home near Boyertown Pike with his two daughters. The neat but unremarkable green-shuttered house is tucked in the rolling hills of Amity Township, two white rockers on the porch.

McCord's whereabouts didn't just elude the media, whom he openly detested in the wake of Watergate. Many of his own neighbors also had no idea who was living in the house next door.

Albert Hartman had no clue the elderly man two doors down had such a storied past. The 46-year-old Hartman was not yet born when McCord and four others broke into the Watergate. It was McCord who infamously taped the latch on a door to prevent it from locking, inadvertently alerting a guard to their presence.

"I thought Watergate had to do with water," Hartman said, admitting he only recently began researching the political scandal after comparisons were made between the Trump and Nixon administrations.

Hartman said he and McCord first crossed paths four to five years ago. He knew the man was a World War II veteran -- McCord served in the Army Air Force. But Hartman said his conversations with McCord never went much deeper than idle chatter about the neighborhood.

For someone hoping to go unnoticed, the neighborhood was a desirable spot. Surrounded by farmland in one direction and a golf course in another, the McCord home sits about 200 feet from the closest neighbors. A long, narrow driveway connects the property to the road.

Even on a recent warm evening, residents on the street were scarce. A woman whose property sits across the street from McCord's firmly gripped her front door as she poked her head out to respond to a strange inquiry.

Did you know one of the Watergate burglars lived down the hill?

"Here?" she asked incredulously. She shook her head as she retreated, closing the door to any more questions.

"He probably came here to hide," Hartman concluded.

McCord was working as chief of security for President Richard M. Nixon's reelection campaign when he and four Cuban expatriates, all wearing suits and carrying briefcases, broke into the Watergate office to fix bugs installed there weeks earlier. They, along with E. Howard Hunt and G. Gordon Liddy who coordinated the ill-fated operation from a nearby hotel room, were charged with burglary, wiretapping and conspiracy.

McCord was convicted after a federal trial, and in a letter read during his sentencing, accused the Nixon administration of pressuring the burglars to stay quiet and contending that witnesses had perjured themselves. McCord implicated several high-level White House officials in the burglary and cover-up.

Because of that assistance, McCord's sentence was significantly reduced. He served four months in prison.

McCord's cooperation was considered one of the turning points in the Watergate probe, pushing investigators to pursue links to higher level officials.

After Watergate, McCord found work in private industry. He operated a security firm in Rockville, Maryland, and for a time ran a solar energy company in Colorado, according to published reports.

He was in his 80s by the time he settled in Douglassville, neighbors recalled. While there, he had no known brushes with local officials and no dust-ups with the law.

"I don't know the man, I've never met the man," said Troy Bingaman, manager of the 12,583-resident Amity Township. Bingaman said he consulted with the local police department, and the chief had never bumped into McCord either.

"Now you know where to go when you do something crazy and want to be underneath the radar," Bingaman said, laughing.

McCord's daughters, who still live in the home where he died, did not respond to a request for an interview.

Apparently, a legal notice for McCord's estate that ran in two publications months after his death captured no attention. The estate, documented in a file at the Berks County Register of Wills, reveals few other details about his final years. He succumbed to pancreatic cancer and suffered from coronary artery disease for 10 years, according to a death certificate included in the file.

The son of James Walter McCord and Marjorie Lee Welch, he was born in Waurika, Oklahoma, on Jan. 26, 1924. His death certificate lists his occupation as "federal agent" and his business as "U.S. Government."

With his wife, Sarah, preceding him in death in 2014, McCord's estate was divided among his three children -- 80 percent was split equally between his daughter Carol Anne and son, Michael. The remainder was set aside in a special needs trust for his daughter Nancy.

A small notation among McCord's final expenses indicates his family may have tried to evade the press during his funeral -- $100 was paid to a "media helper" for the day. The expense makes sense, considering the disdain McCord expressed for the media, writing: "Journalists and their editors rank right at the bottom of the public's list of those professions which they hold in esteem."

And there was another expense for the purpose of privacy -- $211.99 for the "shredding of decedent's personal papers."

Decades have passed since McCord made history, but throughout his life, he appeared to take an interest in the subject -- particularly his own lineage. In 2010, he incorporated the Clan McCord Society/McCord Family Association with the Pennsylvania Department of State. He is listed as co-owner.

A website dedicated to the McCord Family Association includes a 16-chapter history of the McCords dating to 1720, written by James McCord and published online in 1997. An attached biography discusses McCord's involvement in Watergate and mentions a book he published in 1974 called "A Piece of Tape: The Watergate Story."

Another co-owner of the Clan McCord Society did not respond to a request for an interview.

Blending in

Sipping cocktails during a happy hour this month at the Yellow House Hotel -- one of only a handful of businesses near McCord's home -- Ted and Robin Stepanoff were surprised to learn that the Watergate perpetrator lived around the corner from them. But neither was surprised that McCord managed to live undetected.

"You'd be surprised how people of a certain notoriety come around and just blend in," said Ted Stepanoff, referring to another one-time Berks County celebrity resident, "Top Gun" actress Kelly McGillis, who lived in the area for nearly a decade.

"In this area, people don't gossip," Robin Stepanoff said. "It's very low key."

"One farmer to another farmer," Ted Stepanoff concurred.

"That's how it should be," bristled Bill McIntyre, a resident of nearby Birdsboro, who was unloading his clubs for a round of golf near McCord's home. "People around here pretty much keep to themselves,"

McIntyre, 73, didn't recognize McCord's name, but recalled the Watergate saga.

"That was the Nixon era," he grumbled. "The Democrats messing around like always."

Just up the hill from the McCord home, Karen Firn and Michael Bradigan have a sprawling view of the house. They moved in less than a year ago and were interested to learn about the infamous neighbor they never got to meet.

"You just never know," said Bradigan, a self-described history buff. "I bet you he could have told some stories."

Morning Call reporter Emily Opilo can be reached at 610-820-6522 or at [email protected].

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