All the Way with JFK: An Alternate History of 1964

by F. C. Schaefer

  He shook the outstretched hands and acknowledged the many signs that said some variation of “Dallas Loves JFK,” before moving on to a waiting limo. There would be no repeat of that fateful motorcade from 10 months earlier; the car sped away with a heavy police escort with the rest of us following in backup vehicles. Another parade was out of the question this time, if for no other reason than they would have to do the same thing for Senator Goldwater when he arrived the next day out of simple courtesy.

  Our destination was a large ranch house, which had been donated by a prominent and well-connected Democrat for the President’s use before the debate - lots of spacious rooms with high ceilings. For most of the afternoon, I simply stayed out of the way of the President’s men, who were involved in debate prep sessions with him. Later in the day, another limo arrived and out popped Vice President Johnson, who had not been at the airport to greet the President because of a campaign event in San Antonio. President Kennedy came out to greet his Vice President, who looked tired and tense.

  The two men stood in the drive for a few minutes, but instead of going inside, they strolled out into the yard, all the way to a far corner. There they stood for some time, engaged in an animated conversation: first Johnson gesticulating wildly with his hands, all but jabbing the President in the chest with his finger. At length, Johnson must have finished his say because JFK’s hands went to his hips and he began to talk for another five minutes, occasionally wagging his finger in the air as if to underscore a point. Finally, the President offered his hand, and Johnson shook it vigorously as if some agreement had been reached. I was not the only one observing, as every window in the house was filled with the President’s men, watching the drama.

  The Vice President got himself a drink and was soon regaling some junior Kennedy men with political stories from years past, while the senior men barely acknowledged his presence and kept a noticeable distance. It was a couple of hours later when an aide came and found me with the message the President wanted to see me about some point that might come up in the debate. In an upstairs office, I found the President seated at a desk with Mr. Powers and Mr. O’Donnell sitting on a couch; a chair was offered to me.

  “Colonel,” the President said, coming right to the point, “there is a conspiracy at work in this city, a conspiracy whose purpose is to destroy this administration, to undermine all the hard work we have done in the last four years. It is a conspiracy that is about to come together and succeed because it is about to get possession of evidence which could expose our dealings with certain dubious individuals who were in a position to give us aid in our efforts the rid Cuba of Castro. To the public at large these dealings will make it appear as if this administration is morally compromised; if made known, there will be lengthy investigations, Congressional hearings, which will likely be televised, grand juries impaneled and indictments issued. This could all end in trials, convictions, huge legal bills, and reputations irrevocably ruined, not to mention a jail sentence.”

  Thanks to the message from Harlow, I knew all about it, some rat was selling us out, and if that happened, my future would be grim.

  The President continued, “If this conspiracy does succeed, I will not be re-elected, there will be no summit with Khrushchev and a hard-won opportunity to change the direction of Cold War, and make the world a much safer place for our children will be lost for good. This cannot be allowed to happen, and we must do everything possible to make sure it does not happen. And to do that, Colonel Maddox, I will need your help. Earlier today, you assured me of your silence when it could be most critical; now I’m asking you to do whatever it will take to help me stop this conspiracy in its tracks before any damage is done. Can I count on you to do just that?”

  Until right then, I had not seen the whole picture nor realized how deep in the mire I had sunk.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President, whatever it takes, you can count on me.”

  After the President left the room, Mr. Powers and Mr. O’Donnell enlightened me further. “To put it in blunt language the President won’t use,” Mr. O’Donnell said, “this is about dirty laundry being aired in public. Very dirty laundry.”

  Mr. Powers was even more succinct. “There are people in Dallas gunning for the President again. What we - with your help - are going to do is make sure they take their fingers off the triggers, put their weapons down and then walk away no worse for the wear. If that does not happen, if triggers are pulled, then by this time tomorrow, this President, this administration and everyone associated with it, will be finished.”

  They then filled me in on the details of what would be occurring in the next few hours and what my part would be; looking back, what they said didn’t come close to preparing me for what really happened.

  Later in the afternoon, while most of us were catching a bite to eat, four black 1963 Chevrolet Impalas, rented from a dealer in Fort Worth, were delivered to the ranch. They were vehicles much less conspicuous than the Presidential limos or any other autos in the Presidential party, all of which were well known on sight to the press. Sometime late in the day, I was able to snag a quick shower and change into a civilian suit, something both Mr. Powers and Mr. O’Donnell had insisted I do.

  This is what happened on the evening of September 30, 1964 as I remember it.

  There was only a faint glow left in the western sky when those four rented Chevrolets left the ranch house, I was in the second car with part of the Secret Service detail, most of the others were in the first car, the President and his aides road in the third with the Vice President bringing up the rear. We drove back into Dallas, taking extra turns and slight detours to make sure no one was following.

  The car I was traveling in parked a few blocks from the hotel and we walked the rest of the way as another precaution against being followed. The Secret Service had already secured the service area and dock at the rear of the hotel by the time I arrived. The agent in charge radioed that all was clear; moments later, the one carrying the President pulled up to the dock, and John F. Kennedy got out and walked confidently up the narrow back steps into the building as if he were going to a Cabinet meeting. The rest of us, including Mr. Powers and Mr. O’Donnell, followed him inside.

  A few minutes later, the vehicle carrying the Vice President and the other agents arrived; everyone gathered just off the loading dock where we were met by the chief of the of the Secret Service, who was holding a freight elevator. This was where I got my first big surprise of the evening, for standing there in the middle of the dock was Carlos Marcello, puffing on a cigar and looking none too happy to be there, not only was the Mafia boss of New Orleans in the room, but Guy Bannister as well, along with the man with the painted on eyebrows, Neither of them appeared to be pleased to be there either, both Marcello and Bannister glowered at the President, while their companion stared at the concrete floor. When the President entered the room, two large agents placed themselves directly in front of Marcello, obviously making sure he didn’t get anywhere close to Kennedy. Marcello responded by making sure an ample amount of cigar smoke drifted into the agent’s faces.

  There were was another man there too, older and well dressed - his suit was clearly not off the rack - wearing a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and obviously not part of the New Orleans group. He was clutching a brief case tight to his chest, as though it contained something precious.

  “Is everything ready?” the President asked as he looked around the room. “Is everyone here?”

  “The cargo from DC is on its way from the airport,” Powers replied. “It’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  “It had better be,” President Kennedy said, “because if it doesn‘t, then we don’t have any rounds in our chambers; anybody else we‘re missing?”

  “My boy Johnny’s on the way,” I heard the Vice President say, “he’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  “Can’t wait on him,” Kennedy said, impatience in his voice, “we got to get this show on the road.”

  The Pres
ident, Johnson, O’Donnell, and a Secret Service contingent got on the freight elevator and rode up. It was a good long eight or nine minutes before it returned to the ground floor. During that time, I could feel more than one pair of eyes boring holes into my back; Marcello and Bannister had recognized me, but not a word was spoken while we waited. When the doors of the elevator finally rattled open, the rest of us crowded inside, leaving only a pair of agents and Dave Powers behind to guard the loading dock.

  After a quick ride up, the doors opened on a high floor filled with executive suites, the carpet in the hallway seemed especially plush. The President and the Vice President were having a discussion with the chief of the Secret Service detail, who was refusing to let them proceed until they were sure no one in a certain room was armed. I remembered what Mr. Powers had told me about there being people in Dallas gunning for the President.

  Then an agent gave us the all clear, and I followed the President down the hall to a room at the far end.

  None of my speculation could have prepared me for what happened next.

  The agent leading the way stopped and knocked at the door to Room 721, two agents went through first, then the President, followed by the Vice President; I was further back, still in the hall, but it was impossible not to hear the shout of “You Goddamn son of a bitch, you got your fuckin’ nerve,” come from within.

  What was going on in the suite might have been a bachelor party, one cut short by the President’s arrival; there was a bar with open whiskey bottles and ice buckets, trays of finger foods set around, even a most attractive blonde who might have been mistaken for the entertainment if she hadn’t been dressed like a secretary.

  But it is safe to say that no wild bachelor party had numbered among its revelers, guests like H. L. Hunt, the most infamous of all Texas oil millionaires and James R. “Jimmy” Hoffa himself, the President of the International Brotherhood of the Teamsters. There was another man with them, who was not familiar to me, but I put him in the same class as Mr. Hunt, if for no other reason than the dark suit and distinctive string tie he was wearing - the kind you saw a lot of among the well-heeled in this part of the country. There was a fourth man, rather heavyset and clearly not cut from the same cloth as the others; something made obvious by the plaid sports coat he wore, who retreated behind the bar. The young lady, who looked quite out of place in this company, found refuge in a corner as if she wanted no part of this confrontation.

  If looks could have killed, Hoffa would have put John F. Kennedy in the ground right then and there; Mr. Hunt and his friend wore similar expressions. I soon learned the third man’s name: Wade Harbinson, an oilman, who if not quite in the league of Mr. Hunt, still stood pretty tall in Texas. Two Secret Service agents placed themselves firmly between this trio and the President and the Vice President. Otherwise the situation resembled a showdown from a John Ford western, with Kennedy and company on one side and Hoffa and friends on the other, the only things missing were the six shooters strapped around their hips.

  What followed was indeed a showdown, one where words proved to be as lethal as bullets. “Good evening, gentlemen, and Mr. Hoffa,” the President said as if he were greeting them in the Oval Office, “I heard about the business you were conducting here tonight, so I thought I’d come over and put my own offer on the table.”

  As President Kennedy spoke these words, from outside in the hall, there came the sounds of fists hammering on doors and demands from agents to open up.

  Earlier, when Mr. Powers and Mr. O’Donnell filled me in on the details of this evening, I’d learned there were three different parties peddling info which could destroy the President, one of them involving our dealings with the Mafia. The other two concerned allegations of lying and adultery, but it would be all or nothing, because if one saw the light of day, all three surely would.

  Mr. Hunt attempted to deny the whole thing. “We are legitimate businessmen, Mr. President,” he said when Kennedy was finished, “and we have every right to conduct our affairs in private. With all due respect, sir, we do not answer to you, and you have no right to be here. Please leave.”

  The President’s reply, “I believe you gentlemen have three million dollars in cash in another room on this floor, that doesn’t sound like legitimate business to me. Same for theft of confidential documents, attempted blackmail, the exposure of a top secret operation against a hostile foreign government. Or let me put it this way: extortion, conspiracy and treason, just some of the charges which could be levied against you in federal court.”

  Upon hearing these words, the young lady spoke up and said she was leaving. “Miss, you may leave the room, no one will stop you, but I do insist you stay on this floor, at least until your employers and I have finished our business. Thank you very much.” The President’s tone changed on a dime when speaking to the blonde; he was firm, but the charm was there as well. She hurried out the door; the Vice President, who had said nothing so far, followed behind her.

  Mr. Harbinson spoke up next. “Mr. President, if anyone is guilty of conspiracy and treason in here, it is not my two friends or me.”

  President Kennedy found a seat on a couch and then replied, “Treason is often in the eye of the beholder, Mr. Harbinson, or may I call you Wade? I know Mr. Hoffa prefers to be called Jimmy, isn’t that right, Jimmy?”

  After being pretty much silent so far, Mr. Hoffa spoke up. “You can call me Fuck You for all I give a damn, Kennedy; you and your Goddamn brother both.” An agent took a step closer, as if to block the Teamster boss in case he decided to let his actions match his words. The agent got the most ferocious glare I’ve ever seen in return.

  The President merely smiled at this outburst and said, “That’s no way for a businessman to talk, Jimmy. And since we’re here to do business and time is of the essence, let me put my counter offer on the table.”

  Mr. Harbinson and his two associates responded in the most vociferous terms that it was none of anybody’s business what they were doing in that room.

  It did them no good. Minutes after the President and the Vice President arrived at the Adolphus, so did a large sum of cash money from DC - which was trucked up to our floor in traveling trunks, so did Johnson’s “boy” the President referred to earlier. He was a man whose last name was Compton, and as soon as he arrived, John F. Kennedy had all the ammunition he needed to take on these three who were determined to bring him down.

  Take them on is just what he did.

  Three different parties came to the Adolphus with dirt on the President in hand and the expectation of profiting from it. Each one was safely tucked away in their own suites on the same floor all paid for by Mr. Harbinson after striking deals with him and his partners to destroy the President. Now they would have to come back into that same room and face the man they traveled far to ruin.

  First up was a young man named Bentley Braden and his older partner; they possessed a tape recording of a young woman who described in detail an illicit sexual relationship with the President. Mr. Braden came from a prominent South Carolina family, and whose listed occupation was lobbyist for the textile industry. The older man, whose name I will not mention here, simply because he later had a distinguished career in public service and I do not wish to cause his family distress, had been quite close to the Kennedy family, raising lots of money for the ’60 campaign. Once having been successful in the real estate game, he was now broke after years of lavish living, and it seemed he felt used and discarded by the Kennedy brothers during his hard time. Both of them were quite familiar with the Quorum Club where the woman in question had been employed.

  Braden and his partner panicked when confronted in their suite by the Secret Service, and were more than willing to talk when Lyndon Johnson came in and insinuated he might be able to help them out. I was asked to be in the room when Compton identified Braden as the man who had given him a package in DC containing a copy of the damaging tape in an attempted blackmail plot.

  Once they were mar
ched down the hall to the room where the President was waiting, the older of the two broke down and sobbed. It was Mr. Powers who did the talking while the President gazed down at the floor, clearly unable to look at his former friend. It was explained to them that the warrants were already written charging them with extortion, the only thing between them and the Dallas County Jail was a phone call and a signature.

  “There will be trials and scandal,” Mr. Powers explained, “reputations will be ruined, and careers flushed down the toilet. That is how it will go if you take Mister Harbinson and his associates up on their offer. You might take down the President, but neither one of you will ever enjoy spending one dime of their money. On the other hand, you can enjoy spending our money.”

  That really got the two would be blackmailers attention.

  The offer was simple, in return for all copies of the incriminating tape, Braden and his associate would walk out of the Hotel Adolphus with a million dollars in cash to split between them.

  Mr. Harbinson shouted for them not to take the deal, that, “President Goldwater will make sure neither of you ever spent a day in jail.”

  They were then reminded that if it came to charges, the two of them would be tried in a Texas state court, and whoever was President would have no jurisdiction.

  From the look on his face, I think Bentley Braden would have told Dave Powers to go pound sand; I later learned that like many Southerners, he had an inordinate reverence for the Old Confederacy and a distinct dislike for John and Robert Kennedy and their sympathy for the cause of equal rights. He had tried to short-circuit the debate on the Civil Rights Act by slipping a copy of the tape to a certain Georgia Senator who wanted no part of it. This was how a copy came into John Compton’s hands, who delivered it to the Vice President.