by Jim Bishop
There was a mutual distrust among the savages. Oswald, standing quietly between the detectives, understood the situation. This was not one more lineup; it was a press conference. It may have been pleasing to him. He uttered no protest. The press conference was the only way in which he could restore contact with the world. He could use it to serve his ends, as the police were using it to serve theirs, and the press hoped it would satisfy theirs.
In the front of the assembly room, Wade sat on a desk, dangling his legs. He was a man almost impervious to danger, but he had an uneasy feeling that there was no way out of this room. It was a mob, pressed face-to-face. Without the pencils, the pads, the portable tapes, and the cameras, the faces might have been cast in a motion picture about a lynching. They were angry faces, and they pressed forward and receded in waves. The district attorney shouted to a policeman: “You’d better get some officers in here to protect him!”
The tall solemn figure of Captain Will Fritz could be seen in the hall. He tried to elbow his way into the room, but he failed. A dozen detectives, preceded by the chief, forced their way into the front of the big room with Lee Harvey Oswald. He was a bobbing figure in a vortex of police helmets and ten-gallon hats. Wade saw them coming and waved the reporters back from the rostrum. He saw one lined face above the crowd, over in a corner, and absentmindedly wondered where he had seen it before. It was probably some local reporter or radio commentator. In the hall, Will Fritz still hoped that Curry would put Oswald up on the stage. He would be out of arm’s reach of the press, and besides he could be yanked offstage into the prison admitting office in a trice. Curry told the police to put Oswald down front. The wall of protection around the prisoner kept the reporters three feet away.
The inner circle of policemen began to jostle policemen already in the room. There wasn’t sufficient space to step out of the way. A roar of sound enveloped the room as the crowd saw Lee Harvey Oswald. Still cameras were held overhead and aimed in the direction of the protective circle around the prisoner. The place smelled of stale sweat and fetid breath. When the prisoner was in front of the lectern, the press yelled to the police: “Down in front! Down in front! Let’s get a look at him. Is this the guy, chief? Did he do it? We can’t hear anything. Hey, Oswald, why did you shoot Kennedy? How about a statement?”
Ruby, crouched on the little table, saw the police guard flex their knees and he studied Oswald closely. There was a purplish bruise under one eye. The prisoner had not uttered a word, but the nightclub owner interpreted Oswald’s expression as being “proud of what he had done.” He thought that the suspect was smirking. Oswald acknowledged the greeting of the mob by raising both manacled hands over his head. Jack Ruby saw it as a clenched-fist communist salute.
In a doorway, Gregory Olds watched. He could hear unintelligible shouts. Near the director of the Dallas branch of the American Civil Liberties Union stood a law professor from Southern Methodist University named Webster. Another authority on law, Greer Ragio, stood nearby. Henry Wade noticed them and cupped his hands to ask Chief Curry about Oswald’s civil rights. The chief said that “those people” had been given an opportunity to talk to the prisoner.
“Well, I was questioned . . .” Oswald began. The crowd yelled: “Louder! Louder!” The cordon of policemen around the prisoner began to tense. They looked for a nod from someone to take the prisoner out of the room. “Well, I was questioned,” the prisoner said louder, and his voice began to crack with the volume. “I was questioned by a judge.” The crowd began to grow quiet. Those who continued to yell “Louder!” were told to “Shut up!”
Every eye was on Oswald. He could read the expressions. They were not friendly to his cause. The objective press was subjective. It was a hanging jury. “However, I protested at the time that I was not allowed legal representation during that very short and sweet hearing.” They had no time for his protests or his sarcasm. “Did you do it?” they yelled. “Did you shoot the President?”
“I really don’t know what the situation is about,” he said calmly. “Nobody has told me anything except that I am accused of—” The voice faltered. “—of murdering a policeman. I know nothing more than that. I do request someone to come forward to give me legal assistance.” No one stepped forward. His problems about lawyers were not their concern. What they came for was the story. It wasn’t Tippit; it was Kennedy. The press was determined to try anew, before this man was yanked offstage.
“Did you kill the President?” It was a simple question and it ran through the room from a dozen lips. Oswald shook his head slowly. “No,” he said. “I have not been charged with that. In fact, nobody has said that to me yet.” He was in a position to appear aggrieved. “The first thing I heard about it,” he said, almost plaintively, “was when the newspaper reporters in the hall asked me that question.”
“You have been charged—” “Nobody said what?” “Sir?” said Oswald. “What happened to your eye?” “When were you in Russia?” “Mr. Oswald, how did you hurt your eye?” The press in the rear began to shout to the press in front to repeat the questions and answers. Oswald said: “A policeman hit me.” Some of the reporters, crouched low in the front line, began to cramp. A few straightened their knees furtively. The chief nodded to a detective.
Oswald was grasped by the arm. The press conference was over. The cordon was tight around him, and the police began to propel the suspect toward the door. A radio commentator held a microphone to his lips and said: “That was Oswald, Lee Oswald, who was charged with the murder of the President of the United States, although he said he did not know it. He’s being taken back upstairs, he’s being taken back upstairs for further investigation, as Henry Wade pointed out earlier.”
The interview was a failure. The big question had been answered with “No.” His plea for counsel was a legal complaint and added no substance to the material of the story. The press might have protested that the interview was a mockery, but they had made a fiasco of it and they were silent. Some left the room running to file late stories. Others remained because they saw Henry Wade remain. It was possible that something could be salvaged by staging a conference with the district attorney.
Wade was accustomed to the give-and-take of reporters. He could handle “the boys.” As the chief law enforcement officer of Dallas County, his concern would have to be with possibly prejudicing the rights of the defendant to a fair trial. He could snap “No comment” to any question which held a hint of danger. He lowered his head as he sat on the edge of the desk and swung a big foot off the floor.
”He’s been formally charged in Precinct Two of Dallas County Judge David Johnston,” he said in the toneless tone of one who has been through this situation many times. “He’s been taken before the judge and advised of his rights. He’s been charged with both killing Officer Tippit and John F. Kennedy. . . .” The reporters formed a tight scimitar. “Can you tell us any of the evidence against him so far, sir?” The D.A. shook his head. “No. We are still working on the evidence. This has been a joint effort by the Secret Service, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Dallas Police Department, the Dallas Sheriff’s Office, my office, and Captain Will Fritz has been in charge of it.”
All the credits had been pronounced. Some of the reporters wrote them. Some stared dully at the man. “What does he tell you about the killing of the President? Does he volunteer anything or what has he got to—?” “He denies it.” “Was he charged with the President’s killing?” All of the networks remembered Oswald shouting that he had not heard that charge. “11:26 P.M.” Wade said. “11:26 he was charged on the latter charge. . . .”
“Do you have a good case?” “I figure,” said Wade, squinting, “we have sufficient evidence to convict him.” He could have chosen to ignore the question. “Are there other people involved?” “There is no one else but him.” The reporters were still copying the words when the district attorney said: “—he has been charged in the Supreme Court with murder with malice. The charge carries the
death penalty, which my office will ask in both cases.” For a time it appeared that Mr. Wade could anticipate the kind of material the reporters hoped for and enunciate it without waiting for a question. “Is there a similar federal charge?” “I don’t know of any.”
The pencils and pens were whirling. “Well,” said Wade, “there is a lot of the physical evidence that was gathered, including the gun, that is on its way by Air Force jet to the FBI crime lab in Washington. It will be back here tomorrow. There are some other things that is going to delay this for probably the middle of next week before it’s presented to the grand jury.” Someone asked about witnesses. “We have approximately fifteen witnesses.” “Who,” said a reporter, trying to complete Wade’s sentence for him, “identified him as the killer of the President?” “I didn’t say that,” the district attorney snapped. “What did they do?” “They have evidence which indicates his guilt.” “Do you have anything to indicate why the man killed the President, if he so did?” “Well,” said Wade, “he was a member of the movement—the Free Cuba movement.” “Fair Play for Cuba,” said Ruby. He had heard it on the radio. “What’s the make of the rifle, sir?” “It’s a Mauser, I believe.”
“Does he have a lawyer?” “I don’t know whether he has or not. His mother has been here and his brother has been here all afternoon.” Sometimes the leonine face came up, and the D.A. studied the faces around him as a gambler might a marked deck. “Does he appear sane to you?” “Yes, he does.”
“Why do you think he would want to kill the President?” Motive is important, but the D.A. decided to forget it. “The only thing I do,” he said with exaggerated patience, “is take the evidence, present it to a jury, and I don’t pass on why he did it or anything else. We, we’re just interested in proving that he did it, which I think we have.” The questions dragged on. Some involved vital statistics. Others asked about the gun which was alleged to have killed Officer Tippit.
One, which might have induced laughter but didn’t, was: “If he has been formally charged with killing the President, how is it he says there is no connection to it?” Henry Wade stared at the man. “I just don’t know what he says. He says he didn’t do it.” An eager voice shouted: “Was he in Russia? Henry, was he in Russia?” Another voice said: “. . . and he no longer has citizenship to the United States. Is this correct, sir?” Wade said: “I can’t verify it or deny it.” “Are you looking for any other suspects at all now that you’ve got—” “We’re always looking for other suspects, but we have none at present.”
”Henry, do you think this is part of the communist conspiracy?” “I can’t say that.” “Well, do you have any reason to believe that it might be?” “No, I don’t have any reason to believe either way.” “What time will you begin in the morning with him?” “Seven or eight o’clock, I would say, roughly.” The material was growing weaker. Mr. Wade sat quietly. “Do you have some prints on him?” The question was a wild shot, but Wade electrified the group when he said: “They are on their way to Washington at present.” “Who?” “Which?” “What’s on the way to Washington?” “The gun. The rifle.” “Both guns?” “Both guns.”
Justice of the Peace Johnston watched with fascination. The questioning turned a corner when the reporters reminded Wade that Oswald said he didn’t know he had been charged with the assassination of the President. Wade said he had been filed on. Which was right? “I do not know,” the D.A. replied. “He has just been charged. I know he has been advised of the other and taken before the magistrate.” One of the newspapermen put the question to Johnston: “Did he answer that question whether the man had been advised that he’s been charged? The man said here that he didn’t know he had been, Dave. How about that?”
David Johnston thought it over. “He has not been advised that the charge of the murder of the President, because he is on capital offense on the other.” The reporters could not decipher the sentence. “He has not been advised?” one asked. The judge said: “He has not been advised.” “When will the arraignment be for the President?” Wade reclaimed his press conference. “I imagine in—tonight sometime.” The interviewers could not seem to let go of the question. “He has not been arraigned on the assassination?” “No.”
“Have there been ballistic tests made locally on the gun?” “No, sir.” On and on, the questions probed. The district attorney said: “Is that all?” but no one responded to that. The men kept asking. One struck ore by inquiring: “Sir, can you confirm the report that his wife said he had in his possession as recently as last night, or some recent time, the gun such as the one that was found in the building?” “Yes, she did.” Several voices said: “She did?” “She did, but—” “She did what? She did what?” “She said that he had a gun of this kind in his possession.” “Rifle? A rifle?” “Last night?” The district attorney sighed. He was mired in this press conference and he couldn’t extricate himself. “Last night,” he said. “It’s that—the reason I answer that question—the wife in Texas can’t testify against her husband, as you may or may not know.” It was a peculiar rationale. If a wife couldn’t testify about the rifle, Ruth Paine could swear that she heard Marina say that the rifle had been stored in a blanket in the garage. Further, the fact that a wife cannot testify would appear to impose a degree of restraint on what a district attorney can repeat of her admissions.
“Mr. Wade, was he under any kind of federal surveillance because of his background, prior to today, today’s events?” “None that I know of. We don’t have any knowledge—” “Do you think you’ve got a good case against him?” “I think we have sufficient evidence.” “Sufficient evidence to convince—to convict him of the assassination of the President?” “Definitely. Definitely.”
The district attorney started to move away from the desk. The last few questions came. “What did she say about the gun?” “She said the gun, he had a gun, a gun of this kind in his possession last night.” “Does he give any indication of breaking down?” “No, not particularly.” “Are you willing to say whether you think this man was inspired as a communist or whether he is simply a nut or a middleman?” “I’ll put it this way: I don’t think he’s a nut.” “Does he understand the charges against him?” “Yes.”
The district attorney left with David Johnston. Wade said, “You ought to go up to the jail and have him brought before you and advise him of his rights and his right to counsel and this and that.” Someone stuck a hand between them and both men stared at Jack Ruby. “Hi, Henry!” he said. “Don’t you know me? I’m Jack Ruby. I run the Vegas Club. Henry, I want you to know that I was the one who corrected you.” Ruby kept pumping the hand of the district attorney. Wade introduced David Johnston. The nightclub owner shook hands, and passed a card. It featured a line cut of a nude girl in black stockings holding a champagne glass. The wording read: “Vegas Club. Your Host, Jack Ruby.” Wade murmured that Johnston was a justice of the peace. Jack Ruby shook hands again.
He bowed away from the group and asked two strangers: “Are you Joe DeLong?” “No,” one said. “Why do you want him?” “I got to get to KLIF. I have some sandwiches.” “How about us?” Ruby hurried away. “Some other time,” he said. He had trouble getting the night number of the radio station. The doors were locked after 6 P.M. There was no way to bring the sandwiches unless he could get someone to unlock the door, and to do this he required the night phone number.
There was a surging excitement in his chest.* He felt that he had been deputized as a reporter. He was helping the press to get the facts straight. Ruby asked nothing in return. He had a compulsion to be a part of this great story. He had to be “in it.” Sandwiches were not enough. Correcting Mr. Wade was not enough. Giving out cards to his nightclubs was not enough. Some recipients smiled, crumpled the card, and dropped it. Others had the effrontery to ask: “What will this get me?” No, it was far better to be part of history than to study it.
Ruby saw a man walking by with a microphone and handed a card to Icarus M. Pappas of
WNEW, New York City. Mr. Pappas glanced at it and stuck it in a pocket. Another man carried a portable machine stenciled KBOX. The nightclub owner asked him for the phone number of KLIF and got it. There was a row of phone booths, and Jack Ruby got into one next to Mr. Pappas, who was phoning New York. KLIF answered the ring and Ruby said: “I’m Jack Ruby. I have some sandwiches and good pickles for DeLong and the night crew. I hear you’re working late.”
Outside the booth he could see Pappas trying to attract the attention of Henry Wade. “Hold it a minute,” said the deputized reporter and brought the district attorney to the radio reporter. He popped back into the booth and said: “How would you like an interview with Henry Wade? I can get him for you.” The man at KLIF thought it was fine. Wade was talking to Pappas when Ruby took him by the arm gently and said: “There’s a call for you, Henry.” Wade went into the booth and was interviewed.
When it was over, Wade held the receiver for Ruby. “Now,” said Ruby into the phone, “will you let me in?” The night man said: “All right. I’ll leave the door open for five minutes. Just five minutes.” The station was a block away. To Ruby it represented a crisis. He could walk the block within five minutes, but the sandwiches and soda were in the car. If he reached the car, he might as well use it to drive to the radio station.
He was up on the main floor, almost trotting, when someone grabbed his arm. “Jack,” said a bright young face, “where is everything happening?” It was Russ Knight, radio reporter of KLIF. He carried a portable taping machine. The novice reporter thought about it for a moment. “Come on downstairs,” he said. Knight was from the station whose attention he was soliciting. It was important to show as many of these people as possible that Jack Ruby could do things for them that they could not do themselves. In the basement, Ruby said: “Henry, this is Russ Knight of KLIF” and hurried back to the main floor.