President Kennedy lies in repose in the East Room of the White House.
(courtesy of the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum)
One of them, Charlie Bartlett, had introduced young Jack and Jackie all those years ago at a dinner party at his home. He was present at the beginning. Now he was here at the end. He found some White House stationery and began to write:
We had a hero for a friend—and we mourn his loss. Anyone, and fortunately there were many, who knew him briefly and over long periods, felt that a bright and quickening impulse had come into his life. He had uncommon courage, unfailing humor, a penetrating, ever curious intelligence, and over all a matchless grace. He was our best. He will not be replaced, nor will he be forgotten, for in truth he was a kind of cheerful lightning who touched us all. We will remember always with love and sometimes, as the years pass and the story is retold, with a little wonder.
The journalist Mary McGrory hosted a dinner party at her apartment: “We’ll never laugh again,” she told her guests.
One of them, Daniel Patrick Moynihan said: “Oh, we’ll laugh again, Mary. But we’ll never be young again.”
Soon McGrory would compose her tribute to Kennedy. Like most members of the press, she loved him. “He brought gaiety, glamor, and grace to the American political scene in a measure never known before. That lightsome tread, that debonair touch, that shock of chestnut hair, that beguiling grin, that shattering understatement—these are what we shall remember. He walked like a prince and talked like a scholar. His humor brightened the life of the Republic . . . shown his latest nephew in August, he commented, ‘he looks like a fine baby—we’ll know more later.’ When the ugliness of yesterday has been forgotten, we shall remember him, smiling.”
JACKIE KENNEDY awoke in her bedroom at the White House. She had slept only a few hours. Had it really happened? Or had it all been just a nightmare? It was real. At eight fifteen on the morning of Saturday, November 23, she met with her children to talk to them about their father’s death. The night before, she had not told Caroline and John the awful news. She knew she would not arrive home before their bedtime, so Jackie’s mother deputized the children’s beloved nanny, Maud Shaw, to tell them. Shaw did not want to do it and begged to be relieved of the responsibility of telling two young children their father was dead. In the end, she agreed to do it.
At 10:00 A.M. on the twenty-third, Jackie attended a private mass in the East Room for the president’s friends and family. Elsewhere in the White House, staff members were already busy cleaning out the Oval Office in the West Wing. A tearful Evelyn Lincoln, John Kennedy’s personal secretary since his years in the Senate, gathered papers and personal mementoes from his desk. It was all happening so fast. A pair of JFK’s famous rocking chairs was removed at 1:31 P.M., loaded onto a handcart, and rolled across a driveway to the Old Executive Office Building, an annex of the White House. A photograph of them, one turned upside down and stacked upon the other, became a symbol of the rapid transition.
There was a lot of grumbling among some of President Kennedy’s staffers about the new president. A number of officials had advised Johnson to occupy the presidential office at once as a symbol of the continuity of government, and he had done so. Johnson’s actions caused Kennedy staffers to murmur that it was unseemly and in poor taste for the new president to move into the White House so quickly. But the Oval Office is in the West Wing, which is in a separate building that is connected to the main house by a colonnade.
Lyndon Johnson had not moved into the White House, which contained the historic rooms as well as the president’s private living quarters. Johnson was emphatic that Jackie and her children should continue to live there as long as she wished. Mary Todd Lincoln had stayed on in the White House for more than a month after her husband’s assassination, and Lyndon Johnson believed that Jackie Kennedy, and not he, should decide when she should move out. He vowed to give her all the time she needed. But she already knew that she did not want to remain for long.
As Jackie’s plans for the funeral evolved, she decided her husband should be buried at Arlington National Cemetery, the historic graveyard established during the Civil War on General Robert E. Lee’s estate, across the Potomac River from the White House. Thousands of soldiers from the Civil War, World War I, World War II, and the Korean War had been buried there. Arlington was also the site of the famous Tomb of the Unknowns.
Just before two o’clock on Saturday afternoon, Jackie departed the White House with a small entourage that included three of the president’s siblings: his brother Robert and two of his sisters, Jean Smith and Patricia Lawford. Others followed in separate cars. On the way to Arlington, the motorcade stopped at the Pentagon to pick up Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara. It was cold and raining when Jackie Kennedy arrived at Arlington Cemetery to inspect the proposed site for her husband’s grave. It was a lovely spot of ground in front of the old Lee mansion, and it enjoyed a panoramic view of Washington. Jackie remembered that when John had visited this spot a few months before, he said it was so beautiful that he could stay there forever. After fifteen minutes, she nodded her approval. “We went out and walked to that hill, and of course you knew that was where it should be,” she said.
IN DALLAS, Lee Harvey Oswald woke up on Saturday, November 23, after his first night in police custody. The previous day, detectives had discovered his loaded rifle, the empty paper bag, and the three spent cartridge cases at the Book Depository. They never found any curtain rods there. Soon, through the unique serial number stamped into the weapon, the FBI would discover records proving that Oswald had ordered it by mail from a sporting goods store in Chicago. They found the order form and also the postal money order Oswald had used to pay for the rifle. The FBI also traced the purchase of the pistol he had used to shoot J. D. Tippit.
After Oswald’s arrest, detectives subjected him to a total of twelve hours of questioning. He was surly, defiant, arrogant, defensive, and self-pitying. He talked a lot, but unfortunately, the Dallas Police Department failed to make tape recordings of those grueling, extensive conversations detectives had with him on November 22 and in the days that followed. He admitted nothing. He actually seemed to enjoy the attention as he toyed with the Dallas police, FBI, and Secret Service interrogators. Oswald insisted he was innocent. He denied shooting President Kennedy or Officer Tippit. He claimed he did not even own a rifle.
At 10:35 A.M. on Saturday, November 23, Oswald was brought to Captain Fritz’s office, and the questioning continued.
“Lee, tell me what you did when you left work yesterday.”
He said he rode a bus to his rooming house. When he got off he got a transfer and used it to take another bus to the theatre where he was arrested. A policeman took the transfer out of his pocket at that time. But that wasn’t true. After Oswald got off the bus, he took a taxi to Oak Cliff. There was no reason for him to lie about taking a cab—it would have been a harmless admission. And the police did not discover the transfer until later. Perhaps he was tired. Or not thinking clearly.
Fritz asked if he brought curtain rods to work on the morning of the assassination.
“No.” Oswald spoke the truth.
Fritz repeated the question.
Oswald denied it again.
Was he sure, Fritz asked, that he did not place a long package on the back seat of Wesley Frazier’s car, and then carry the package into the Book Depository?
Oswald said he didn’t know what he was taking about. Two lies. He had carried a long package, and he had not brought any lunch.
Oswald denied having a conversation with Wesley Frazier about curtain rods or taking them into the Depository.
“I didn’t carry anything but my lunch,” he insisted.
And he did not tell Frazier that he was in the process of fixing up his apartment.
Or that the reason for his visit to Irving on the night of November 21 was to obtain some curtain rods from Mrs. Paine.
“No, I nev
er said that.”
Fritz asked Oswald if he ate lunch with anyone on November 22.
Oswald said he ate with two “colored boys.” One was named “Junior” and he could not remember the name of the other one. He said he had a cheese sandwich and an apple, which he got at Mrs. Paine’s house before he left.
Another lie, and one easy for Fritz to disprove.
Fritz asked Oswald to tell him more about the Paines. What was Marina’s living situation? What did Lee know about Mr. Paine?
Did he keep any of his belongings at the Paine residence?
Oswald said that some of the things he brought back from New Orleans in September were in Ruth Paine’s garage—two sea bags, and a few boxes of kitchen articles.
And, Fritz suggested, a rifle?
Oswald denied ever storing a rifle in Mrs. Paine’s garage.
Fritz asked Oswald what friends or relatives of his lived nearby and whether he’d ever had any visitors at his rooming house on Beckley Street. Then the detective returned to the rifle.
He asked if Oswald had ever ordered guns through the mail.
Oswald said he had never ordered guns, and did not have any receipts for any. There was that verbal and logical tic again. If Oswald had no receipts, he implied, then that must be proof that he had ordered no firearms.
“What about a rifle?” Fritz asked.
Oswald said he did not own a rifle, nor had he ever possessed one.
Fritz pressed him. If he never ordered a gun or purchased a gun then where did he get the pistol he had in his possession at the time of his arrest?
Oswald admitted he bought it about seven months ago but refused to answer any more questions about the revolver or any other guns until he talked to a lawyer.
Oswald told Fritz he was wasting his time.
According to one witness to the interrogation, Oswald could not resist showing off his knowledge and superiority. “Oswald stated that at various times he had been thoroughly interrogated by the FBI . . . that they had used all their standard operating procedures . . . their hard and soft approach . . . their buddy system.” Oswald boasted that he was familiar with all types of questioning and would not make any statements.
Fritz figured he could keep Oswald talking anyway if he asked him to elaborate on his beef with the FBI.
“What do you mean by that?”
Oswald said that the FBI was abusive and impolite when they spoke to Marina three weeks ago. The agents were obnoxious and had frightened her.
Fritz’s next question probed for a motive.
“What do you think of President Kennedy?”
“I have no views on the president. My wife and I like the president’s family. They are interesting people. I have my own views on the president’s national policy. I have a right to express my views but because of the charges, I don’t think I should comment further.”
Oswald knew where the detective was going and wanted to foreclose any hint of motive. Oswald insisted that he had nothing against John Kennedy personally.
“I am not a malcontent; nothing irritated me about the president.”
Oswald refused to submit to a polygraph examination.
He said he would not take one for the FBI in 1962, and he would not do it now for the Dallas police.
Fritz confronted Oswald with one of two Selective Service cards that he carried in his wallet at the time of his arrest. The card, in the name of Alek James Hidell, was signed in that name. In Russia, “Alek” was Marina’s nickname for her husband. The card also carried the photograph of Lee Harvey Oswald. But authentic U.S. military Selective Service cards did not use photographs, so this card was an obvious forgery.
Oswald refused to admit whether he signed the card with the name Hidell.
He conceded that he carried the card but refused to say for what purpose.
Fritz allowed Secret Service inspector Thomas Kelley to ask a question.
Kelley wanted to know if Oswald watched the parade yesterday.
No, he had not.
“Did you shoot the president?”
Oswald said no.
“Did you shoot the governor?”
No. He claimed that he did not even know that Connally had been shot.
That might have been true. Oswald had been isolated from other prisoners and had not been allowed to watch television or see newspapers. Unless a policeman, FBI agent, or Secret Service agent had told Oswald about Connally’s wounds, Oswald would not have known he had shot him too. If Oswald replayed the assassination in his head, he might have wondered how he had managed to shoot a man he had never had in his sights.
Captain Fritz ended this round of questioning.
WHILE JACKIE Kennedy was selecting a grave site for her husband, Marina Oswald was allowed to meet with her husband for the first time since the assassination. She had not seen him for about thirty hours—enough time for him to ruin their lives. Marina was afraid—afraid that her husband had finally gone and done something crazy, that he had actually murdered the president of the United States and a policeman. And having grown up in a totalitarian state, she was afraid the United States government might imprison her or deport her to the Soviet Union. Worse things than that have happened to innocent people in Communist countries who had any connection to enemies of the state.
At 1:15 P.M. (CST), Marina and her mother-in-law were taken to the fourth-floor visiting room. Her husband appeared in front of her. They could not embrace because a glass partition separated them. She had to stand—there was no chair where she could sit. They picked up the telephone handsets and began speaking in Russian. Lee glanced at his mother.
“Why did you bring that fool with you? I don’t want to talk to her.”
“She’s your mother. Of course she came,” Marina said. “Have they been beating you?”
“Oh no. They treat me fine. Did you bring Junie and Rachel?”
“They’re downstairs. Alek, can we talk about anything we like?”
“Of course, we can speak about absolutely anything.” Oswald believed the police were recording their conversation. He hoped his sarcasm served to warn Marina of the danger.
“They asked me about the gun.”
“Oh, that’s nothing.”
“I don’t believe that you did that. Everything will turn out well.”
“Oh sure, there’s a lawyer in New York who will help me. You shouldn’t worry. Everything will be fine.” Lee tried to reassure her. “Don’t cry. There’s nothing to cry about. Try not to think about it. And if they ask you anything, you have a right not to answer. You have the right to refuse. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Lee and Marina began to cry. He must have known his life with Marina and the children was over forever. He had destroyed it. At best, he would spend the rest of his life in prison. At worst, he would be put to death in the electric chair, probably within a year. A few years earlier, Marina was an unsophisticated Russian teenage girl who found herself smitten with a minor immigrant celebrity who sweet-talked her into marriage and then into leaving her family and immigrating to America. But life here was not what he promised, and he was not the man he had pretended to be. Life with him had been hard, bitter, and poor.
Now, after she had entrusted him with her life and had borne him two children, his unstable nature had taken him on a quixotic psychological journey that had climaxed in the murder of the president of the United States. As the wife of the accused assassin, she was fast becoming the most notorious woman in America.
If Lee Oswald had any sense of the enormity of what he had done to her—setting aside for a moment the crime he had committed against the president—he gave no sign of it now. He remained calm and spoke as though nothing had happened, as though he was in jail for a traffic offense or a shoplifting charge.
“You have friends. They’ll help you,” Lee told her. “If it comes to that, you can ask the Red Cross for help.” That was the same advice he had given her in his note before
he set out to assassinate General Walker. “You mustn’t worry for me. Kiss Junie and Rachel for me.”
“I will,” Marina said. “Alka, remember that I love you.”
“I love you very much. Make sure you buy shoes for Junie.”
Neither one of them realized this would be their last meeting. Marina and Lee would never see each other again. But she did not need to see him again to reach a conclusion about his guilt. Lee was too calm. He spoke vaguely. He did not complain of mistreatment by the authorities, and that was not like him. He was always a complainer, and now he sputtered no outraged proclamations of his innocence. When Marina looked into her husband’s eyes, she knew, as she later told investigators, that he had killed the president.
AT 1:07 P.M., a few minutes before Lee and Marina began their reunion, District Attorney Henry Wade gave an impromptu interview to the press on the fourth floor of the city jail. He boasted that he was going to put Lee Harvey Oswald to death.
“Mr. Wade, do you expect to call Mrs. Kennedy or Governor Connally . . . in this trial as witnesses?”
“We will not, unless it’s absolutely necessary, and at this point, I don’t think it’ll be necessary.”
“How soon can we expect a trial?”
“I’d say around the middle of January.” That was in just seven or eight weeks.
“Has Mr. Oswald expressed any hatred, ill will, toward President Kennedy or, for that matter, any regret over his death?”
“He has expressed no regret that I know of.”
“It’s rumored that perhaps this case would be tried by a military court because, of course, President Kennedy is our commander in chief.” In the spring and summer of 1865, a military court of nine judges tried eight of John Wilkes Booth’s alleged co-conspirators in the assassination of Abraham Lincoln and the attempted murder of Secretary of State William Seward. That court sentenced four of the defendants to death, and they were hanged.
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