Fatal Vision

by Joe McGinniss

  "Well, were the Kassabs supportive of Jeff and Colette?"

  "Are you kidding? Jeff was going to be a doctor. He could have been blind, deaf, and dumb, and a four-legged nanny goat, and Mildred would have been happy that Colette was marrying him because he was going to be a doctor. She was just marrying off a daughter for the money angle. So if you are asking me did they back Jeff and Colette, yes. If that is what you call backing."

  "Has there been any change in this relationship?"

  "Well, I would daresay that Jeff probably has lost respect for the man since Freddy has done a 180-degree turn. Not because he's against my brother but because he was for him and now he's against him. He was totally for him through the whole pretrial hearing. Now, you know, after the whole thing's over and because somebody hasn't been brought to justice or to trial or whatever, he's willing to turn around and sacrifice somebody he'd really supported."

  "Does Jeff talk to you about this?"

  "If I talk to him on the phone, like he'll say, 'Freddy's making waves.' Meaning that the guy is—I mean my brother lost a wife and two kids and is at a loss for what to do. And he sort of gets to feeling that Freddy and Colette's mother think that they are the only people that lost somebody. And Colette's not even Freddy's own daughter."

  "Let's go to February 17th," Victor Woerheide said. "When did you first hear about the fact that Jeff was in the hospital and Colette had been killed?"

  "I was at a friend's apartment in Queens, and I heard a radio broadcast that said there had been a murder in North Carolina, that a Captain MacDonald had been wounded seriously and that he was in a hospital and that his wife and two children had been murdered."

  "Did you make any arrangements to go to North Carolina?" "No. I made arrangements to go back to the hospital." "Well, did you subsequently go to North Carolina?" "Yes."

  "Did you stay very long?"

  "I don't know how long we stayed. But we attended a ceremony at a Catholic shrine or one of the churches at Fort Bragg and there were three white coffins on the podium where the honcho stands, and my brother was in front of me.

  "I remember him walking in very, very slowly. He was in uniform, but he seemed to be like—like he could hardly walk. He shuffled like an old man would shuffle.

  "My brother's the kind of guy that would—he's always breaking something, breaking bones or getting hurt or something, but the kind of guy that, you know, two salt tablets and another mile. You know, never give up. And he wouldn't have showed that he was hurting unless he had to.

  "And he was hurting when he walked into that church. The whole thing didn't last too long. And when we walked back outside, there was nothing to say. He stood in front of me and he was shaking because he was quite weak, plus he was emotionally drained. I knew that he was really hurting. I knew that he was hurting physically and I knew that he was hurting emotionally. And I was at a loss for words. For the first time in my life I didn't know what to say. I mean, I didn't even know how to console him—my brother. I didn't know what to say. He just stood in front of me and there was nothing I could say. Then he was put into one of the Army cars and taken back to the hospital."

  "I'm not trying to pinpoint this as to time and place," Victor Woerheide said, "but sometime thereafter did you talk to your brother about what happened on February 17th?"

  "Well, I know there was no conversation about it until he was charged by the Army. Then, like, a little seed was planted in the back of my mind as to, you know, thinking that the Army can never make a mistake—that if the Army would charge my brother, then quite possibly he might be guilty.

  "So I felt that in order to live with myself, I had to make up my mind whether or not my brother was a murderer. It took me two years to decide that he wasn't, only because I never, ever wanted to ask him point-blank."

  "I take it you did not point-blank ask him?"

  "I never did. No."

  "But you talked to him?"

  "Right."

  "What did he say to you?"

  "He used to get so mad and upset that I had the audacity to ask him those kind of questions to the point where he would yell and scream at me—not yell and scream, but I mean, like, more or less tell me to mind my own business and how could I be so stupid as to ask a question like that."

  "You said that ultimately you became satisfied in your own mind that Jeff did not, in fact, kill Colette, Kimberly, and Kristen. What was it that satisfied you?"

  "We were on a long-distance telephone conversation, I believe between Pennsylvania and California. And this has been after like months and months, if not years, of talking back and forth on the phone and when we were together and me asking in my own stupid way about what happened.

  "And as stupid as this sounds I don't remember what the question was, but the way my brother responded left no doubt in my mind that he was innocent."

  "What was it he said? What was the clincher?"

  "The clincher was there was nothing he could say. He was crying. He broke down over the telephone."

  "He cried?"

  "And cried. In other words, it was—the only other time that I ever heard him like that was when I called him and told him that Daddy died. Like I could hear him break down on the phone and there was silence for a long time. And that was what happened when I talked to him in California.

  "What I was trying to do was to get him to break. I wanted him to yell at me and tell me to shut up or go fuck myself or get lost, or something like that which would cast a doubt in my mind, but when he broke down the way he did—as if: 'the government's against me, I lost my family, and now you, my own brother, are going to turn on me.'

  "That was like the straw that broke the camel's back. 1 realized once and for all, come hell or high water, that my brother was absolutely, totally innocent of all charges.

  "The embarrassing thing is I don't even remember the question I asked him, but because of the nature of his response—the emotional level—that was something that could never possibly be faked. There is no way to fake something like that."

  "Did Jeff ever tell you, after the Article 32 was over, that he was going to get revenge?"

  "He told me he had been out looking for these people in North Carolina."

  "Did he tell you at any time that he had found one of the people?"

  "I vaguely recollect hearing that. Now, I don't know whether Jeff told me or whether that's just part of my knowledge of the case."

  "Did he tell you what he had done when he found this person?" "No."

  "Did he tell you that he had forced him to admit that he was one of the intruders and after forcing this admission from him, that he killed him?"

  "No."

  "Had he told you that, would you believe him?" "Well, depending on the circumstances. In other words, if he told me that in a joking manner, I would take that as a joke." "Let's say he told you over the telephone." "It's not a joking matter."

  "No, it's not a joking matter. Say he told it to you over the telephone, or he wrote you a letter. He says that if you tell anybody about what I've said over the phone I'll deny it. And he wrote you a couple more letters, and he says, 'I've gotten revenge as to one of them and I'm still looking for the others.' Would you believe it? Knowing Jeff the way you do?"

  "Did that happen?"

  "He said it happened."

  "Where is the body?"

  "You haven't answered my question."

  "The stakes are getting high." "Then he said he lied about it." "Then he said he lied about it?" "He said it was all a lie."

  "Wait. First of all you're giving me what appears to be a hypothetical situation, although the situation, in fact, might be true. Then you're asking me to give an opinion about—"

  "I'm trying to probe into what sort of person Jeffrey MacDoe-ald is, that's all."

  "Well, you'd have to give me a little more information, since my brother's involved and there's a lot of—in other words, what—why would he kill the person?"

  "If he said t
his to you, would you believe him? That's my question."

  "If he said it, I'd have to believe him."

  "And if he said afterwards it's a lie, then you'd believe it was a lie?"

  "Yes. But, I mean, if you want to get into something that heavy, I would certainly want more detail."

  "Would you have a lingering doubt—if he said it was a lie—about having believed him the first time?"

  "I'm not sure I quite understand what you're saying. If you're asking me if my brother is capable of committing murder, then I say, if his family had been murdered, yes, he's capable of murdering somebody. If his family wasn't murdered, then I say he's not capable of murder."

  "You had a lingering doubt for two years—do you think he was capable of murdering his family?"

  "No."

  "Why?"

  "He's too—he's too smart for that."

  "It's not a matter of morals or ethics? It's just a matter of not getting himself in a bind like that?"

  "Right. He's smart enough to know that there's a hundred alternatives."

  "Is he smart enough to think he could beat it?"

  "My brother is not the kind of person that would put himself in the position of having to beat something."

  "Mr. MacDonald," Victor Woerheide said, "as you know we have three dead people. As you know, there are possible suspects. These suspects include your brother, since he was the only survivor left in the house that morning and the only information given came from him. His story may be believable or it may not be believable. But is there anything that you can think of, that you can tell this grand jury at this time that might throw some light on the matter?"

  "If I thought it would do any good, I would be prepared right now to sit here for the next five years and on to infinity and continue talking. I'd read the Bible backwards, forwards, and sideways, and tear up phone books on my brother's behalf.

  "He was cleared of all charges against him, and for him to be subjected to the same type of interrogation over and over again is beyond my comprehension. And it is beyond my sister's comprehension, my mother's comprehension, doctors that my brother is currently working with or has worked with in the past, people that he served with in the military, friends of the family, priests, lawyers, I could go on and on about what everybody seems to feel is the ridiculousness of the situation.

  "In other words, how long can this go on? In other words, if he's found not guilty the second time, four years later somebody decides that my brother is supposed to be subjected to the same sort of thing and the whole process repeats itself again?"

  "Mr. MacDonald, there hasn't been any trial of the ultimate issue in this case. To wit: who killed—"

  "You say there hasn't been any trial! In the sense of how you or whatever are the law agencies of any particular state or nation defines trial. In other words a trial is, quote, such and such.

  "But I firmly believe that my brother has been on trial, as have other members of our family. Because our ways of life have been interfered with. Our psychological advantages or disadvantages, if you will, have been interfered with to a great degree. Our whole course of activity has been greatly interfered with. If that isn't a trial of sorts, I couldn't begin to tell you what I think a trial is."

  "Mr. MacDonald, you've been brought here to contribute any information that you can that will be helpful to the grand jury in resolving the matter, particularly any information that might be helpful or beneficial as far as the possible involvement of your brother is concerned. Do you have anything you wish to offer the grand jury?"

  "Freddy was on my brother's side, and when the whole thing was over and done with and no scapegoat had been found, Freddy turned against my brother and used his influence with somebody in the State Department or in politics in Washington somewhere—turned the whole matter around and put the onus on my brother."

  "If you feel that there has been anything wrong said or done at any time during the course of this investigation by anyone, including Freddy Kassab, and you feel you have something that would be helpful to the grand jury, and might be beneficial to your brother, now is the time to say it." "What good would it do?"

  "Do you want to say it or do you not? It's up to you."

  "What can I say?"

  "Whatever you have on your mind."

  "This is absolutely incredible."

  "You have nothing to say?"

  "I have a lot to say."

  "Say it."

  "What good will it do? My telling you my brother is innocent, that doesn't help me, it doesn't help him—"

  "You weren't there. You don't know what happened. I know that. But tell us whatever you want to tell us."

  "My brother's getting a raw deal."

  "Is that it?"

  "This whole thing is a sham, a farce." "Is that it?"

  "This whole thing has reeked from the beginning." "Is that it?"

  "I understand full well the amount of bullshit that is involved in this whole thing." "Is that it?"

  "As far as you guys and all your investigators, I am on the twentieth floor and I think you are a pile of shit, and I didn't think they piled shit that high."

  Another of the Army psychiatrists who had examined Jeffrey MacDonald at Walter Reed in 1970 testified.

  "We began rather innocuously," he said. "I took a little past history, a general history of his childhood. He talked about his slipped disc and how it happened. There were four minutes to go in a varsity game, and the coach was keeping all the seniors in. Even though he had all this profound pain, he continued. I don't know whether they won the game or not. Then he talked about running the athletic program for the fraternity he was in at Northwestern medical school.

  "I asked him what he did for fun as a child, and he talked about reading. He said he read more than most other kids. He read everything. He read all the Lassie books. Later, he liked to read history. He enjoyed reading to his own children. He now reads mystery books. And he said he deliberately will not try to figure out the end. He doesn't try to outguess Sherlock Holmes, he said. He's read all of James Bond, Mickey Spillane, John D. MacDonald.

  ^He said he liked his jump training at Benning. He liked challenges. 'It's like are you man enough?' he said. He lived through it, therefore he stood up to the challenge. The people around him liked his attitude and that was important to him.

  "His decision to go into paratroopers was because they were 'hard-core.' He talked about calling his wife to tell her he had decided to go into Special Forces. 'She knows how I respond to these guys.'

  "Out of four hundred thirty docs at Fort Sam, only two signed up for Special Forces. 'I'm kind of proud of you,' he said his wife told him. 'The fact that you take the hardest thing to do and you do it well.'

  "He talked about enjoying his work—working with dedicated, real soldiers. He was interested in what really motivated those guys. It was exciting. It was patriotic. Not second-rate.

  "Then I tried to go backwards," the psychiatrist said, "into various, what I thought were neutral, not-charged areas. I asked about his growing up and he talked to me about his dog, a collie named Lady, that had been poisoned.

  "The way I conduct an interview is to try not to ask questions. I try to sit back and let the person talk. Then I try to go with the person wherever he moves to, because not only is the question important, but what he says and how he says it and what areas he moves to after are important.

  "And he talked to me about his dog and his dog being poisoned by a neighbor lady and about his going away. He rode a bike five miles to a park and he sat there all day. And he felt the police had let him down because, I think, he asked them to perform an autopsy on the dog and they said they couldn't do that.

  "And from there he moved—by his own volition—to talking about a pony that he had purchased for his children and his wife. And how he stabled the pony in a barn and that he would go with the children to feed the pony and care for it. He was talking rather glibly at this point.

  "He s
aid initially Colette didn't want to have the pony. But that she now went out with them and would be with the children and the horse. And at that point—quite unexpectedly—his mood changed very dramatically. He started to cry. And I said, 'What are you crying about?' And he said he was crying about his family, and he really became quite upset, crying quite heavily.

  And he began to say that it's not right. That it shouldn't have happened—that he never did anything wrong, and it's just not right. It was very striking, the amount of feeling that was being expressed here. He said that he had taken care of some of the crummiest people in the world and how could such a thing happen—how could this possibly happen?

  "Then he started talking about how wonderful his wife was— that she was one of the kindest persons he had ever known and that he still wakes up and expects her and the children to be there. And that he has to fight constantly to be cool and competent. And that he has a tremendous feeling of guilt about not being competent—not being able to handle the situation. Then he goes into tears again.

  "I asked, at this point, about how he thought all this would come out. He said, These proceedings? I'll get out of these proceedings. I've got the most competent lawyer in the world. And he's got the best of all possible worlds—an innocent client.'

  "And then he went on and became quite angry and began a long tirade about the incompetency of the Army investigators, which to me—I didn't know anything about what was going on. In fact, I had started by telling him I didn't want to hear about it. So they might have been incompetent, for all I knew. But he went into detail, saying, you know, first of all they didn't respond and then when they did respond they came in and destroyed the crime scene, and then they absolutely refused to go out and look for the people that did it. The FBI just ran away from the case—a whole list of tirades. He was really angry at the Army for their misconduct.