The Lacey Confession

BEFORE THE BEGINNING

November 22, 1963

The Czech-the one who had made himself known in America as Stephen Hecht-was a tall, thin man with a sallow complexion that because of his high cheek bones made him look rather sickly. On top of that, he rarely smiled. He brought the rifle with him. He carried it in a small bag, in pieces. He was recommended not only for his expertise, but also for his attention to detail. It was a certainty that many times he had put the weapon together in just a few seconds, each piece clicking neatly and swiftly into place. With only minutes remaining before the motorcade would enter the street below, he sent his new friend away. He said, “I know you are hungry. Go down and get something to eat. It’s okay, I’ll stay here.”

“Do you want me to bring back anything for you?” the other man responded.

“No, Lee. Thank you. Just go now.”

Alone, the man whose name was not Hecht at all, but whose real name was Josef Gambrinus, calmly assembled the rifle, loaded it and placed it on the floor under the open window, the one he had chosen carefully the day before. He stacked three shipping boxes, boxes once filled with textbooks but now empty, one on top of the other and maneuvered them into position between the open window and the door leading onto the sixth floor. He meant to hide sight of the rifle from anyone who might happen to pass by. The noise of the crowd gathering below filtered up to him. He hoped the murmur of anticipation, followed by the expectant cheers, would erupt at the proper moment. The Czech would have liked it as loud as possible, but he realized, as he knew he must, there are some things beyond our control. It was not realistic to expect every detail to fall exactly into place. They rarely did. Nevertheless, he was ready. And he waited.

The middle-aged man from Amman, short and stocky, always looked like he needed a shave. He called himself Namdar, but his real name was unknown to anyone outside Jordan. Not even his European associate knew-especially him. Namdar assumed, quite correctly, that Stephen Hecht was also a made-up name. As the sound of the crowd grew louder, Namdar passed along the rail tracks and approached a location on the fence. He too had chosen this spot the day before, just after learning the altered route the motorcade would take. Had anyone seen him they would have taken him for a railroad worker or perhaps the sort of man Americans called a hobo, men so commonly seen in rail yards and along the tracks. He was dressed in old, gray, shabby clothes and carried with him a long, thin, beat-up cardboard box. Inside the box was a rifle, exactly like the one now resting at the ready beneath the window on the sixth floor of the building across the street, down past the embankment lined with spectators, beyond the gentle bend in the road separating him from his associate, a spot he was certain would slow the speed of the car making his task a simple one. Like the Czech had done, the Jordanian assembled the contents of his box quickly. Then he held the loaded weapon against his leg, hidden under his long coat, and he too waited.

There was a third man, another eastern European, waiting on the curb just where the street began its slow turn toward the upcoming highway underpass. Although he was the third member of a team, Daniel Ondnok was unknown to his teammates. Neither his compatriot on the sixth floor nor his Jordanian accomplice peering down from above the grassy knoll were aware of Ondnok’s presence. Unlike them he had no rifle. Yet his role in this plan might be the most dangerous and his risk the greatest. For nearly a half-hour he had wandered among the crowd as they gathered in the plaza. He was a young man; clean cut, shorthaired, wearing a simple blue suit, white shirt and a skinny navy blue tie. In his jacket pocket he held an Italian pistol packed with nine rounds. Unlikely as it was that the man in the window and the one behind the grassy knoll would both miss their target, if they did, the Slovakian would finish the job up close. He prayed the night before and once again standing in the plaza-if things went just as planned-he would actually do nothing, earn a great deal of money and go on his way unseen. If, however, it went badly, he would do his job. No doubt he would be killed, but he would die certain his family would be well provided for. He asked Jesus the son, and God the father, for victory and a good aim for his comrades.

When the Presidential motorcade rolled into Dealey Plaza, Lee Harvey Oswald was still eating, alone in the lunchroom, nowhere near the window on the sixth floor of the Texas School Book Depository building. He had no idea how badly the cards were stacked against him. As the President’s open car approached the plaza, it slowed-just as the Jordanian knew it would. At that moment the Czech fired the first shot from the open window six floors above. The bullet struck the second son of Joseph P. Kennedy in the upper back just below the neck. Ripping through his chest, it exited his throat and tumbled in the air at more than 500 miles per hour, smashing into the Governor of Texas riding in the front seat. Startled by the sound, Governor Connally had quickly turned around to look behind him. The bullet hit his wrist. Kennedy was already in shock. Instinctively, he tried to raise his hands to his face. His upper body tipped forward, propelled by the force of the bullet’s blow to his back.

The assassin Gambrinus had shot many people-men, women, even children-so he knew the hit was not fatal. In the quickest fraction of a second, angry with himself and thoroughly dissatisfied with the accuracy of his weapon, he squeezed off a second shot. It missed everything. Harmlessly, the bullet struck a road sign, then careened against a curb and rolled to a stop nearly all the way to the highway underpass where it would be found later. In the instant following the second shot, the President’s driver realized they were under attack. He pushed down hard on the accelerator. Trees now blocked the shooter’s view. There was no chance a third shot from the sixth floor window could accomplish anything. He had failed. “Shit!” he mumbled in his native tongue. Nevertheless, acting as he had been instructed to, he wiped the rifle clean of his fingerprints, laid it down and left the building. Following his escape route he would drive a 1959 model Chevrolet, by himself, to Vancouver, British Columbia. He made his report along the way. A week later he flew to Japan, changed planes in Tokyo, and then on to Rome. While using the restroom, at the airport in Rome, he was assaulted by three knife-wielding teenagers. After taking his wallet and passport the young thieves cut his throat. Josef Gambrinus bled to death in a toilet stall.

Even before the Czech’s first shot, the Jordanian had the President of the United States directly in his scope. As the first shot hit the President from behind, Namdar pulled the trigger and let loose the bullet that killed John F. Kennedy. The shot struck straight into his head. It drove him backwards, tearing a piece from his skull, scattering portions of his brain on the back of the limousine, on the seat next to him, and on his frightened wife.

Less than ten seconds later, Namdar had dismantled the rifle, loaded it back into his box, and was gone. According to plan, he drove his 1962 Buick slowly to Los Angeles. He made many stops along the way, leaving pieces of his weapon scattered, many miles apart, in the desert and sagebrush from west Texas to California. He made his report before staying with friends in Los Angeles, people who knew nothing of his activities. For six weeks he waited, celebrating the coming of the New Year 1964 before flying to Montreal and then on to Athens. As prearranged, he booked passage on a ship from Greece to Egypt. Finally, in the first week of February, he made it home to his well-earned, comfortable retirement. His most lucrative job would also be his last. Two weeks later, on a busy street in Amman, he was hit by a truck and killed. All who saw it said it was an unfortunate accident. Witnesses, people who waited with him on the sidewalk at the intersection, said he seemed to jump in front of the truck. No one noticed or remembered the man who pushed Namdar from behind.

The third man, Ondnok, had watched it all, only a few yards away from the target. He heard all three shots. Of course, he enjoyed the advantage of knowing when they would come. The panic of the crowd did not disturb him. He too had seen many men shot with a high-powered rifle. The blow that struck the American President in the skull had clearly done the job. As the limousine sped away, Ondnok turned and walked in the other direction. He never drew his pistol. He never did anything. He knew a dead man when he saw one. His prayers had been answered.

He earned more money on November 22, 1963, than for any job he ever did. And he did nothing. His risk had more than justified his price. Like the others, he followed his prearranged escape plan. He met a small private plane at an airport south of Dallas. Posing as a West German businessman, an anti-Communist looking to buy arms for his Eastern brothers, he had chartered the plane two days earlier. His destination was New Orleans. Once there, he made his report. After three days, and three memorable nights in the French Quarter, he took a commercial flight to Mexico City. There he made a connection to Havana before finally returning to his family in a small farming village in Slovakia.

Less than a month later, the day before Christmas 1963 to be exact, the barn in which he was working burned to the ground. Trapped, unable to escape, he perished in the blaze. To save his family added grief, no autopsy on the charred remains was performed. The small bullet hole in the back of the farmer’s head was never discovered.

Two days after the assassination, as contracted for, Lee Harvey Oswald was shot dead. His shouted pronouncement to the press, his plea of innocence, was soon forgotten. As he was gunned down, Oswald was surrounded by Dallas Police officers. He was still inside Dallas Police Headquarters, handcuffed and in custody when it happened. A man simply walked up to Oswald with a drawn handgun and fired point-blank at his midsection. The whole world saw it, live on television.

The men’s room killing in Rome was local news for a day or two. The accident in Amman was not even reported. The tragedy in Slovakia also went unnoticed by the world at large. It was, however, the final detail. Within ninety days of the death of John F. Kennedy, the men who did the deed, as well as the man who stood falsely accused, were all dead themselves. Their killers had been retained professionally. They had no knowledge of who their victims were or what they might have done. Why they had been hired to kill someone, in a restroom, on a busy street or in a rural barn, would have been an impolite question. They knew only how much they were to be paid. Only one person, the man responsible for all this, knew the truth. Only Frederick Lacey knew. He wrote extensively, passionately, angrily about it in his private journal-the Lacey Confession.

November 24, 1963

The Chief Justice waited patiently on a beige love seat in the Oval Office. Summoned unexpectedly, he arrived at a hectic White House as quickly as he could. Later, in his diary, he remarked on the chaos pervading the West Wing that day. As he was led through the hallways, he noticed an unusual number of Secret Service agents. They were all over the place. They were openly armed. And everywhere he saw signs of moving in. “No time for compassion,” he wrote. “The King is dead. Long live the King.” There was tomorrow’s funeral, but it was Thanksgiving the Thursday coming that was on his mind. Thanksgiving, a day of joyous celebration, the quintessential American holiday, he always felt. A tribute to those who began this noble experiment. A reaffirmation of our own survival, our success, our perseverance in a hostile, new world. Now, that day lay in ruins, victim of a cowardly ambush. For the Chief Justice and millions of Americans, the unimaginable, the unthinkable, the impossible, had all come to be.

Immediately after returning to Washington from Dallas, Lyndon Johnson, the new American President, insisted on a full federal investigation. From the beginning he wanted a special commission. His mind was made up days before the official story was delivered to and devoured whole by a compliant American media. That account, given to the American people, had Johnson, a Texan himself, worried about the Attorney General in Texas, a man named Waggoner Carr. It was said that he, Carr, was about to start up his own inquiry. The murder had occurred in Texas. Carr was portrayed as an opportunist of the worst kind. The official story went on to say it was Abe Fortas, a Johnson crony and a man later nominated to be a Justice on the Supreme Court, together with Nicholas D. B. Katzenbach, a high-ranking member of the Justice Department, who presented the idea for the Warren Commission to Johnson on November 29. Still another Texas Democrat, Leon Jaworski, who ten years later would be among the most recognized people in the country, supposedly was assigned to take care of Waggoner Carr. Jaworski was to have him call off the dogs of Texas.

None of this was true or ever happened. Instead, it was President Johnson, who was determined before he ever came back to Washington, who pressured Chief Justice Earl Warren to head the commission investigating the death of John F. Kennedy. Warren wanted no part of it. He made that quite clear, in great detail in those entries he made in the final weeks of 1963 in his personal diary. According to Warren, Johnson called him to the White House before Kennedy was even buried. Warren met with the President on the 24th, offered to help, but did not agree to serve. Late on that night, following his meeting with Johnson, he wrote: “It never occurred to me that anyone would question that Lee Harvey Oswald assassinated the President of the United States-or that there would be any public speculation about some sinister motivation on his part-or that there would be widespread consideration he might be part of some larger plot or conspiracy. I never thought of it, that is, until today when President Johnson expressed such concern over the matter.”

Earlier that Sunday afternoon the Chief Justice sat alone in the Oval Office. He could not help but speculate-the couch on which he sat must have belonged to the dead President lying in state in the rotunda of the Capitol. Too sophisticated, too tasteful for Lyndon Johnson. It was an uncomfortable thought for him. One of many he said he had since this nightmare began. He’d seen the picture of Johnson being sworn in. He wrote of what he called the horrific sadness in Mrs. Kennedy’s eyes, the dress splattered with blood-her husband’s blood. That photograph had been on the front page of The New York Times, The Washington Post and newspapers all over the world. Johnson hurried Federal Judge Sarah Hughes out to the airport in Dallas. He didn’t wish to leave the scene of his ascendancy except as President of the United States. Who could blame him? Warren agreed that was the right decision. The Chief Justice heaved a sigh of relief. I’m glad it wasn’t me in that picture, he later wrote. It probably would be all I’d ever be remembered for. Sarah Hughes could be certain that picture, and none other, would top her obituary.

Now, noted Warren, things had gone from bad to worse. Lee Harvey Oswald, the apparent assailant, the man who killed John F. Kennedy, had himself been murdered, on television, in full view of the whole world. I saw it myself, he wrote. Jesus Christ! How could they let a thing like that happen?

The President appeared in the room as if from nowhere. He came through a wall panel that was also a hidden door. Warren heard his footsteps and looked up. He had no idea that door was there. “Afternoon, Mr. Chief Justice,” said Johnson, extending his hand. Warren rose to shake it. Lyndon Johnson was a very tall man, a bit funny looking, even ugly in person, according to some, yet still fit and thin despite many years living the good life, “high on the hog,” as he might have said when in Texas. Very high indeed. He looked as if he’d just showered, shaved and changed his clothes. Warren knew him well. The two men had met many times. Johnson was still a relatively poor Texas Congressman when they first crossed paths, and Warren only beginning then to dream of being Governor of California. “Now look at us,” he said to himself.

“Good afternoon, Mr. President,” he replied. My God! he wondered. Could it be? Yes. Lyndon Johnson really is the President of the United States! “I came over as soon as I could.”

“I appreciate that,” said Johnson in his stretched-out Texas drawl. “I do. I’m truly grateful to see you. I prize your good counsel and I have the greatest admiration for you. You know that, I’m sure.” He stood with both hands resting on his hips; his head bent slightly forward, his mouth in a tight frown. Surely he towered over the seated Chief Justice.

“This is a bad time, one neither of us could have imagined. Just look around.” He gestured with his hands extended, the long sweep of his arms emphasizing the expanse of the famed Oval Office. “This has become my office. I am the President. We all think of it, dream of it, some nights go to sleep tasting it. But not this way. Not this way. In ’48, when you ran with Tom Dewey, there must have been a time when you not only thought you’d win-hell, Harry looked like roadkill there for a while-but, more than that-there had to be a moment when you saw yourself right here, right where I am now. I know you never thought it’d happen like this. It’s hard to find the words. But we must go on. This country must go on. We face serious problems, Mr. Chief Justice.” Johnson walked over to the big, dark mahogany desk. Was it his desk or Jack Kennedy’s? Sitting on the edge, he looked down at Earl Warren. “We’re needed,” he said with an urgency common to Protestant preachers. “We’re called upon to serve.”

“Yes, we are,” Warren answered, still unsure why Johnson asked for this meeting, unclear what it was the President wanted from him, or from the Supreme Court. At first, when a White House aide called asking the Chief Justice to come to the White House on an “urgent matter,” Warren thought there might be some concern about the procedures used to swear in the new President. Or perhaps the shooting of Oswald was presenting technical questions or jurisdictional problems which Johnson didn’t understand and wanted cleared up right away. A strange reason indeed to call the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, but in these times, the strange was normal. However, at that moment, with the President looking straight at him, Earl Warren had no idea what this meeting was about.

Moreover, he thought, until now he had never been alone with the President of the United States. He’d seen Roosevelt in person, twice, each time at a dinner with hundreds of people. He was introduced to Truman, but again that was in a receiving line at an official function and before the 1948 election. When Eisenhower called him in to interview for the appointment as Chief Justice there must have been a half dozen advisors in the room at the time. Once he became Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, a Constitutional post that established him as the leader of a co-equal branch of the Federal Government, he never met alone with Ike or Jack Kennedy. If asked, he supposed he would probably have offered the opinion that such a meeting might be improper, regardless of who occupied either office. And yet, following the murder of President Kennedy, here he was, alone with Lyndon Johnson in the private office of the President. The Chief Justice felt uncomfortable. He recorded his discomfort in his journal.

“Mr. Chief Justice, I’m afraid the American people are worried and confused,” Johnson went on. “They’re worried that their government, their country, is in jeopardy, facing great danger. They speculate about an enemy. Who is their enemy? Where are they? What are they gonna do next? Who else is gonna get killed? And who’s doing this killing? You know what I mean?”

“Well, yes. I think I do, Mr. President.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear that. You and I need to keep our heads about us. We need to clear away the cobwebs of confusion and put to rest the nation’s worry. That’s my obligation now. That’s our obligation. The trust of the people is the foundation on which this government rests. It’s the bedrock of our republic. It’s my responsibility-my sworn duty-to keep that trust from being shaken.” Johnson was quiet a moment. He shook his head slightly from side to side, showing his disgust and frustration. “This Oswald problem is getting out of hand,” he said. “How the goddamn hell do they let somebody shoot him? Tell me that!” The Chief Justice knew better than to reply.

Johnson rose from his desk, raised his fist in anger and walked over to the window looking out on the White House lawn. Special lights, put in place that afternoon by the Secret Service, covered much of the wide-open grassy area in bright light. In the late autumn afternoon, the garden just outside the Oval Office was already dark with only a few ground lights to show the walkways among the flowers and plants, the ones Mrs. Kennedy had arranged so beautifully.

“Oswald’s dead. Shot and killed in front of our eyes for Christ’s sake! The man who killed the President is dead. And now we got speculation running rampant. Who’d he work for?” Johnson once more turned around, paced from one side of the office to the other and back, slapping his thighs as he walked, then sat down-at the President’s desk-in the President’s chair. He looked like he’d been there forever. “I’ve got reports people are asking questions about his communist ties. Talking about the Cubans-those damn Cubans,” Johnson mumbled, looking down at the floor as if there might be something important there. Then he looked straight at Warren and spoke again in a loud, strong voice. “The Russians too, even Chinese. You know Oswald was stationed in Japan?”

“No sir, I didn’t. I didn’t know that. Did Oswald have any contact with the Chinese?”

“He could have, could have. Who knows? Chinese, Japanese. He could have. That’s not the point. The point is-people are asking questions. You understand? People are asking questions. Even you. You just asked, didn’t you? Newspapers are gonna start writing things, all sorts of things. You know that. With Oswald dead we’re never gonna get the truth about why he shot the President. Instead we’ll get speculation. We’ll get dangerous, unhealthy speculation. Crazy stuff. The kind that plays right into the hands of our real enemies. And we,” he said peering straight into Warren’s eyes, “have to prevent this. We have to stop this needless, irresponsible distraction. We have to stem the tide of our national vulnerability. We need time to heal our hurt. We’re hurting. This kind of thing isn’t supposed to happen. People need to be reassured. We have to do what’s right. I must do it. And I need your help.”

“I’ll do whatever I can, Mr. President, whatever’s appropriate given my position and responsibilities. Legally, you know of course, this is a local problem. Murder, both of them, the murder of President Kennedy and the murder of Oswald, are violations that come under Texas law. There’s no federal crime here that I can see. Quite amazing, isn’t it? You kill the President of the United States, the highest-ranking federal officer in the land and you’re not subject to any federal jurisdiction as a result. You know, I hesitate to say it, actually I…”

“Don’t be shy, Mr. Chief Justice. Our job is to bring this whole sad business to its rightful conclusion.”

“I was going to say, I’m not sure it was such a good idea to remove the body from the local jurisdiction. I understand, under the circumstances…”

“Under the circumstances!” Johnson bellowed. “I had no information to tell me who else was in danger. Maybe they were after Mrs. Kennedy too. The Governor, my friend John Connally, was hit pretty bad. I didn’t know if I was a target. The thought more than crossed my mind, I can tell you that. You know, when Lincoln was killed they tried to get the Vice President at the same time. Another Johnson too. I had folks saying there was sharpshooters all over the place. Shots were coming from everywhere. Could have been a damn army of them. The Pentagon told me about threats from all over the world. You know, the Secretary of State was in the air over the Pacific Ocean while this was going on. Dallas was no place to be and I wasn’t gonna leave him back there. There’s her too,” he said, referring to the widowed First Lady. “She wouldn’t go without him. No sirree, she wouldn’t.”

“I understand,” Warren said. “This is not a matter you and I need to talk about at all. It’s improper. I apologize. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.” Then, he asked, “What did you mean ‘they’? Were there others with this fellow Oswald?”

“See, that’s what I mean!” said Johnson. “We’re all saying things we ought not to. We’re asking questions that don’t make a whole lot of sense and we’re jumping to conclusions, conclusions that aren’t true to the facts. The nation needs your leadership, your help, Mr. Chief Justice. Needs it badly.”

“I’m not sure what you have in mind, Mr. President. Are you thinking I can help in some way?”

The President outlined for Chief Justice Warren a plan to form a special temporary Commission to investigate the assassination of John F. Kennedy and have that Commission issue a complete report to the nation. The Commission would include Congressional leaders plus men of national and international reputation, trusted at home and abroad, learned in matters of law and experienced in foreign relations. The Commission members, said Johnson, must be men who were “beyond pressure and above suspicion.” A former director of the Central Intelligence Agency would be asked to serve, bringing his special expertise in the covert activities of other nations. Clearly his role would be to calm any fears about foreign involvement on the part of our communist enemies.

Staff and budget considerations would be no problem. A one-time authorization would give them what amounted to a blank check. Most important of all, the President told Warren, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court would be the head of this Commission. He would chart its course and direct its efforts. He alone would determine procedure and he would issue the Commission’s report to the American people. “I want that report as soon as possible, right away. I know Christmas is too soon. Only a month away. It’s not the best time either, but I want it done no later than six to eight weeks, about the middle of January, first of February.”

Warren asked a few questions. Politics was out, said Johnson. No divisions were required for staffing. Neither of the American political parties would be entitled to staff quotas or other perks of that nature. “You pick ’em all. That simple,” said Johnson. To facilitate matters, the Court’s regular docket could be delayed for a couple of months. “We know-you and me, we know-sitting right here this minute-the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court and the President-we know it was Lee Harvey Oswald who did this by himself, acting alone, not part of any group, not working for any nation. Did it, just simply by himself. We know that. We don’t know why. We may never know why. We may never be sure. But we can be sure of this-our entire nation could come apart at the seams-the greatest and most powerful society in the history of human civilization-and it could all be destroyed unless we bring this to a proper end and put this matter to rest for good.”

Warren talked awhile about some of the specifics Johnson had mentioned, mainly procedural and technical areas-how the Commission would be chartered, the methods for keeping records and drawing funds, the jurisdictional problems which affect any enterprise involving more than one of the three branches of government. Finally, he added what he wanted to sound like an afterthought, no more than a casual personal reference, but what really constituted his reply to the President’s request and the reason for this meeting. “I would have to rule out my own participation,” he said. “Serving on this type of a commission would, as I see it, constitute an inappropriate judicial role for a sitting Chief Justice.” Such an American thought. The anger and frustration in Johnson’s eyes, Warren wrote in his journal, were almost palpable. “But,” Warren said to his President, “I can prepare a short list of retired Federal Judges, some quite well known…”

“You don’t seem to follow me,” said Johnson, restraining himself as best he could. “The Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of The United States of America-that’s who’s needed. The report of this Commission will be the most important document our government issues in this century. It must be beyond reproach. Its stamp of truth must be the stamp of-it must be your stamp! It has to be the Warren Commission!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. President. I cannot accept. I think I fully…”

“Mr. Chief Justice,” interrupted the President, like a man slamming on the brakes of a runaway truck. “I want you to think about it. Hold your answer. Think about the grave national crisis threatening to overwhelm us. Think about the brave young man we’re gonna bury tomorrow, his family, your family, our national family. I won’t take your final answer now. Just you think about it and we’ll talk some more.” LBJ smiled broadly and shook the Chief Justice’s hand as he would have had he been stumping for votes, gripping Warren’s hand firmly with his own right hand while his left covered Warren’s wrist. It didn’t hurt, wrote Warren. Nevertheless, he went on, I felt the President’s handshake all the way home.

Neither Warren’s wait nor his sleep lasted too long. At 5:50 am the doorbell rang. A tired and half-dressed housekeeper answered. She was greeted by two agents of the Secret Service. A limo, with the motor running, was parked at the curb. She woke the Chief Justice, told him the President wanted to see him immediately and then, as he dressed, she went to prepare some tea and hot oatmeal.

At 6:25 am, less than twelve hours since his last visit, Chief Justice Earl Warren walked into the Oval Office again. The beige couch was gone. The desk too. All the pictures on the wall had been changed. He couldn’t recall if the lamps or the two round end tables had been there a few hours before. Johnson was already sitting behind a huge, wooden desk made of a lighter wood, more worn than the one Kennedy had. It must have been moved from the Vice President’s office during the night. The President had been shot on Friday and the new President moved in before the weekend was over. I suppose, Warren later wrote, that’s the way it has to be. Everything seemed in order. The phones were lined up across one end of the desk to the President’s right-two white ones, each with six lines, a black phone with three rows of extra buttons, the kind of setup Warren had never seen before, and a plain, red one-a simple, unmarked red telephone with no dial and no buttons. Warren shuddered to think what use it had. All the personal items were there too, suitably arranged. Among the pens and paperweights Warren could see pictures of the Johnson daughters, another showing Lady Bird and LBJ in work clothes probably taken at the LBJ Ranch, somewhere in Texas, and near the only clock on the desk, off to the side, was an old black and white photograph in a brass 5x7 frame of the young Congressman Lyndon Baines Johnson shaking hands with Franklin Delano Roosevelt. President Roosevelt was holding the Congressman’s right hand firmly in his own while his left hand wrapped completely around Johnson’s wrist. They were both smiling.

Two young men, neither of whom Warren recognized, stood talking by the window nearest the door leading to the garden. The President was giving instructions to one of his secretaries, a comely young woman. He was especially animated although Warren could not overhear what he said. A valet, an old Negro man, approached carrying a tray. “Coffee or tea, Mr. Chief Justice?” he asked. Warren indicated a certain tea and watched as the old man prepared it with one hand while still holding the tray with his other. “Why don’t I just put it down over here,” he said. “And you can sit right down.”

“Morning, Mr. Chief Justice,” said the President. “Louise,” he added, waving away the woman he had been talking to, “get that done right now, hear.” Turning back to Warren, LBJ frowned and curled his lips like he was trying to dislodge something stuck between his teeth. “You give any more thought to what we talked about yesterday?”

“Well,” Warren answered, looking in the direction of the two younger men. “I’m not sure if…”

“Hey, Gene,” the President shouted across the room. “You and whatshisname want to find something useful to do?” He chuckled and they smiled as they left. “Thanks, boys,” he said as they shut the door behind them. It was hard to believe the funeral for the slain President was only hours away.

“Mr. President, I’ve been unable to change my thinking on this matter…”

“Look here, Earl,” said Johnson, his demeanor radically different from the day before. “I don’t know who the fuck killed Jack Kennedy. I’d swear it was those goddamn Cuban sonsofbitches, if somebody could get me anything on it, any evidence at all. Kennedy tried to kill him-Castro, you know that? More than once as I hear it. Shit, too bad it didn’t work. And I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if that damn sonofabitch Castro just had enough of it. You know-fuck me? Fuck you! And just had him blown away, shot down. The President of the United States. And in Texas to boot, just to make me look bad!” President Johnson grumbled, something Warren couldn’t make out, then he took a deep breath and appeared to gain control of himself once more. “Like I said, Earl, I just plain don’t know. It could have been anybody, from anywhere, for any damn reason. Christ, ain’t nobody knows who did it! I’ve asked. I’ve asked ’em all-FBI, CIA, Joint Chiefs. I’d ask the damn tooth fairy if I thought she could tell me something. No one’s got an answer worth shit. I’ll tell you what we do know. What we do know is that Lee Harvey Oswald is taking the fall on this and he’s already put dead and gone. The American people will be reassured that the man who killed their President was caught and that he acted alone. You got that? I mean A-L-O-N-E, alone, by hisself! Maybe he was crazy, maybe not. I don’t give a flying fuck. But he was alone! Do you hear me?” Earl Warren heard him. He heard him loud and clear. “I ain’t taking the country down that road to ruin,” the President continued. He rose from his chair and walked around the desk and right over to where Warren sat. He stood directly above him, looking straight down into his face. “If people can’t be told what happened-by their government-and damn well believe it, then how the fuck are we gonna make them believe anything else? Goddamnit, Earl, we run this country because people think we know what the fuck we’re doing! And you’re gonna help make sure it stays that way. Do you understand me?”

Earl Warren took a deep breath and agreed to head a Commission that would bear his name. He thought about Judge Sarah Hughes for just a moment. Maybe she didn’t get such a bad deal after all. My God! read the entry in his diary. Did Oswald act alone? As Johnson spoke to me, a chill ran up my back. My heart beat so fast I thought it would burst. Oswald may have had nothing to do with this!

In a private conversation eight and a half years later, preserved on a tape from May 1972, and never meant for public disclosure, President Johnson’s successor, Richard M. Nixon, said of the Warren Commission report, “It was the greatest hoax that has ever been perpetuated.”