Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir

3

A Palm Beach Christmas

Agent Jeffries, Pam Turnure, and Mrs. Kennedy with the Caroline in background

There was a great deal of turbulence on the flight from Washington to Palm Beach. Howard Baird, the captain of the Caroline, was a superb pilot, but the altitude limitations of the Convair 240 meant that the plane could not get above certain storm areas. The bumpiness made it impossible for Mrs. Kennedy to rest, and while she never complained, I could see that she was exhausted and physically drained from her tour of the White House.

It was evening by the time we landed, but the temperature was in the mid-70s—nearly 40 degrees higher than what we’d left in Washington, D.C. There was a crowd of people waiting at the Palm Beach Airport as well as some press photographers and as soon as Mrs. Kennedy saw them, she turned to her husband and said, “I am not talking to the press. And I don’t want any photographs of the baby. I was hoping we would have more privacy down here.”

The president-elect nodded in understanding. Members of the President-elect Secret Service detail had secured the area and had cars waiting for us. President-elect Kennedy stepped out of the plane and as he walked down the steps, he smiled and waved to the small but enthusiastic crowd. He walked over and shook some hands as a couple of Secret Service agents stayed close.

As soon as Mrs. Kennedy appeared in the doorway of the plane, at the top of the portable stairs, several people yelled, “Jackie! Jackie! Look over here!”

She looked at the crowd and smiled, but held tightly to the railing as she walked down the stairs and headed straight for the car. Unfortunately, the privacy Mrs. Kennedy sought would be elusive for the rest of her life. People were fascinated by her, and there would be few places she could escape. Palm Beach was certainly not one of them.

The town of Palm Beach is actually a long, narrow barrier island off the southeast coast of Florida, and it was like nowhere I had ever been before. The Intracoastal Waterway separates the island from the ordinary mainland cities of West Palm Beach and Lake Worth, like a moat, and when you cross one of the few bridges into Palm Beach, it is like you are crossing into a world imbued with privilege and power. Sixteen miles of pristine white sand beaches on the Atlantic Ocean form the east side of the island, along which is a string of mansions. From the interior roads, the homes are secluded by tall, natural barriers of hedge, bougainvillea, and palm trees. It is only when you fly overhead or sail along the coast that you can see the grandeur of these magnificent estates, which are used mainly as winter getaways by the ultrarich. The resort-like town offered an elite escape where the men would golf and socialize at the exclusive Palm Beach Country Club, while the women loved to shop in the glamorous shops of Worth Avenue.

Ambassador Joseph Kennedy bought the home at 1095 North Ocean Boulevard in 1933 as a place for his large family to congregate during the winter holidays when it was too cold on the Cape. The six-bedroom, 8,500-square-foot Mediterranean-style house sat on two acres of well-manicured lawns and gardens, and had a stunning view of the Atlantic Ocean. President-elect Kennedy had informed the Secret Service that this would be his “winter White House” and that in the weeks leading up to the Inauguration, this is where he would spend most of his time. Because this would be a regularly used residence for the first family, the Secret Service had to establish security on a semipermanent basis. This meant checking everything from the basic construction of the building to access from any and all directions. Secret Service agents would be posted at strategic points on the property, but because of the limited resources and personnel in the Secret Service, the security operations would have to be a joint effort on the part of the entire law enforcement community. Fortunately, the Palm Beach Police Department and the state and county officials were all very cooperative, freely sharing information and personnel to ensure the safety of the Kennedy family.

Ambassador Kennedy residence, Palm Beach

As soon as our small motorcade arrived at the residence, Mrs. Kennedy immediately went to her bedroom to rest, and rarely emerged for the next week.

Prior to our arrival, one of the supervising agents on the president-elect detail had arranged accommodations for the Secret Service agents in nearby—and not so posh—West Palm Beach, at a place called Woody’s Motel. Woody’s was a one-story, U-shaped building with a small rectangular swimming pool situated in the middle. It had been around for a while and was rather run-down, but it offered two key advantages: the rooms were air-conditioned and the price was right. The negotiated rate for our extended stay fit into our limited per diem allowance of twelve dollars, out of which we had to pay for hotel, meals, dry cleaning, laundry, and miscellaneous expenses while traveling. My annual $6,995 salary didn’t stretch very far, and like the rest of the agents, I was very frugal and careful with expenditures.

Each morning I would report to 1095 North Ocean Boulevard, usually by 8:00 A.M. in order to be there prior to the time Mrs. Kennedy awakened. There was a garage attached to the front wall of the Kennedy’s property, adjacent to the entry gate, which had been set up as the Secret Service Palm Beach Command Post. A telephone was installed with a direct line to the house so that if the president-elect or Mrs. Kennedy needed us for any reason, we could respond immediately. There was a coffeemaker, a small table, and a couple of chairs, but basically it was a corner of the garage.

Mrs. Kennedy was recuperating well, and slowly gaining strength, but she was hesitant to leave the privacy of the residence, especially after seeing the crowds that had greeted her at the airport upon her arrival.

We had been there just a few days when Mrs. Kennedy called me at the command post.

“Mr. Hill?” she asked in her soft, whisper-like voice.

“Yes, Mrs. Kennedy. What can I do for you?”

“I need some things from Elizabeth Arden, but I just know if I go to Worth Avenue, I’ll be mobbed. I was wondering if you would call over there and arrange for someone to bring me some clothes and beauty supplies. I have a list all ready for you.”

I had never heard of Elizabeth Arden, and arranging for home shopping wasn’t something I’d ever done for President Eisenhower, but I did as Mrs. Kennedy desired, and arranged for one of the salespeople from Elizabeth Arden to come to the residence.

In addition to worrying about her wardrobe and makeup, the move to the White House—and how to make it a home rather than a museum—was uppermost on Mrs. Kennedy’s mind at this time. She wanted the White House to be a place in which her children could grow up as normal as possible even with maids and butlers, doormen and ushers, and uniformed officers and Secret Service agents all over the place.

On another occasion, I was waiting in the Secret Service office when she called for me.

“Mr. Hill?” she said. “Will you please join me outside by the pool? I need to talk to you.”

It was a beautiful afternoon and the sun felt warm on my face, as I walked across the lawn past the back of the house, toward the rectangular swimming pool. Two of my colleagues on the president-elect detail were standing post at the corners of the property bordering the beach, and I gave them each a quick wave. In Palm Beach the Secret Service agents shed our standard uniform of a dark suit and shined dress shoes for more casual clothing, with the intent of melding into the local populace to appear as inconspicuous as possible. The two agents in their cotton-knit shirts and cotton trousers looked like they could have just walked off the golf course. In the distance, a Coast Guard boat patrolled the waters along the coast.

Next to the swimming pool, Mrs. Kennedy was sitting on a chaise lounge, in a revealing bathing suit, with a stack of books by her side and a yellow legal pad in her lap. Caroline played and splashed in the pool while one of the agents who had been assigned to her protection stood watch nearby, ready to render assistance if needed.

“Yes, Mrs. Kennedy?” I asked as I approached her.

She looked up at me, her eyes hidden by a pair of large round sunglasses, and said, “Come sit down, Mr. Hill,” as she gestured to the lounge chair beside her.

Dressed in my normal attire for working in Palm Beach—a pair of khaki slacks and a short-sleeved shirt worn outside my waistband to conceal the .38-caliber handgun strapped to my hip—I felt somewhat awkward sitting next to her in her bathing suit, but sat down as instructed.

After seeing how the Secret Service operated with her husband, Mrs. Kennedy was concerned about what their family life would be like in the White House.

“I’m worried, Mr. Hill,” she said, as her brow furrowed slightly, “about losing all semblance of privacy.”

She turned toward the two agents posted at the beach. “Are these Secret Service men and other agents going to be around us constantly? Even in the White House?”

Although she was used to having maids and cooks in the house, I could tell that having the Secret Service around all the time was troubling her, so I attempted to explain our role and tried to put her at ease.

“The second floor of the executive mansion is considered off-limits pretty much for all employees, including the Secret Service. This is the private area for use as a home by the first family, and you may restrict access to whomever you desire. The Secret Service agents will only come up there if called, or if there is an emergency. And the household staff is very professional—most of them have been around for years and are able to do their jobs unobstrusively.”

“Well, that is good to know,” she said, as her facial expression relaxed. “I’m just so worried about Caroline and John growing up in such a restricted environment. I want them to have as normal a childhood as possible.”

As she said this, I thought to myself, after January 20, Caroline and John will forever be the children of the president of the United States. They will be saddled with that title for the rest of their lives. A “normal” childhood will be impossible.

“The goal of the Secret Service is to allow you and your family to do the things you want to do, while maintaining your safety and security at all times,” I said aloud. “The key is communication. If you can give us as much advance notice as possible about your plans, then we can make the appropriate arrangements. And if there’s ever anything that bothers you, just let us know.”

My answer seemed to appease her fears about privacy, so she moved to the next item on her legal pad.

“It seems that I am not receiving my mail in a timely manner. What is happening with our mail?” she asked.

“As a matter of security, all incoming mail to this address is redirected back to the White House mailroom from the Palm Beach Post Office for sorting, examination, inspection, and distribution. Unfortunately, this process causes a delay.”

She tilted her head and looked at me quizzically. “All the mail has to be inspected?”

I didn’t want to scare her, but I thought she should know exactly why we took this precaution.

“We need to ensure that there is no hidden explosive material or poisons prior to delivering letters and packages to you and the president-elect. And, of course, we screen for any mail that is threatening in nature.”

What I didn’t tell her was that we also weeded out the “hate” mail, of which there was plenty. The fact that President-elect Kennedy would be the first Catholic president did not sit well with many Americans. There was a fear that, as president, Kennedy’s decisions would be based on his religion and dictated by the pope. Additionally, Kennedy’s support for civil rights was unpopular in many parts of the country, and the violent nature of his opponents was of great concern to the Secret Service. Nothing was left to chance.

“But what about personal letters from my friends and family?” she asked. “Obviously those letters are safe, and it’s important that I receive them in a timely manner.”

We discussed a few options but none of them made me feel completely comfortable. Finally, I came up with an idea that I thought might work.

“How about if you have your friends and family put my name, ‘Clint Hill,’ along with your name as the addressee? This way, you can control who has this special access, and the post office can easily separate those letters and packages.”

She seemed delighted with this idea. “It will be so clandestine. My friends will find it amusing, so secretive!”

Rather than the postal workers and me having to learn the names of all her friends, I thought this would be the easiest and quickest way to solve the problem. It also meant that every morning, my first stop of the day was the Palm Beach Post Office to go over incoming mail for the Kennedys and pick out those with my name on them. I would then hand carry them to Mrs. Kennedy. It became a regular routine and worked very well. I soon learned that Mrs. Kennedy had a large number of family and friends—I had never received so much mail in my life.

Meanwhile, some threatening letters had been intercepted by the Secret Service in Washington, which had everybody on high alert.

The first Sunday after our arrival in Palm Beach, the president-elect had decided to attend Mass at St. Edward Church, a Catholic parish in Palm Beach. Mrs. Kennedy was still recuperating, and while she didn’t plan to join her husband, she and Caroline walked with him to the front gate of the estate, where some well-wishers had gathered outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of the family. Mrs. Kennedy waved to the onlookers before retreating into the privacy of the grounds, as Secret Service agents escorted the president-elect to the church, just a short drive away.

Four days later, a seventy-three-year-old man named Richard Pavlick was arrested by Palm Beach police following an intensive search based on letters Pavlick had written threatening to turn himself into a “human bomb” to kill President-elect Kennedy. Pavlick believed Kennedy’s father had bought the election and Pavlick thought he’d be seen as a hero for killing John F. Kennedy before he was inaugurated. Police found dynamite, detonating caps, and battery wiring in Pavlick’s car and at his West Palm Beach motel room. The mentally unstable man stated he had planned to set off the bomb outside the Kennedy residence as the president-elect was leaving for church the previous Sunday. He had parked his car on a nearby side street with the intention of ramming it into Kennedy’s car, but the sight of Mrs. Kennedy with young Caroline made him reconsider his plan. He had no intention of harming the president-elect’s family, so he decided to wait for another opportunity when Kennedy was alone.

President-elect Kennedy was informed of the incident, and it was left up to him to decide whether it was something he should share with his wife. I never discussed it with Mrs. Kennedy, but the knowledge that we had come so close to an assassination attempt prior to the Inauguration gave each of us a reason to be more vigilant and determined to ensure the maximum security possible even in this relaxed environment. Nothing could be left to chance.

Mrs. Kennedy gradually began to gain strength and her activities increased. One day she decided to accompany the president-elect to the Palm Beach Country Club to get some exercise walking the fairways, while he played a round of golf. This was not only good for her but for me as well. Inactivity was not my forte. She would watch intently as her husband hit the ball, but didn’t intrude on her husband’s conversations with the other members of the foursome as they discussed cabinet posts and other transition issues.

DURING THIS TIME in Palm Beach, there were people constantly coming and going. The president-elect’s mother and father, Rose and Ambassador Joe Kennedy, were staying in the residence, while his younger brother Robert, known as “Bobby,” was staying in a nearby home with his wife, Ethel, and their seven children. Both President-elect and Mrs. Kennedy were choosing the people they would have as their staff and advisors, and it was important for the Secret Service agents to be able to recognize and get to know everyone who would have access to the president and his family, as a matter of respect as well as security. Some of their choices surprised me.

For the important position of attorney general, President Kennedy announced that he was appointing his brother Bobby. Thirty-five-year-old Bobby had been the campaign manager for Jack’s presidential campaign, but his only government experience was as counsel of the Senate Rackets Committee. It was the first time in U.S. history that a president or president-elect had chosen a brother for his cabinet. While it was not illegal, the decision certainly raised eyebrows throughout the political arena. JFK would later confront the controversy head-on, in his inimitable way—while speaking to a Washington social and political organization, he quipped about his choice of Bobby as attorney general.

Looking down for an instant, as if the thought had just come to him, he said, “I don’t see what is wrong about giving him a little legal experience before he goes out and practices law.”

He broke into a big grin, the crowd roared with laughter, and the critics had no comeback.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Kennedy announced that twenty-three-year-old Pamela Turnure, one of her husband’s former secretaries, would become her press secretary. She didn’t have much experience and I thought she was an odd choice. But at the time Mrs. Kennedy still didn’t grasp the interest the public had in her. “I can’t imagine why I will even need a press secretary,” she said at one point.

For her social secretary, Mrs. Kennedy chose her longtime friend and former classmate Letitia Baldridge, who turned out to be well-suited for the job. “Tish,” as she was known by her friends, had attended both Miss Porter’s School and Vassar, two years ahead of Mrs. Kennedy, and she came with a wealth of experience. She had been the social secretary to the wife of U.S. Ambassador David K. E. Bruce in Paris, as well as the social secretary to U.S. Ambassador Clare Boothe Luce in Rome, and was fluent in French and Italian. Standing six feet tall, Tish was a striking woman with a strong, confident personality. I liked her, and found that she would be another close ally.

As Christmas drew near, the realization that I would not be home for the holidays started to hit me. Caroline was eagerly awaiting the arrival of Santa Claus, and knowing I would not be able to share the excitement of Christmas morning with my four-year-old son, Chris, was difficult. Fortunately, I was able to use the White House switchboard at the Palm Beach Command Post to call home occasionally because there was no way I could afford to pay for long-distance telephone calls from a pay phone or from the motel. But hearing Chris’s little voice on the phone really tugged at my heart.

All of the agents staying at Woody’s Motel that Christmas were missing their families, so we tried to make the best of it together. We all took our jobs seriously and felt privileged to be on the White House Secret Service detail. Missing holidays with our families was just part of the job. With Christmas and New Year’s behind us, the one thing we all had to look forward to was the Inauguration. The transition of power from one president to the next, in a free and peaceful manner, has always been a great symbol of American democracy. Not only would we be back in Washington with our families, but we’d also be participating in history.

For me, it would be my first presidential transition, and even though I would be protecting the first lady, rather than the president, I was filled with anticipation for the activities of January 20, 1961.

A FEW DAYS before we were to depart for Washington, Jerry Behn, the acting Special Agent in Charge (SAIC) of the president-elect detail, took me aside in the Palm Beach Command Post.

“Clint,” he said, “the president-elect and Mrs. Kennedy have decided that they won’t bring Caroline and John back to Washington for the Inauguration. The children will be staying here with Miss Shaw, so we have decided to have you remain here in Palm Beach to supervise their security.”

As the words came out of his mouth, I felt like I was being punched in the gut.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Whatever you need me to do.”

“Jeffries will work Mrs. Kennedy alone during the inaugural activities.”

I was surprised my supervisors only felt the need for one agent to be with Mrs. Kennedy during the very active period of January 18, 19, 20, and 21, but they were the ones in charge. I was just the worker. Once again I felt the sense that I was back on the second team. While my colleagues were being a part of history, I would be Chief Babysitter of the Diaper Detail.

On January 18, I escorted Mrs. Kennedy and Agent Jeffries from the Palm Beach residence to the local airport, where the Caroline was waiting to take her to Washington for the Inauguration. Word had leaked out that she was departing, and an enthusiastic crowd had gathered at the small airport.

Mrs. Kennedy waved graciously but stayed well away from the people. I stayed close to her as I scanned the crowd looking carefully at the eyes and the hands from behind my dark sunglasses. You look at the eyes for an unusually intense gaze, and at the hands for a flash of a knife or gun, or a sudden movement into a pocket or purse. Even though Mrs. Kennedy was very popular, the hate mail directed toward her husband was often vicious. No matter how positive and cheerful a crowd might be, you had to continually be on the lookout for that one lone lunatic who wanted to make a name for himself. Or herself. There was just as much a chance that a woman might try to harm Mrs. Kennedy as a man.

As we got to the bottom of the stairs leading up to the Caroline, Mrs. Kennedy turned to me and said, “Thank you for staying with the children, Mr. Hill. I know they’ll be in good hands.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Kennedy. Enjoy the festivities and I’ll see you in Washington after the Inauguration.”

As the Caroline taxied away I stood on the tarmac, alone and dejected, wishing I were making the trip.

On Inauguration Day, I joined Miss Shaw and Caroline inside Ambassador Kennedy’s residence to watch the live coverage on television. Being from Great Britain, Miss Shaw was not familiar with the inaugural process, so I sat down with Caroline to try to explain what was happening.

“See your daddy, Caroline?” I pointed to the television as her father stood to take the oath of office.

She looked at the television and watched for a brief moment, her legs dangling from the sofa, as her father placed his left hand on the Bible and raised his right hand.

I John Fitzgerald Kennedy do solemnly swear . . .

“Where’s mommy?” she asked.

That I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States.

“Mommy’s there, too. I’m sure they’ll show her on the television in a minute.”

And will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.

“I want to finish my finger painting,” she said as she jumped down from the chair.

So help me God.

“Your daddy has just become the thirty-fifth president of the United States, Caroline,” I said gently. I patted the chair and said, “Now he’s going to make a very important speech. Come sit back down and let’s watch.”

Begrudgingly, she climbed back up on the sofa.

Eight inches of snow had fallen in Washington, D.C., the night before, blanketing the city with a mix of ice and snow. The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers and a thousand District of Columbia employees had worked overnight to clear the streets and remove hundreds of abandoned cars so the inaugural parade could proceed as planned. By noon on Inauguration Day, the snow had stopped and the sun emerged against a brilliant blue sky. The temperature did not climb above 22 degrees, however, and the hundreds of thousands who had come to witness this historic event were bundled up with heavy coats, gloves, hats, and mufflers in an effort to stay warm. As President Kennedy stood before the American people to give his Inaugural Address, you could see his breath hanging in the frigid air.

“I want to finger-paint some more,” Caroline said, once again jumping off of the sofa.

I realized that, at three years old, Caroline could not possibly understand the importance of this moment, nor was it likely she would remember her father’s historic speech.

“Okay, Caroline, go on outside with Miss Shaw and paint a nice picture for your mommy and daddy.”

I turned back to the television and watched the rest of President Kennedy’s speech. I could see U. E. Baughman, the chief of the Secret Service, seated just behind the president on one side, and SAIC Jim Rowley on the other side. Mrs. Kennedy was seated to the left of the podium, dressed in an ivory coat and matching hat, beaming proudly as her husband addressed the nation and requested citizens to ask not what the country could do for them but what they could do for the country.

As the president stepped away from the podium, the audience rose to its feet and burst into thunderous applause. The torch had been passed.

It was a powerful speech and you couldn’t help but be moved by it. For me it had an even greater impact because I had also had the privilege of seeing him as an ordinary man. I’d seen his elation at the birth of his son, heard his laughter while playing with Caroline in the pool at Palm Beach, and witnessed the light in his eyes when he greeted his wife after they’d been apart. It hit me then that perhaps I had been looking at my assignment all wrong. I was serving the president, and the country, with an important task. I was responsible for protecting the things that were most important to him, personally—his wife and his children.

I had assumed that we would be taking Caroline and John back to Washington as soon as the Inauguration festivities were over, but Mrs. Kennedy wanted the children’s rooms in the White House to be ready prior to their arrival, and that would be at least two more weeks. I got daily updates from Agent Jeffries about what was happening, about all the changes Mrs. Kennedy was making and how he was having a tough time getting used to her impulsive nature and lack of a schedule.

The funny thing was I realized that her spur-of-the-moment ideas and impromptu activities were what I missed most about not having her around.

I anticipated there would be new challenges with the first lady, and I looked forward to settling into a process of never knowing what was going to happen next, because that was the way Mrs. Kennedy preferred to operate. Spontaneity was what she thrived on. Everyone had to be on their toes. As time went on, I could anticipate what she might do or request, but she never failed to surprise me.

It has taken me many years to be able to remember the good times of that first winter in Palm Beach. It used to be—and it still happens occasionally—that the mere mention of Palm Beach would send my mind back to the day when the pain was too much for me to bear, when I couldn’t face her anymore, when the laughter and hope had been washed away, like waves over a child’s sand castle. But in December 1960, none of us could have imagined the way our lives would change.