Twenty-Six Seconds

by Alexandra Zapruder

  This was, of course, not the end of the matter. There would be no end to it. The debates about the validity of the acoustic evidence, in addition to the visual, ballistic, and forensic evidence and the eyewitness testimony continued—and continue to this day.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE FLOODGATES OPEN

  Beginning in 1975, my father found himself the guardian of the original Zapruder film and the rights to it, responsible for deciding who could use it and under what circumstances, how to provide copies, and when to license it for fees or provide it for free. He was a young tax attorney at the time, in private practice at a firm called Cohen and Uretz, having worked first at the Justice Department and then at Treasury. In August 1970, a young redheaded woman named Anita Lawless turned up at the firm, having applied for a job as a secretary. She would work with my father for thirty-five years and, not unlike Lillian Rogers, she would become a loved and trusted member of our family. Although her job was to support him in his tax practice, which was very busy and often intense, she also took on another critical role, working with my father as he sorted out how to handle the film and the many demands that came with it.

  In 2011, I interviewed Anita about her years working with my father and especially how they handled the Zapruder film. I began by asking her to describe her first impressions of my dad and what it was like when she came to work for him before the film was returned to our family. She told me that she had been interviewed by one of the other partners, and then my dad was supposed to meet her but was late, which, if you knew him, would not come as a surprise. Suddenly, the door swung open, she said, “and this very tall man comes in, sits down on this tiny chair that’s by the wall, and just looks at me. And he says, ‘Okay. Yeah, I just have a couple of questions.’ And I said, ‘Okay.’ And he says, ‘Now, really this is my only question,’ he says. ‘If I have a draft of something and I dictate it and you type it in draft, and then if I write on it and give it back to you, and then you correct it, and then I write on it again and give it back to you and you correct it again…’ he said. ‘Now, if I do this, like, seventeen times, is that going to bother you?’”

  She started her new job in early September 1970 while my parents were in Dallas for my grandfather’s funeral. After my father returned to Washington, it took a few weeks for them to click. Anita remembers that in the beginning he would never talk to her but would appear suddenly from around the corner, scaring her to death, throwing dictation tapes at her and then disappearing into his office. She typed as fast as she could, and no sooner did she finish something than he would reappear and hand her another draft, or more dictation tapes, and then vanish again. Weeks went by like this, during which time she occasionally tried to ask a question but found that he would not answer the door when she knocked. She would go home at night and cry.

  Finally, she decided she needed to either quit or talk to him. She went into his office and explained her problem: “‘Well, you know, I’m here to do whatever you want me to do, you know, but you come out there frantic and you throw things at me and then you run back in your office and slam the door.’ And he’s like, ‘Oh. Well, I don’t mean to do that,’ he says. ‘I don’t know why I do that.’ Then he thought for a minute, and he said, ‘Yes, I do know why I do that. When I was at Treasury, you know, I didn’t have a secretary. It was a typing pool. To get the secretaries to do anything, you had to run out there and scream at them and throw the stuff and run away so they couldn’t find you. Because if they found you, they’d bring you the tape back and say, “I can’t do this.” So that’s why I don’t answer the door.’” Anita laughed when she told me this story. She told me that she said to him, “I’ll do anything you want, but just don’t throw things and don’t run away.” “I can do that,” he said. “That’s good. That would be much better.” From then on, she said, “it was just peachy. Everything got so much better. He still would bring the tapes in and he’d throw them and then smile. A great, big smile.”

  The copyright to the film had been registered with our family on April 11, 1975, and shortly thereafter, Henry established a company to handle the finances and taxes related to the film. It was incorporated as the LMH Company (the initials of Lillian, Myrna, and Henry, the immediate heirs of Abraham Zapruder). In 1978, Henry and his mother brought the original film to the National Archives to put it in safekeeping there. I suppose he must have gone up to New York to get it from the safe deposit box and bring it back to Washington but I don’t know anything specific about that. The agreement with the National Archives was clear and specific. The film was being entrusted to them for safekeeping; it was not a donation or gift. It would still belong to our family and could be removed by us or our representatives at any time. The goal was to ensure that it was safely preserved in the proper archival conditions, that it was physically secure, and that no harm would come to it.

  As soon as LIFE returned the film and copyright to our family, Henry began getting requests for its use. Since it had essentially been under embargo for the twelve years that it was owned by LIFE, the executives there had never hashed out a policy regarding public access and use of the film. There was no road map for Henry to follow, and no experience to draw upon. He was going to have to make it up as he went along. For the next twenty-five years, Henry handled licensing and all other aspects of the film’s legal status on behalf of our family under the auspices of LMH.

  To my surprise, I found a few letters in my father’s files from April 1975 that Dick Pollard, by then retired from LIFE, had sent to my father. They seemed to be in response to a request for advice about what to do with the film. Pollard wrote that there was the possibility that a “Hollywood group would buy the film outright,” giving my grandmother a set sum of money as an option and “so much per year thereafter, as a guaranteed sum or a piece of the action.” He also mentioned that there was a wealthy distributor of foreign films, “a gentleman you can trust completely” who was “not motivated by money” and who might help arrange a sale, and there was the possibility that the BBC might handle a US sale. Finally, Pollard suggested a picture agency run by two brothers, who he said were honorable and could be trusted to handle it.

  The problem, as Pollard outlined very clearly to Henry, was that the film continued to be pirated and shown illegally, not only privately but also on television. Dick wrote: “Mort Sahl ran your film on Channel 13 Friday night. Poor quality to be sure but a frightening erosion of copyright. I’m not an expert on preservation of copyright but from my experiences with the Zapruder film I came to the conclusion that if Time Inc. did not consistently prosecute every invasion of copyright the pirating would proliferate and eventually, a judge might say that the film was public domain.” He went on to advise Henry to have a lawyer stop Sahl, by lawsuit if necessary, and to let it be known that the film was now owned by “your mother, a widow, and not a cold corporate entity like Time Inc.”

  Henry responded to this letter with a warm one of his own, thanking Dick for his expertise and help. He had two proposals for use of the film in documentaries to consider at the time, and none of the other possibilities could work until those were resolved. In the end, he rejected both of the offers, and his correspondence with Dick Pollard on the subject ends there. He had clearly decided not to sell the film and not to turn his decision-making responsibilities over to an agent. Perhaps he hoped that he could manage it himself without it being too burdensome. And although the film became a very considerable responsibility, and there were plenty of problems along the way, he and Anita did essentially manage it themselves for the next thirteen years. Henry’s friend Bob Trien, who had handled the negotiations with LIFE over the return of the film, also remained involved in managing the film, fielding requests, advising my father, corresponding with organizations and individuals on his behalf, and generally helping to lessen the growing load of requests wherever possible.

  It took me many days of concentrated effort to pore over the request letters, responses, licenses,
and other correspondence related to the film from 1975 until 1991, when circumstances regarding the film changed again. Requests came from news programs and personalities on every network, including the Today show, Nightline, Entertainment Tonight, Geraldo Rivera, Phil Donahue, and Oprah Winfrey, to name just a few, in addition to public television stations. Film requests ranged from the obvious—producers making movies about the death of Kennedy—to the far-fetched, such as one from a director making a movie about the prophecies of Nostradamus. Hollywood came calling quite a few times. Requests came from Japan, Canada, Australia, Germany, Belgium, Italy, and France. (International licensing of the film was ultimately handled by a company called Colorfic!)

  People wrote to request the use of stills in books about the assassination—among them well-known assassination researchers like Harold Weisberg, David Lifton, and John K. Lattimer. There were also writers, artists, theater directors, independent documentary filmmakers, scientists, medical doctors, and law enforcement agencies. Other requests came from writers of books on copyright law, history readers, or archivists and librarians who wanted a copy for their collections.

  Requests came in from editors of newspapers, magazines, and journals ranging from the Dallas Morning News to the Atom (a periodical from Los Alamos Scientific Laboratory). There were requests for use of the film’s images in exhibitions about Kennedy in Dallas and about the history of newspapers at the Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago, for projection on the side of a building, for use by an Italian playwright in his latest work; and there were appeals from private collectors who wanted the film for their own personal reasons. For commercial use (that is, where the organization would profit from use of the images), Henry and Anita set fees. Rates for stills were fairly modest, in the range of a few hundred dollars, but for the moving footage by the networks or major film producers, fees could range from several thousand dollars to as much as $20,000–$30,000 in later years, depending on how often the work would be aired, how it would be distributed, and the like.

  The majority of requests came from individuals, primarily from researchers, teachers, or students. A teacher writing from a small farming community twenty miles west of Champagne, Illinois, wrote: “I would like very much to have a copy of the Zapruder film and not, I repeat not, because of the graphic depiction of Kennedy’s wounds but because the Zapruder film may very well be the most important piece of historical film taken in the last 20 years.” There is a marked contrast between these letters and the requests for commercial use. Many individuals wrote heartfelt personal letters to my father, expressing sensitivity about the burden that the film represented and explaining their own reasons for wanting to see it. A young man from Montreal, Canada, wrote: “I have recently attempted to reach you by telephone to speak with you regarding the historical films recorded by your father. Unfortunately, I was not able to talk to you… I can understand your position as I imagine you have been pestered frequently on the subject and are quite weary about the whole thing.” A researcher from Flint, Michigan, requested a copy of the film, with the following caveat: “I wish to state that the film is strictly for my own personal use, and no misuse of the film is intended. I am willing to sign a statement to that effect and pay whatever fees are involved… I am aware that there are many bootleg copies of the film currently on the market, but hope that my coming to you will give you an indication of my honorable intentions.” Another researcher explained his wanting the film by saying, “The young people don’t remember President Kennedy or the controversy over his murder, and with the aid of showing this film, maybe one of them will be the researcher possible for bringing his killer to justice.”

  There are a few letters that stand out, capturing the personal feeling that so many strangers had when writing to our family. One interested student of the assassination wrote from Iowa in April 1977: “I wish to express my sincere gratitude to you and the Zapruder family for permitting me the right to secure a copy of your father’s film. The act of kindness will not be forgotten or misused.” When, two years later, this same individual wrote again because his copy of the film had been damaged and he wanted another copy, he was deeply apologetic. “Is it possible for me to secure your permission just one more time? I promise that I will never ask this favor of you ever again. I give you my word on that… I am sure sorry to trouble you again concerning the film. If this film didn’t mean so much to me I wouldn’t think of troubling you.” Henry wrote a note to Anita in his barely legible scrawl: “OK. Tell him promise is unnecessary.”

  A favorite of mine is a letter addressed to Abe Zapruder, written many years after his death, from a gentleman in Casper, Wyoming. “Some years ago my father purchased a 16mm print of the movie you took of the assassination,” he wrote, explaining that this (presumably bootlegged) copy of the film was beginning to show signs of wear. He wanted to have it transferred to video, but the lab refused to do it unless he obtained a release form. “I have never personally requested anything of this nature from anyone and I do not have any idea as to what the cost would be for obtaining a release form from your family,” he wrote. His best guess was twenty dollars, so he enclosed a twenty-dollar bill with the word “LOVE” written on it—and a postage stamp.

  To these kinds of personal appeals, Henry usually responded with reserved politeness and agreement. He did not charge fees for nonprofit, research, teaching, or study uses. The only cost to the requester after 1978 was the administrative fee from the National Archives, which Henry instructed the company, LMH, to pay when the person couldn’t afford it.

  There must be hundreds of letters written by students from grade school all the way to university. A young boy wrote from Milwaukee to ask for a copy of the film, explaining, “I need pictures to make [my] report good.” Another boy from North Carolina wanted it for an oral presentation to go with an essay he was assigned to write. A girl wrote from Oklahoma to use the film in her science fair project. A student of criminal justice at Temple University, “staunch critic of the Warren Commission,” and member of the Philadelphia police force, made a request; so did a senior at Bishop Ward High School, a Catholic school in Kansas City, who wrote: “I had an interest in this film since the sixth grade, when I had to do a report on President Kennedy, and my mother pulled out an old LIFE magazine which the film was printed in. So I’ve always had an interest in the film, not for research but for something to have for a keepsake of a president who was shot and killed in Dallas and a president that I deeply admire.”

  To the youngest writers, Henry often wrote short personal letters, wishing them luck with their work and offering a few words of encouragement. He frequently explained that the National Archives charged a small fee and suggested that the students request an exemption. He also required that their parents cosign the permissions letters. In the mideighties, he got a letter from a young girl who handwrote on stationery printed with a sad-looking hound wearing a sailor’s cap and a T-shirt that said “Guard Dog” and holding a dripping, relieved-looking puppy in one paw. She had been reading historical biographies in school. “I have become interested in the Kennedys,” she wrote in her loopy, adolescent handwriting, “and I have been trying to get all the stuff on them that I can… Would you please be so kind as to give the Archives your permission so I can get a copy of the film? I would really appreciate it.” A few months later, she wrote again to remind him of her request, this time on Garfield stationery with scalloped edges. His answer is one of the few in the thousands he wrote that give a hint of his feelings about the film. “You certainly may have my permission to obtain a copy of the film,” he wrote. “I hope, however, that your interest in John Kennedy focuses on the constructive aspects of his life (which you may find in his own writings and the writings of those who knew him or have studied the period), rather than on the tragic circumstances recorded on this unhappy film.” Reading the letter now, I realize that I was thirteen at the time it was written, probably about the same age as this young girl. This is just th
e kind of thing he would have said to me.

  Amid the voluminous correspondence, there were, of course, a fair number of bizarre requests. For instance, one group wanted to use the film in conjunction with a political campaign and—stranger still—another group wanted it for an issues campaign about child abuse. Sometimes, the requests were in dubious taste, like a company that wanted to use an image from the film on history trading cards. Others were just downright appalling, like the proposal from a famous camera company to make an advertisement using “one of Abraham Zapruder’s grandchildren” on Dealey Plaza with a camcorder, with a voice-over telling the viewer how much clearer and better the images of the killing would have been if only he had been able to use their camera. To petitions like these, Henry often didn’t respond at all. There were other refusals made along very specific lines. For many years, there was to be no use of the film in home video productions, and he consistently declined to permit the film to be used by the National Enquirer or Star. “The National Enquirer would call,” Anita remembered, “and I would very gently try to say no, but they knew other people were getting it so I would end up finally telling the truth. I would say, ‘I’m not trying to be critical, but you are a rather sensational magazine.’ I would just tell them that Henry’s father asked that it wasn’t used for sensationalism. So I really had to say no… And that’s why we were so busy. There would be weeks when I probably got one hundred calls.”

  It could be hard to keep up with the demand for access to the film, which ebbed and flowed depending on the year and the season. There were often hiccups in the process of getting copies of the film, and the files are filled with letters from people who wrote more than once to follow up on a stalled request. Delays happened in part because Henry was an extraordinarily busy tax attorney, Anita was his constantly harassed secretary, and the film could not be their top priority. They also occurred because Anita sometimes had trouble getting Henry to attend to requests. “Sometimes, I would get very frustrated,” she remembered, “because Henry didn’t really want to think about it much. I think it made him sad. Because he would think of his dad.” More and more, Anita would handle the routine requests and set the fees, seeking Henry’s advice only if there was something unusual or complicated. Sometimes, researchers grew annoyed after several attempts to get copies of the film, but their angry letters rarely resulted in an apology. As Anita put it in a letter to one history professor, “I am in receipt of all three of your letters to Mr. Zapruder. Mr. Zapruder is an attorney and his first responsibility is to his clients. We receive many requests each month for the Zapruder film and/or the slides. We answer each request as quickly as possible… Mr. Zapruder has to consider each request and respond accordingly.”