The Day Kennedy Was Shot (80 page)

All of it evoked memories. The man on the pillow was silent. The cameras were now at Hyannis Port, in Massachusetts, a hedge and some homes on the edge of a surly sea. Had the President's father been told? No one knew. His mother knew. She said she would attend early Mass tomorrow. The camera switched to that cold day in January when the young man announced, at his inauguration, that the torch had been passed to a new generation. With confidence, he prepared to lead mankind to the stars.

The recollections had run out. The conversations were desultory. At this hour no one could think of anyone to call on a telephone. The Attorney General was relieved when word reached the seventeenth floor that the autopsy was over. He asked about the medical findings but was told that they were tentative, mostly involving a big head wound and a shot in the back of the neck. The White House already had the news.

Shriver reminded Robert Kennedy that the family had to go to Gawler's and select a casket and bring an embalmer to Bethesda. This was an integral step which had been overlooked. Mrs. Kennedy saw her brother-in-law approach, and she must have known that another decision would have to be made. He began by reminding her that the Secret Service had damaged a handle on the Oneal casket. She said that she had no intention of using that casket anyway. Mrs. Kennedy did not want to be reminded of Dallas. She would not use that casket; she could still see herself running after it, holding her fingertips on the top, as official Dallas shouted that the President's body would have to remain for an autopsy. The terror had been lodged within her from the sound of the first shot, and nothing since had lessened the pain.

Kennedy told her that Shriver had asked about funeral directors, and three names had been submitted as establishments of good taste. Sarge had selected Gawler's, and, if she agreed,
someone would have to go there and select a casket. Did she have any ideas? She did not. Did she want any special person to select it? Before she could answer, the Attorney General said: “Kenny and Larry and Dave were very close to him. Why not send them?” Mrs. Kennedy agreed.

The three men were ready to leave. All they asked was some guidance on what kind of casket the family would like. And how about that embalmer? They were told not to worry; the embalmer should be waiting. He had been on notice for a couple of hours. They asked Clint Hill to have a car ready at the front entrance and have the driver find out how to get to Gawler's.

Time always saps the excitement of the game in the mind of the winner. It was one hour past Lee Harvey Oswald's bedtime. In his opinion, he had won whatever contest the law had projected in this glassy office. Wit had been honed with sparks against wit for nine hours. They had sent their best—Fritz and Hosty and Kelley and Clements, postal inspectors and FBI and Secret Service and Dallas detectives. Their best had failed to crack his contention that he was guilty of nothing more than carrying a revolver into a motion picture theater. They had battered at the wall of his will and hurt their hands.

Most of the time the office had been filled with the authority of the law, standing, sitting, smiling, frowning at him. Lee Harvey Oswald had taken them on one at a time and all together. He had been smart enough to concede that he deserved the punch in the eye for resisting policemen; he had been bright enough to protest that, in spite of all their protestations, he had no lawyer, no trained opinion to counsel him, nothing but his own magnificent intellect to keep the hounds baying at the foot of the tree.

Long since the questions had become repetitious and Mr. Oswald tired of foiling them. Detective Adamcik walked into the little office and studied the skinny body, the thinning hair of indeterminate color, the lean face melting toward the long neck, and he said: “Where were you at the time this assassination occurred?” The prisoner did not deign to look up at the new opponent. He stared straight ahead, moving his wrists in concert with the handcuffs. Adamcik waited for a response. All
he heard was the clamor of the press in the hall. The detective sat to guard the prisoner.

Will Fritz, having arranged a press conference without the consent of the prisoner, returned to ask a question. The captain had rank; he deserved a response. “You took notes,” Oswald said insolently. “Just read them for yourself if you want to refresh your memory. . . . Now you know as much about it as I do.” The captain could accept an affront. He blinked with big hyperthyroid eyes and proceeded with the details of the show to be staged in the assembly room. Neither the question nor the answer were, at this hour, of importance. He would like to have cracked this young man, but it was not a requirement to the prosecution of the case.

If the situation could be related to a card game, Fritz had the winning hand. He realized that nothing his adversary had could trump the cards held by the police. If Fritz felt disappointment, it was in the cautious play of Oswald. The game would close with the prisoner holding onto a few chips, and Fritz would like to have seen them all on the table as stakes. Oswald would have enough in reserve to play again tomorrow, and maybe another day. He might be turned over to Sheriff Decker with sufficient resources to continue the game in court.

The questions became fewer. The hour was late; Homicide and Robbery had been on duty since 8
A.M.
It was becoming difficult for the men to concentrate. Some of the conversation between detectives was punctuated by “I don't know . . .” Men asked each other; “Did you take that statement?” and heard “Could be” or “I forget.” Most of them had lost a concept of time. In penning reports, they had trouble trying to recall if something happened at 2
P.M.
or 4
P.M.
There was the additional difficulty of trying to recall the names of other detectives who may have been present. They lost patience with each other, the final fatigue.

Lee Harvey Oswald shook his head slowly, as though he was dealing with children. “How could I afford to order a rifle on my
salary of a dollar and a quarter an hour,” he shouted, “when I can't hardly feed myself on what I make?” He bent forward and his elbows perched on his knees. A detective asked the prisoner to explain the difference between a communist who is a Lenin-Marxist and one who is a pure Marxist. “It's a long story,” he said sullenly, “and if you don't know, it will take too long to tell.”

It was late for a phone call, but the ring at 1316 Timberlake in Richardson was monotonously insistent. Gregory Lee Olds decided that it was easier to succumb to the demand than to count the rings. The man on the other end of the wire was a board member of the American Civil Liberties Union. He asked if Mr. Olds knew whether the civil rights of Oswald had been protected. Olds said he knew nothing about the case. He was, as a businessman, editor of a Richardson weekly newspaper; as a militant citizen he was president of the Dallas Civil Liberties Union.

Well, the caller said, the president of the Austin affiliate had phoned long distance. He said that the ACLU should be concerned about the prisoner. In Austin there had been some television pictures of Oswald in a hallway somewhere, in a crowd of intense faces, holding his handcuffs up and shouting hoarsely that he wanted a lawyer and had not been given the opportunity to get one. He knew his rights, he said, but he wasn't getting them. Olds, who was ready to retire for the night, said that he would check into the matter at once. He admitted that he knew no more than that the President had been shot and a policeman killed. Some young fellow from Irving had been arrested.

Olds was a patient man. He was also persistent. He could be deflected but not stopped. He phoned the Dallas Police Department and asked to speak to the chief of police. The chief was busy. He would speak to a deputy. No one knew where they were. Would he want to speak to a detective? No, he would not. Mr. Olds said he was president of the Dallas Civil Liberties
Union and he would speak to the man in charge of the assassination case and no one else. He was given one or two men who informed him politely: “Captain Fritz isn't available, but you can tell me . . .” Gregory Olds slammed his teeth tight and said that he would wait.

Will Fritz got on the phone. He was asked if he was in charge of the Kennedy case, and he said yes. Olds explained his position and said that the Civil Liberties Union was anxious to see that Oswald had whatever legal representation he desired. The captain was a figure of bland unction. The question had come up, he said, and the police department had been at pains to detail Oswald's rights, but he had declined assistance. Fritz himself had given Oswald the right to phone counsel of his choosing, had ordered the jailers not to hinder the prisoner, and, in fact, Oswald had made a couple of phone calls. The best that the captain could tell Mr. Olds was that Lee Harvey Oswald had not made any requests to him.

Olds hung up. He knew that there are prisoners in every city who refuse the services of an attorney on the assumption that one is not needed. The ACLU had considerable experience in this field; some defendants decided to represent themselves in court; a few, tragically, equated innocence with acquittal. These often paid in prison. The easy way for Olds would have been to retire, safe in the knowledge that he had the word of the Dallas Police Department that all the legal safeguards had been offered to Oswald and he had spurned them.

The editor decided to take a more difficult course. He phoned the board member and suggested that he call a few other ranking members and that they meet in the Plaza Hotel lobby at once. There would be a conference about Lee Harvey Oswald. The men sat on a couch and discussed the case. The guilt or innocence of Oswald did not come to the surface; it seemed incredible that, considering the trouble he was in, he didn't want a lawyer. Someone suggested: “Call the mayor.”

If there is one thing to which Gregory Lee Olds was accustomed, it was disappointment. Chiefs of police, mayors, and prosecutors regarded an assortment of questions from the ACLU as a personal challenge. Olds got on the phone again and asked for Mayor Earle Cabell. Who was calling? He gave his name and rank and was told that the mayor was busy. The editor wondered what could keep a mayor busy after 11
P.M.

The best thing, he told his confreres, would be for the body of men to walk across the street to police headquarters and ask the questions directly. They might even meet Lee Harvey Oswald himself. Surely, if the police department was justified in its position, it would have no objection to a group of men saying: “We're from the American Civil Liberties Union. Do you need a lawyer?” If he said no, the case was closed and they would go home. Curry and Fritz would probably be happy to be rid of them.

They were directed to the third floor and the elevator lifted them up and spewed them into the madness of the corridor. Men and cameras curled around them in a stream flowing in the opposite direction. Olds saw a man he knew: Chuck Webster, a professor of law. They explained the problem. Mr. Webster said that he had been around headquarters practically all evening and he thought he knew the man who might reassure the ACLU. Webster escorted them to the other end of the hall and introduced them to Captain Glen King. The captain was a gracious man. He said that Oswald had been charged with the murder of Officer Tippit and was, at this moment, being formally charged in the assassination of the President.

Olds said that this was not their concern. All they wanted to know, in words of one syllable, was whether the prisoner had been advised of his right to counsel. That's all. Glen King said that, so far as he knew, Oswald had not made a request for counsel. That's an edge of an answer, but it lacks body. Had the police department advised Lee Harvey Oswald—never mind
what he asked for or hadn't asked for—had they told him that he was entitled to a lawyer, that he could have one right now or at any time throughout this interminable day?

The captain thought that the man best equipped to answer the question, to put all minds at rest, would be the J.P. Mr. Johnston was down in the basement at this moment. Why not run down there and ask him? Mr. Olds remained upstairs. The ACLU men went back down the elevator. It seemed awkward that such a simple question required the affirmation of so many officials. Each in turn was certain that Oswald was protected, but no one was certain just how. The best source, they thought, would be the justice of the peace.

The fact was that, consciously or unconsciously, Oswald's legal rights were in jeopardy. Shortly after 2
P.M.
the police department of Dallas had told him that he didn't have to answer questions, that anything he said could be used against him in court, that he did not have to pose for press photos or answer questions from the newspapermen or television people. Up to that point the law had blinded him with the brilliance of justice. Beyond that point legal darkness had descended on the scene. He had asked again and again for a lawyer. He had requested the services of John Abt of New York and, when Oswald had reminded the police inoffensively that they had taken his thirteen dollars away from him, he was told to make the phone call collect. This gave him an unnecessary hurdle to clear, and he had failed it.

On at least one other occasion, Oswald had told the officers that, if he could not locate Abt, he would consult the American Civil Liberties Union. He had also declared that he was a member of the ACLU. Will Fritz, surprised, asked how much Oswald had paid in dues, and the prisoner told him five dollars. If the department had a desire to protect the rights of the prisoner, it would have been a small gesture to have phoned the Dallas branch of the American Civil Liberties Union and said:
”We have a fellow over here who says you're his second choice to help him. Would you like to send someone over to have a talk with Oswald?”

Instead, almost the entire day and evening had been spent inundating the prisoner in a bowl of hostile faces. He faced their combined cunning, analyzing the innocent questions before responding to them, glorying in the attention he drew from the world, perhaps even exultant at the opportunity to hold them off in the swordplay of the tongue.