"They've Killed President Kennedy" -- Reflections of an Old Woman Who Was There

The treasures folks discard or sell have always fascinated me and many valuable articles have found their way into my home due to my penchant for auctions, yard/garage sales and flea markets. My most recent treasure find is an old book -- "They've Killed the President -- The Search for the Murderers of John F. Kennedy" by Robert Sam Anson -- a Bantam Book, copyrighted in 1975. Having always had great interest in anything associated with JFK's assassination I was only too glad to lay down my quarter and buy it. Mr. Anson proved to be an exceptional writer/researcher and raised questions I'd never even considered about the assassination. Reading the book not only brought back a flood of memories it began an exercise, in relation to that fateful occurence, which I'd never done in all these years. I began putting my personal two-and-two together and reached the conclusion that even back then, whether by fate or the grace of God, I'd somehow dodged a bunch 'a bullets.

It's said that everyone in the United States can remember where they were and what they were doing the day President Kennedy was assassinated and I'm no exception. I was in Dallas, Texas. Fresh from the country and a recent divorce; I was living with my aunt and uncle and working as a temp in a building near Parkland Hospital. On that particular day I was disappointed that I would be unable to attend the parade for the visiting President in downtown Dallas and consequently was not the most industrious of employees. My uncle (now deceased) was the cause for part of that.

He was an executive with the Lincoln-Mercury Division in Dallas and had been integrally involved in getting the cars for the President's motorcade together -- and the more he talked the more I wanted to see the parade. From what he told us the car situation had been a hassle. The Washington powers-that-be had first instructed Lincoln-Mercury in Dallas that the President would require a bubble-top vehicle for the parade. At the last minute they changed their minds and said the president would ride in an open-air vehicle so people could see him better along the parade route. I recall my uncle commenting that he'd personally have preferred the bubble-top as there was as many "nuts" in Texas as anywhere else. His words proved to be prophetic.

I grudgingly went on to work and was "making busy" at a file cabinet when our supervisor, who mostly stood at a big window (we were on the third floor) looking down at the emergency entrance to Parkland Hospital, remarked that something big was happening. Six of us dropped what we were doing and joined him at the window. He had not exaggerated. There were police, cars and people running in every direction and general pandemonium in progress.

My attention was immediately riveted on the occupants of a big, black, stretch Lincoln limousine convertible that was pulling into the Parkland driveway. It contained several people, all of whom seemed to be in various stages of panic and distress. The lady in the pink suit and hat was holding on to a strange, dark lump which was obviously another human because I could see it's legs but it had something over it's head and shoulders. Another lady in the car seemed to be protectively holding a gray-haired man in a crumpled position whom I recognized as Texas Governor John Connally and his wife Nellie. We did not know, as yet, that the lump being held by the lady in the pink suit and hat was the President of the United States John F. Kennedy and his protector was his wife Jacqueline Kennedy. When the limousine stopped it was immediately surrounded by Parkland Hospital staff and most of the other people that had been standing around in the immediate area and our view was entirely blocked. The police immediately cleared away those that were not in hospital garb and our view was restored.

While we were all at the window someone in the office had turned on a small radio and the news was blaring that President John F. Kennedy had been shot while riding in the motorcade in downtown Dallas and was enroute to Parkland Hospital via Stemmons Freeway. No, I thought to myself, he has arrived at Parkland Hospital and I'm looking at the whole sordid mess right now. There's no way to describe the feeling that came over all of us. Some of the ladies began to openly weep, our supervisor began to curse vehemently and I remained frozen to the scene below me in total shock. I wished, with all my heart, I'd been anywhere else in the universe yet couldn't draw myself away from the window.

There were vivid patches of red visible in the limousine and they became even more evident as hospital attendants began removing the two men from the automobile. They had great difficulty getting Governor Connally out of the car and on a gurney. In attempting to get the President out of the car the dark cloth that had covered his head and shoulders (which I later learned was Secret Service Agent Clint Hill's jacket) slipped away and there was a red blob where the President's head should have been. Subsequently news reports would indicate the President died after monumental attemps to save his life at Parkland and I'm sure that's true. He might still have been breathing when the limousine pulled into Parkland but in my mind, both then and to this day, the President had to be clinically dead when the car arrived due to the magnitude of the head wound.

The incredible scene at Parkland escalated rapidly. The crowd grew as did the police presence and those of us in the small office forgot we were there to work. It wasn't long until the news came over the radio that the President was dead. Our supervisor dismissed us all and we left the building. It was early afternoon in Dallas and I had to get on Stemmons Freeway, a major artery in Dallas, to get home. Traffic on Stemmons was famous for being unusually fast moving and bumper-to-bumper. That day it was eerily quiet and nearly vacant. It seemed traffic had vanished in thin air, traffic noise was non-existent and the few cars travelling the freeway seemed to be moving at a snail's pace as though already in a funeral procession. Dallas had gone into mourning.

The events following the President's death were closely watched on television by all of us. We watched President Lyndon Baines Johnson being sworn in aboard Air Force I and watched Jack Ruby shoot Lee Harvey Oswald, the accused assassin of President Kennedy. Watching the shooting of Lee Harvey Oswald was when I first realized I knew Jack Ruby! I had been introduced to him several weeks before at his downtown Dallas night club. It had been a brief introduction by a member of our little group and I don't recall giving any thought to Jack Ruby one way or another. The man who introduced us to him said (after Ruby had walked away) that Jack had big connections with the Mafia. To a country girl the Mafia was the stuff of tall tales and had nothing to do with me. As I had no reason to pursue a friendship with Jack Ruby; I didn't and may have dodged my first bullet as in days to come several of Jack's friends, employees and casual acquaintances were found inexplicably dead.

Time passed and the upcoming trial of Jack Ruby was the huge news story of the day. Still looking for a permanent, full time, job; it was about that time I answered an ad in the newspaper for a secretary that was proficient in shorthand, a speed typist and available for extensive travel within the continental United States. I mailed my resume to the post office box given and was subsequently granted an interview with a lawyer in downtown Dallas. It was the strangest, most mysterious interview I ever had in my life.

The lawyer was a young, very short and very personable Jewish man and for all the world I thought I'd get the job as it seemed I filled the bill on every skill he required. I was surprised when he said, and I quote: "So far you are absolutely the most qualified candidate I've interviewed for this position. I cannot hire you, however, because you are an attractive, young woman and nearly six feet tall. This job requires someone that can go in and out of lots of places with me and not attract attention. Your height alone (he himself was probably somewhere around 5' 5") would immediately draw attention to us." He ended the interview by telling me he was on the legal team that would defend Jack Ruby. Looking back, this is the occasion I probably dodged my second bullet by not getting the job. It's highly possible if I had -- at some point I would have known too much!

Fast forward a bit and by then I've found a job as administrative assistant to the executive manager of several large and famous restaurants in Dallas. In that role I had occasion to meet many of the vendors (from which we purchased supplies for all the restaurants) and one was the owner of a very large dairy company in Dallas. He came to visit my boss one day after Jack Ruby had been convicted of murder and given the death penalty. Through the open door I could hear the conversation between the two men very clearly.

They were discussing Jack Ruby as the visiting dairy man was a long-time acquaintance of Ruby through both their affiliations with the large, Jewish community in Dallas. He told my boss that Jack Ruby would never be put to death by the State of Texas as a man of Jewish descent had never been executed in Texas and never would be. My boss queried as to how the death sentence would be avoided. He was told that Ruby would probably suffer some incurable illness while awaiting the death penalty and die of it before execution. At the time I gave the answer little thought but it came back when indeed, Ruby became ill and died of "cancer" before the death sentence could be carried out. I've since wondered if Ruby died of cancer or a little help from his friends who often visited him in jail.

Fast forward again. Years have passed and I'm now living in southern Louisiana. One of my dearest gentleman friends was a wealthy restauranteur and I visited often in his palatial home. He had a long-time friend whom we'll call "John." John, an elderly gentleman of the old South, also visited often in my friend's home -- especially on Sunday mornings when there was always a late morning get-together which we all referred to as "High Mass." We'd have Bloody Marys and exchange stories, catch up on local gossip and generally just hang out. John was in the automobile business and a rich, high muckety-muck in the automobile hierarchy. He was closely associated with some "union business" pertaining to the auto industry and attended meetings in South America on several occasions. I heard him use Mr. Hoffa's name on more than one occasion, just in general, run-of-the-mill conversation, as though they were or had been acquainted.

One Sunday the subject of the assassination of President Kennedy came up. With no emotion whatsoever John casually remarked (but with great conviction) that "of course there was an assassination plot and it reached from coast to coast and beyond." When queried as to the part John thought Lee Harvey Oswald played in the whole thing John bluntly said he was just a "tool" as was Jack Ruby. Our host instantly changed the subject and we all breathed a sigh of relief as you could have cut the tension in the room with a knife. It was obvious the subject was uncomfortable for John.

I eventually dated one of John's employees who called one day to say he was making a "car exchange" in New Orleans for John and would I go with him. I agreed and experienced one of the most unexpected events in my entire life. I was told that John furnished, gratis, a new car to the "friend" in New Orleans every year and we would deliver this year's car and pick up the old one.

We were to meet the friend at one of the oldest and most famous bars in New Orleans to make the exchange. When we arrived in New Orleans we drove to the French Quarter and found the street where the club was located. My date, upon seeing a well-dressed man standing in a parking space pulled in. The man stepped up on the sidewalk and watched as we parked the car. Once we were parked and out of the car he nodded to my date, turned away and quickly disappeared down the street. I didn't ask any questions as we walked the two blocks to the bar.

My date apparently knew the fellow to whom we were delivering the car as upon entering the bar I followed him to a rather secluded table where one, elderly looking man, dressed in a very expensive suit, sat alone with a drink in front of him. He looked up and slightly smiled as he recognized my date. The two shook hands and exchanged car keys at the same time. We were not asked to sit down and it seemed understood between the two that their business would be brief. The man at the table inquired "Who's your lady friend?" It was only then that my date introduced me to Carlos "The Little Man" Marcello (whom I'd already recognized immediately). He was very much the mannered gentleman. I said "How do you do, Mr. Marcello" and we immediately left the bar with no further conversation. Although there'd been no exchange of information as to where the "old" car was parked my date went right to it and we got in. I still didn't question the events of the strange night as we drove home.

A few weeks later I was again at the Sunday morning "High Mass" at my restauranteur friend's home and the phone rang. Our host answered and without saying a word handed the phone to John. He took it and said "hello" and then just listened a long time. We were all sitting at the breakfast table in the kitchen and not only did the long silence on John's end become uncomfortable but his facial expression became angrier and angrier. After what seemed an eternity John, with great finality, said: "You do anything you damned well please, Ed, but if you cut 'em loose I'll send 'em back to you in a pine box," and he angrily slammed down the phone.

Curiosity apparently got the best of a first-time visitor in our little group (he was unaware one didn't question John about his business) and he stupidly asked what the phone call was all about. John matter-of-factly told him that it was the Governor of Louisiana on the other end of the line and the governor was undecided as to whether to sign off on paperwork that would release two men from prison who had murdered a friend of John's some years earlier and he wanted John's opinion. The silence was deafening in the kitchen and even the newcomer shut up. I realized at that point and without doubt that John was a serious player in some big games somewhere!

Back to the present: In reading "They've Killed the President" I suddenly became acutely aware that inadvertently, and never before realizing it, I had met or had contact with some of the prime players (whether actually involved or not) in President Kennedy's assassination -- other than trying to go to work for the lawyers that defended Jack Ruby. Thank God I was too tall to get the job as people associated in any way with the President's death (witnesses, reporters, lawyers, Ruby's employees and others) died like flies under very mysterious circumstances. Mr. Anson states in his book that 18 people died (on the record) because they had some connection to the investigation and/or the assassination of the President.There may have been many more but there's no way we'll ever know. Most of the "unexpectedly deceased" were just "little" people like me.

Today, in Dallas, tourists still visit Dealy Plaza, the place along the motorcade where the president was shot. The building near Parkland Hospital where I was working that fateful day has since been torn down to make way for bigger and better things. Dallas has grown immensely and much has changed but not the questions in the minds of many of us pertaining to President Kennedy's death.

The Warren Report was a huge disappointment and didn't even come close to fitting all the pieces of the puzzle together. Much that's been written since has been mundane at best. I personally found "They've Killed the President" by Robert Sam Anson to be the most definitive work I've read on the subject in all these years -- perhaps because Mr. Anson gives all the facts and possibilities, ties them up in several neat packages and then leaves choices and conclusions to the reader.

All my life I've been in the right place at the wrong time or the wrong place at the right time. Mr. Anson's book caused me to reflect on exactly where my life was at the time of the murder of President John F. Kennedy. It was in a place that if I'd made one wrong turn, got the secretarial job or pursued friendship with even one of the "color outside the lines" people I met back then; I could well have been the 19th victim that died or disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Most of the people from so long ago are now dead including "John" and Carlos Marcello. I still visit in the home of my delightful restauranteur friend who is now retired. Although blissfully unaware at the time; I now realize some of the most dangerous people that ever lived briefly crossed my line of life vision in those years. Hindsight is indeed 20-20!

Now, in the September years of my life, I'm finding great pleasure in collecting junk, attending garage sales, reading old books, writing stories and living in a very small town in Texas. My housemates and companions are three dogs and a huge white cat named "Dirty White Boy." If I could go back to "then" would I do it the same way again? Well, my life's never been dull but in truth --I can't honestly answer the question. One thing's for damned sure. If the "more colorful" folks that made appearances in my younger life showed up today they'd probably get stomped to death by my jackrabbit feet trying to get away from them -- but then I'm much smarter now -- you know?