Garrison had been hospitalized with a back ailment and one reporter described him as appearing “drawn and stooped,” with the back brace he was wearing visibly pushing against the fabric of his coat. But most striking was what appeared to be the disordered condition of Garrison’s mind. Questioned by William Wegmann for more than two hours, Garrison made statements that were glaringly erroneous. Others were self-serving. Most were both. To Wegmann’s more sensitive questions Garrison stated he didn’t recall, or he simply refused to answer, claiming privileged information under Louisiana’s Public Records Act. Asked when Shaw first became a suspect, Garrison said Shaw was questioned three times and it was after the second that he fell under suspicion. “There was something about his answers which did not completely correspond and did not completely fit,” Garrison said, “and it was after that that he became a suspect, and he was never again called for questioning without a lawyer.” None of that was true.*
Garrison testified that Perry Russo was hypnotized only once. (He was hypnotized at least three times.)1 When Edward O’Donnell’s report on Russo came up, Garrison said he doubted the accuracy of polygraphs. (He used them widely.) He declared that press releases and press conferences were rare for him. (He engaged in both frequently.) He claimed he had recommended against putting the troubled bookkeeper, Charles Spiesel, on the witness stand, but “always let the assistants handle the trial.”2 (Using Spiesel was Garrison’s decision.)† He acknowledged accusing the CIA of taking part in Kennedy’s assassination but he denied claiming that the FBI, the Justice Department, the Dallas Police, or “oil-rich Texas millionaires” had been involved. (He accused the first two of covering up and the others of outright participation.)
The strangest assertion Garrison made concerned David Ferrie, whose death triggered the events that prompted Shaw’s arrest six days later. Garrison claimed that Ferrie was still alive when Shaw was indicted. “David Ferrie was alive,” repeated an incredulous William Wegmann, “when Shaw was indicted?” “Yes,” Garrison said. “As a matter of fact, he was not only alive, but we were considering indicting him shortly before his death, and this followed Shaw, so he would have been alive.”3 So demonstrably untrue is this that the natural assumption is that Garrison was merely mistaken. But something more complex seems to have been going on here. Garrison’s mind appeared to be rearranging reality to suit his needs at any given moment. As William Wegmann bored in, Garrison’s recollections seemed designed to avoid any and all embarrassing admissions. The remarkable number and nature of Garrison’s mistakes that day give rise to thoughts about neurological disorders or deep-seated psychological pathology.
When asked what witnesses he had against Shaw prior to arresting him, Garrison refused to answer, saying it was a policy decision and to answer would be violating his oath of office. Judge Christenberry rejected that but said he would not force Garrison to respond. James Alcock had testified the day before that there had been only one witness, Perry Russo. In the absence of contrary information from Garrison, Christenberry said, Alcock’s answer would stand. One witness only. Finally the basis of Shaw’s arrest was unequivocally and publicly established.
Garrison’s repeated claims of privilege eventually provoked a sharp rebuke from the judge. It came after Wegmann inquired about the Vernon Bundy conference held in Garrison’s office during the preliminary hearing. Had not Garrison said, “ ‘We did not tell [Bundy] to lie; put him on the stand’ or words to that effect?” Wegmann asked. In his reply Garrison said, “I have an obligation to the people of New Orleans to protect my office from fishing expeditions. I refuse to answer the question.” Judge Christenberry was not pleased. “You may think it is a fishing expedition,” he said, “but this hearing was ordered by a panel of Judges of the Fifth Circuit Court, and I am carrying out their order in holding this hearing. That applies to the entire hearing, regardless of who the witness is. If you don’t want to answer, I am not going to insist, but there are other witnesses from whose testimony I will be able to make a judgment in this case.”4*
Christenberry later asked Garrison if anything came out of the investigation and the money that was spent “except the prosecution of Mr. Shaw.” Garrison said it had but didn’t elaborate. Christenberry persisted, inquiring if “any report [had] been made or any book been written detailing the investigation.” Garrison replied that it was “in the making.” The information gathered was “so voluminous” that the project “still lies ahead,” but “in due course,” he said, a “public report” would be made “to the citizens of New Orleans.”5 (It was never forthcoming.)
Wegmann turned to the editorials that appeared in the two New Orleans newspapers on March 1 and 2, 1969, following Shaw’s acquittal, which called for Garrison to resign. Garrison denied that the editorials influenced his decision to file the perjury charges on March 3. He didn’t leave it at that, though. He said he had “a warm feeling for those people over at the States-Item and the Times-Picayune.” If they disagreed with him “in one particular case or another,” that was “just one of those things that happens to a man in politics.” But the Shaw trial wasn’t just “another” case, and “those people” at the newspapers weren’t just disagreeing. They were trying to run him out of office and he was infuriated by it. Garrison’s pretense of sentiment toward Clay Shaw was even more implausible. “I cannot emphasize too strongly that no one would be happier than I to see Clay Shaw acquitted,” Garrison said, “if that is the way the evidence develops at the trial.”6 No one was fooled by any of this, least of all the judge.
Herbert W. Christenberry, who would turn out to be Garrison’s judicial Waterloo and Shaw’s savior, was tall and heavyset, with a florid Irish face and prominent chin. He possessed a booming voice and hearty laugh, frequently heard, and was no stranger to idiosyncratic politics. His brother had served as Huey Long’s secretary.* Appointed to the federal bench in 1947 by Harry Truman and like Truman in time transcending machine politics, Christenberry was a tough and forthright no-nonsense jurist, with a reputation, as Cynthia Wegmann, Edward Wegmann’s daughter, recently said, for “smelling a liar.” A local reporter described him as “liberal, out of step, with a good sense for the little guy.” Over the years, Christenberry handed down a number of important, and regionally unpopular, civil rights decisions, beginning in 1948 when he ruled it was unconstitutional to pay black teachers less than white teachers.† Given his background and character, Christenberry seems, in retrospect, the perfect jurist for the job he was handed.
That job began the day Shaw’s attorneys made their last-ditch plea to federal court and it landed on Christenberry’s docket. Their request was unusual, for federal courts rarely intervene in ongoing state cases, and are barred from doing so by federal statute, except in certain “special circumstances.” Edward Wegmann, the only attorney on Shaw’s team whose practice was limited to civil law, conceived this creative strategy. He also penned the twenty-four-page complaint.
That document, infused with Edward Wegmann’s indignation, smoldering since Shaw’s arrest, asserted in part that Garrison, acting in “bad faith,” had misused and abused his powers, particularly “in the prosecution of innocent citizens,” including Shaw. That he had conspired with members of Truth and Consequences “to accomplish his illegal purposes” and “harassed and intimidated” Shaw and others who incurred “his wrath.” That he had engaged in an “illegal and useless” investigation of the assassination for “his own personal aggrandizement.” Used the criminal courts of New Orleans “as a forum for his activities and as a shield” against those who disagreed. Unlawfully prosecuted Shaw for no “legitimate purposes.” Published a book that gave him “a financial interest” in Shaw’s continued prosecution. “Created an atmosphere of fear and terror in the community.” And violated Shaw’s rights to free speech, due process, and equal protection under the constitution. The longstanding allegations of wrongdoing by Garrison at long last had been expressed in a court of law.
But Judge Chr
istenberry first rejected the plea, partly because the perjury trial was so imminent. Shaw’s attorneys then appealed and won. That set the stage for the defining moment of this case, Judge Christenberry and his hearing, when all the chickens came home to roost. For some reason, this remarkable three-day proceeding has been virtually overlooked. Students of the case often have never heard of it. Even the transcript at first seemed to be unavailable. I traced it to a branch of the National Archives in Fort Worth, Texas, and in 1995 obtained a copy.
Shaw’s attorneys called seventeen witnesses. Garrison’s representatives, Asst. D.A.s John Volz, William Alford, Andrew Sciambra, and Numa Bertel, called none, claiming they felt no need. Irvin Dymond explained to this writer why he thought Garrison mounted no defense. “They couldn’t find anyone who wasn’t afraid to lie,” Dymond said. “They were afraid that Christenberry would examine any witness very closely and cause them to be charged with perjury.”7 No longer on Garrison’s turf, the rules of engagement had shifted dramatically. In the one-sided contest that ensued, in addition to Garrison himself, three of his closest aides and the trio that founded Truth and Consequences underwent merciless interrogation by Shaw’s team. Even Judge Malcolm O’Hara was compelled to defend his decision to go forward with the perjury case.
Emotions ran high from the outset. The tone was set during arguments on Garrison’s motion to dismiss, which charged Shaw’s attorneys with “trickery.” Garrison’s men exhibited an attitude of outraged victimization that persisted from then on. When Judge Christenberry remarked that their “trickery” charge was “unfortunate,” William Alford fervently defended Garrison and charged that Shaw’s attorneys had violated “the very things the [legal] profession stands for.” “I suggest you control yourself, counsel,” Christenberry said, “you don’t have to yell.” Alford continued, though, and Christenberry told him to “sit down.” But he stayed on his feet. “Didn’t you hear me?” Christenberry said, “have a seat.”
From then on, the exchanges were peppered with Christenberry’s sometimes stern reproaches for the overheated reactions of Garrison’s men. They repeatedly objected to the testimony being heard* and Christenberry repeatedly overruled them. Fervor, it seems, was the only weapon at their disposal. Their frustration was genuine. But their emotional displays probably mirrored Garrison’s own personal outrage at having the destiny of his case, which seemed so entwined with his own destiny, snatched from his control. He was good at transferring his feelings to others.
Christenberry dealt Garrison’s men their first defeat almost immediately when he denied their motion to dismiss. Volz said he “vehemently” objected. “Just object,” Christenberry replied, “You needn’t make it vehement.” His vehemence was sparked by Christenberry’s blunt preamble to his denial. If Shaw’s attorneys proved their allegations, injunctive relief might be justified, Christenberry said. “This may be such an unusual case, such an extraordinary case that it may be necessary to carve out another exception” to the anti-injunction statute.8 Less than thirty minutes into the hearing, Christenberry had tipped his hand, and what Garrison’s men heard distressed them. Their anxiety mounted as one witness after another took the stand. Nothing went their way.
The first ones testified about the formation of Truth and Consequences and the money, 99,488.97, which Garrison had spent on his Kennedy investigation. Of that, some 70,000 flowed to him from T & C. Founding member Willard E. Robertson had donated 30,000, which he had borrowed, with the understanding that Garrison would repay it “when the funds were available.”9 All these private contributions were disbursed at Garrison’s sole discretion, with virtually no controls. Some was spent on security measures at Garrison’s home. More than a year and a half after the T & C account became inactive, Robertson was still owed his 30,000. Garrison had made no accounting to Robertson or his organization. Neither he nor the other two founders, Cecil M. Shilstone and Joseph M. Rault, Jr., could say with any specificity how Garrison had spent the money.10
Judge Christenberry questioned the propriety of private citizens furnishing a public official funds to run his office with no accounting required of how he spent it. But these men saw nothing wrong in what they had done. The possibility that without oversight such money could be “misspent,” as the judge expressed it, or used to “coerce or bribe” witnesses, as William Wegmann put it, never occurred to any of them. They trusted Garrison. Like others, they had been seduced by the patriotic frenzy of his rhetoric. The influence flowed both directions. The encouragement and especially the financial aid they provided exerted pressure on Garrison to deliver.
Testimony of other witnesses revealed how far Garrison was prepared to go to do that. William Gurvich described some of Garrison’s absurd assignments,* and some quite serious. He told of ignoring Garrison’s order to arrest, handcuff, and beat newsmen Walter Sheridan and Richard Townley. And he described Garrison’s plan, never carried out, to retrieve tape recordings he believed the FBI had made of his telephone conversations by raiding the local FBI offices using “redpepper guns.” John Volz characterized this as a Garrison “joke.” Judge Christenberry was unconvinced. “It seems strange to me,” Christenberry said, “that a district attorney would joke about raiding an FBI office, and even prescribe the kind of gun that is to be used.” Gurvich said he resigned from the D.A.’s office because he believed what Garrison was doing “was a fraudulent, criminal act.”11
Attorney Hugh Exnicios described how he secretly recorded Lynn Loisel’s offer to Alvin Beaubouef of 3,000 and a job with an airline in return for certain testimony.* And New Orleans Police Lt. Edward O’Donnell again told about his conversation with Perry Russo, in which Russo withdrew his identification of Clay Shaw. O’Donnell also described Garrison’s reaction when he heard the news.
Clay Shaw took the stand and one final time denied knowing Lee Harvey Oswald and David Ferrie. He said in another trial he would again waive his right to immunity and so testify. He recounted the nightmare he had endured for almost four years.† He had received death threats in the mail. Almost all his money had been drained. He had been unable to find a job. And he had experienced devastating humiliation. Once the recipient of endless invitations to speak at various affairs, he had become a social pariah. Shaw recalled the last city function he had been invited to attend, two months after the preliminary hearing. When a photographer tried to snap a picture of Shaw with the mayor, the horrified man ducked down behind his wife. It sounded amusing, Shaw said, “but it was not amusing to me.” The period since his arrest had been “very agonizing.” “When you are charged with having committed the most heinous crime I suppose that you could be charged with, your life habits suddenly become a lot more restricted, you find yourself being, I guess you would say, hated, shunned, avoided, and just generally your life becomes a great deal more miserable as you try to live with something like that.”12
The man responsible for Shaw’s plight, Perry Russo, a potentially devastating witness against Garrison, was among those subpoenaed by Shaw’s attorneys. He made a brief, dramatic appearance. But he told no tales, at least not on the witness stand. In a move that surprised everyone but the defense team, Russo pleaded the fifth. He did it to save himself from a perjury charge. More than once, Garrison had warned Russo he would be charged if he changed his story, and Russo had done precisely that. The day before he took the stand, finding himself seated in court next to a family member of one of Shaw’s attorneys, Russo asked if Shaw’s team would like to talk to him. I’m sure they would, was the reply. Russo said he was willing, and arrangements were made.13
He arrived at Irvin Dymond’s office at seven that evening, took a seat, and categorically recanted his story. The man in Ferrie’s apartment was “absolutely not” Clay Shaw, Russo said, and he blamed Andrew Sciambra for persuading him to make the identification in the first place. Over the next three months, in three additional lengthy sessions with Shaw’s team (which were tape recorded), Russo expanded on this. He corroborated Edward
O’Donnell’s testimony about the lie-detector test. He denied ever hearing the name “Clay Bertrand” until Sciambra mentioned it to him. Described how a photograph he knew to be Oswald was converted into a sketch of Ferrie’s roommate, “Leon.” Recalled his horrific reaction to the sodium-Pentothal interview. Detailed how Sciambra had brainwashed him, and how he was coached like an actor in a play for his appearance at the preliminary hearing. Recounted favors extended by Garrison and his staff, at least one of them significantly illegal.* He told of money Garrison gave him and promises of more. He also recalled being warned that if he backed away from his story, “the courthouse [would be] planted on top of me.” That threat guaranteed he would never tell the truth from the witness stand.14
More recently, during two interviews with me, Russo stated unequivocally that “[Shaw] was in fact innocent”; that “he did not conspire to kill the president”; that “there was no conspiracy.” Russo remarked, too, that he agreed with Dymond that Garrison didn’t have enough information to convict Shaw of anything, and, he added, “in retrospect I don’t think they should have prosecuted him.” “I always thought that what happened was a tragedy just immeasurable against Shaw’s psyche,” Russo said, “and whatever happened to me was minuscule in comparison to what happened to him . . . and as I look back I say Garrison never should have done it.”15
While none of this was heard in Christenberry’s courtroom, Russo taking the fifth was statement enough.* Garrison’s key witness, who provided the sole legal basis for the conspiracy charge against Clay Shaw, had removed himself from the case.
At the conclusion of the hearing, Judge Christenberry issued a preliminary injunction, temporarily halting Garrison’s prosecution of Shaw on the perjury charges. Though it would be four months before he handed down his final decision, Christenberry had said enough to make it clear that he found Shaw’s case persuasive. Nevertheless, when he issued his opinion on May 27, it was a stunning victory for Shaw. Christenberry criticized Garrison in the most unrestrained language possible. He called attention to the genesis issue, the fact that Garrison had provided no evidentiary basis to explain Shaw’s initial December 1966 interrogation. Christenberry concluded there had never been any “factual basis for questioning Shaw about the assassination” in the first place.† But he leveled his harshest remarks at Garrison’s reliance on the testimony of Perry Russo. Garrison “resorted to the use of drugs and hypnosis on Russo,” Christenberry wrote, “purportedly to ‘corroborate’ but more likely to concoct his story.”
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