The Girl on the Stairs

by Barry Ernest

  Barry wanted to find out exactly when Vicki Adams was on the stairs—to hear it from her own lips. I wanted to know what happened to the president’s body. We each had our questions, and we both searched for answers.

  Barry Ernest and Victoria Adams

  The central witness in Barry’s quest was Vicki Adams, and he finally made contact with her in February 2002. The two subsequently had very cordial communication. She was obviously pleased that someone was going to publish her story. In fact, Barry made an important discovery in the Warren Commission records: he found a June 1964 letter from Martha Joe Stroud (an assistant to Barefoot Sanders, U.S. attorney in Dallas) to the Commission that strengthens Vicki Adams’ account as to the timing of her trip down the stairs. The letter, which was important evidence, was not followed up on, nor was it mentioned anywhere in the Warren Report.17

  Barry and Vicki developed a friendship. She respected the fact that he had been working on the Kennedy case for so long, writing a book, and was going to be focusing on her story. Time passed, Barry was finishing his manuscript, and in September 2007 she called him with some sad news: she had been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. As Barry recently explained to me, Vicki had delayed telling him because she didn’t want it to affect the way he wrote about her. She just wanted her story to be published accurately; she was not seeking any pity. She died November 15, 2007. Just weeks before her death, she sent Barry a brief essay she wrote, titled “I Did It My Way.”

  Barry has pointed out that what she told him never had the quality of a “deathbed confession.” Vicki’s whole point was that she had always told the truth, and she was grateful and appreciative that, in writing his book, Barry would be bringing her truth to the American public and the world. To the end, she stuck to her story. Furthermore, Barry not only found the Martha Joe Stroud letter, he effectively tallies up the statements from Sandra Styles and Dorothy Garner that also corroborate Vicki’s account. So Barry decided to write up the story of Vicki’s experience, and of his own journey, and that’s what his book is all about.

  As far as I’m concerned—and I’m sure Barry feels the same way—the Kennedy assassination is an unsolved crime, and one question is this: are we really supposed to just leave it at that? I think that many of us who were “under thirty” at the time either liked President Kennedy (a lot) or identified with Oswald and his interesting life (he went to Russia upon leaving the U.S. Marines and arrived there on October 16, 1959, just two days before his twentieth birthday, then lived there through early June 1962). Many of us just simply believe Oswald when we see him in a film clip after his arrest, saying, “I didn’t shoot anybody, no sir,” or “I’m a patsy.” Many of us can’t believe the official version of the crime when so much seems to be so obviously wrong with that “official version,” whether it’s the Commission’s “single bullet theory” or, in my case, the evidence that the wounds were altered.

  So Barry has chronicled his journey, and it is not only the story of one man’s investigation, but (also) of his loss of faith as, month after month and year after year, he learned more, his knowledge increased, and he was no longer the naïve trusting person he was back in the midsixties. He had now arrived at the conclusion that the Warren Report was fundamentally wrong and that Victoria Adams’ account was, as far as he was concerned, one way of proving that Oswald could not have been Kennedy’s assassin. The corroboration from the co-worker who ran down the stairs with Vicki (Sandra Styles) and the letter Barry found from the Dallas U.S. attorney’s office both point, Barry believes, to Vicki’s account being the truth. And if so, then Oswald could not possibly have been on the stairs, and—finally—if that is true, then he must have been downstairs all along and certainly could not have been upstairs, firing at the president.

  I believe that each reader will have to be the judge of this for himself.

  The true value of Barry’s account is not the particular thesis that he presents but his chronicle of the search on which he embarked: what it did to him and how it changed him over the years. His account will acquaint the reader with what it means to “research the Kennedy assassination.”

  At each point along his journey, we learn of some new twist, some new puzzle, and even though we know how the story “ends,” we still want to know “what happened next.” That’s a testament to Barry Ernest’s writing and storytelling capability.

  My literary agent—Peter Shepherd, in many ways the “godfather” of Best Evidence—said to me back in 1976, when he first saw my manuscript, “People aren’t interested in ‘facts’ just out there in space. They want to know how those facts affected other people.”

  That’s why I wrote Best Evidence as a personal narrative. That’s why Barry’s book is such an interesting read. He spells out how these facts affected him.

  As a reasonably optimistic person, and as someone who believes that technology and the passage of time are eventually going to work their wonders in the Kennedy case, I do believe we’re going to get an answer to the question: who did it? That answer is going to reverse the verdict of the currently accepted “official” version. I’m positive that’s going to happen, and when it does, it’s going to affect a lot of people. Barry Ernest is one of those who pushed very hard to bring that day closer. His book, The Girl on the Stairs, is one man’s story of that journey.

  David S. Lifton

  Acknowledgments

  One cannot write a book on a subject of this magnitude, spanning an era of this length, without the guidance and assistance of many people. I could, of course, list each one at the expense of space, the risk of forgetfulness, and the likely displeasure of my publisher. So let me just say instead that every name you see within these pages was of benefit to me in some way or another, and in many cases I suppose without them even realizing it.

  The careful reader will be able to determine the extent of each one’s contribution. There are a few others, though, who deserve a more special note of appreciation.

  The frustrations of trying to dig out truths behind the JFK assassination in general, and a shunned witness to that event in particular, surfaced often along this lengthy journey. The careful reader again will have no problem spotting this unflattering characteristic. What that reader will not see are the efforts of one person in particular who, surrounded by frustrations of her own, persisted in providing much-needed support and encouragement. So I wish to express here my deep admiration for my wife, Patty, to whom this book is in part dedicated, for freeing up those many hours I needed by taking on various responsibilities that should have been mine alone.

  Thanks go to:

  My son, Jason, wise beyond his years, who answered all my legal questions (pro bono, I might add) while juggling his own busy career as a lawyer and his growing family.

  And to his lovely wife, Lisa. I could not have had a better first-run promotions director.

  Also to the memory of my parents, who, despite being disappointed in my initial attempt at college, nevertheless continued to push me onward throughout the years in my studies of this subject. I trust they somehow realize that their efforts were not in vain.

  And to Janet Kleffman, who edited early drafts of this manuscript, which back then had the dubious title of Just an Ordinary Guy—a long story. Although the finished product is somewhat different than what she initially red-lined, her editorial advice has carried forward.

  Also to Carol Anne McQuiggan, my computer guru, who helped untangle the electronic knots on a device that still keeps invading my attempts at sleep.

  Finally, a collective note of appreciation goes out to other family members, friends, and acquaintances—even those many strangers—who have read and learned and listened to me talk about Victoria Adams, then taken the time and much-welcomed initiative to foster even more awareness of her story. You know who you are.

  A long time ago Harold Weisberg, in his preface to Whitewash, wrote that self-publishing was the “least desirable of possible forms.” This was back in 196
6, when he had to resort to that method because the book firms he contacted were hesitant about printing the truth about this historic and significant topic. I too found that to be the case when this book was born and offered to a long list of publishers, many of whom told me they found the story fascinating and enlightening. Several actually went further and said they’d be more interested if I agreed to write a concluding chapter that provided a highly speculative and theory-based “solution” to the crime.

  I felt that such a finish would be dishonest to my own efforts, which all along have been targeted toward the pursuit of truths. I also felt that it would be an insult to the girl of the book’s title, whose very life centered on maintaining those truths. And so, I refused.

  Yet getting people to understand what really happened to Victoria Adams, this little-known and neglected witness scorned simply for doing what we are all taught to do, was important to me. It was vital to her.

  Then along came Pelican Publishing Company.

  Without exaggeration, it is with the utmost of gratitude that I thank Pelican and its professional team for having confidence in this book, for the courage to print it without adding the literary garbage that often pervades this subject, and for the opportunity of getting the real story of Victoria Adams into the hands of more people than I ever thought possible.

  Miss Adams once said that the only thing she ever wanted was for people to know she told the truth. The people now have that opportunity.

  Prologue

  November 22, 1963

  At first she thought it was firecrackers.

  But when she saw the chaos and the terror on all the faces below, she knew it was something far worse.

  She turned from the window and grabbed the arm of a co-worker.

  “Come on,” she whispered. “Let’s find out what’s going on down there.”

  In this split second, her innocence—and that of a nation’s—came to an end.

  CHAPTER 1

  February 1967

  I really don’t know what it was that made me want to find her.

  Perhaps I thought she was somehow important in this mess. Perhaps it was because the government tried so hard to convince me otherwise. Maybe I was just bored.

  That afternoon began like any other at Kent State University. It was three years before innocent kids would be gunned down there; three short years before America would suffer still another debilitating blow to its sense of stability. I had just turned nineteen and found myself stuffed into an overcrowded Moulton Hall on an overpopulated campus.

  On this cold day, a guy I recognized from one of my classes hurriedly approached. I was minding my own business, content in waiting for the cafeteria doors to open.

  “Hi. I’m Terry. Why is it you believe the Warren Report?”

  I blinked. “Huh?”

  “In class one day when we were asked if anyone had read the Warren Report, you said you had and you felt it was true. I’m wondering what makes you think so.”

  I recalled a debate on the Kennedy assassination in a U.S. history seminar some weeks earlier. Terry was accurate with his recap. “I guess it’s because all the evidence points to Oswald being the lone assassin. The rifle was his; he was the only one who ran from where the shots were fired; he killed a Dallas police officer—J. D. Tippit, I think his name was.”

  Terry nodded.

  “And I’ve read enough testimony that supports those conclusions.”

  “Have you read all of the testimony?” he prodded. Before I could answer, he continued. “Have you ever heard of the grassy knoll? What about the violent backward motion of Kennedy’s head in the Zapruder film? How about all the witnesses ignored and never called before the Warren Commission?”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “Ah! Never heard of those things, huh?” Terry was pleased at making his point, a point that, quite frankly, eluded me. “The government is not telling us the truth about the assassination.”

  “Why would the government lie about something like this?” I asked.

  Terry persisted. “Our library has a set of the twenty-six volumes of testimony. Take a look at them. In the meantime, read this.” He pushed a magazine into my arms. “I’ll be in touch.” Then he was gone.

  His comments hit a nerve. I settled down with my tray of food. Like others, I had read the Warren Report, every word of its 888 pages—twice, as a matter of fact. The accompanying twenty-six volumes of supporting evidence weren’t readily available, so I had done the next best thing and read highlights of that evidence in a paperback put out by the New York Times.

  I had admired John F. Kennedy, his style, his goals. He was a breath of fresh air. His wife, I had to admit, was my first infatuation. Lee Harvey Oswald ended all that.

  Oswald worked in the Texas School Book Depository. The shots came from there. Bullet fragments matched the rifle that had his fingerprints on it. People saw him do it. He was picked from a police lineup. He had no alibi and he tried to escape. He even shot a policeman.

  Why all the fuss? But I still glanced at the magazine Terry had left behind: Playboy. It was already opened to what he apparently wanted me to read, that month’s interview. Staring back at me was a bespectacled attorney-turned-author from New York named Mark Lane. Lane had written a book about his private investigation into the assassination. His remarks revealed a heavy bias against the Warren Report.

  By the time I lifted my nose from the lengthy article, my food was cold and I was alone. Everyone else had finished lunch and had left for afternoon lectures. My “How to Think Straight” logic class was now nearly over.

  I decided to salvage the day by visiting a local bookshop to pick up a copy of Lane’s work, titled Rush to Judgment. Along the way I stopped at the university’s library. As Terry said, the Warren Report and its twenty-six volumes were there, occupying forty inches of shelf space, impressive in their dark-blue covers and gold lettering.

  That night I settled in to read, accompanied by a sack of heart-stoppers from McDonald’s. It was good to be young.

  Lane was brutal as he sliced his way through the Warren Report’s conclusions. He quoted witnesses who saw smoke rising from the grassy knoll, a raised plot of ground to the right front of Kennedy’s motorcade; witnesses who saw someone running from there; or saw two gunmen instead of only one in the sixth-floor window; or saw Oswald in places he wasn’t, shouldn’t have been, or couldn’t have been. He discussed the backward snap to Kennedy’s head when the final bullet struck home. He named names and brought up contradictions between what witnesses said they saw and what the government ultimately said happened.

  I had never read anything like it. I was mesmerized. And he introduced me, inadvertently as it may have been, to Victoria Adams.

  Miss Adams worked on the fourth floor of the Texas School Book Depository. She witnessed the assassination from there, the shots coming from only two floors above. Lane, quoting from her official Warren Commission testimony, wrote that following the last shot, “she and a co-worker ‘ran out of the building via the stairs and went in the direction of the railroad where we had observed other people running.’”1

  Since “the railroad” was located on the grassy knoll, Lane used her remarks as further evidence that shots originated from there. What caught my eye, though, was her comment that she “ran out of the building via the stairs.” I remembered that Oswald had escaped the sixth floor by running down a back staircase. Could that staircase have been the same one Miss Adams was on?

  “So, do you still believe the Warren Report?” Terry inquired when I returned his magazine a few days later.

  “Yeah, I do,” I said. “But Lane raises some interesting points in his book. Ever hear of Victoria Adams?”

  “Ah, so you were interested enough to buy his book, huh? I knew you would. And yes. I’ve heard of her. Why?”

  “Lane mentioned her. I was curious, that’s all.”

  “Check what the Warren Report said,” Terry a
dvised, “then go read her testimony in the twenty-six volumes. You should compare a lot of the witnesses that way. You might be surprised.”

  My professors weren’t doling out this much work.

  “We should get together on a regular basis and compare notes,” he added. “Might be good. For both of us.” The guy had an ego. But I liked him anyway.

  That night, after checking out the relevant books from the library, I focused on the story of Miss Adams. According to the Warren Report, Oswald fired three shots from a sixth-floor window. He then hurried across that floor, hid his gun under some boxes at the top of the back staircase, and descended those stairs. For some reason, he exited the stairs on the second floor and ducked into a nearby lunchroom. Seconds later he was confronted there by Dallas policeman Marrion Baker and building superintendent Roy Truly, who had run up the stairs from the first floor.

  Baker, riding a motorcycle in the parade, wanted to get to the roof of the Depository. He thought shots might have come from there. Truly was showing him the way when the policeman spotted a man later identified as Oswald through the window of a door leading to the lunchroom.

  The timing was crucial. Could Oswald have fled the sixth floor and arrived in the second-floor lunchroom within the ninety seconds allotted by the Report? Shouldn’t Miss Adams, if she was descending the same stairs after the shots were fired, have been privy to this footrace?

  The Warren Report had little to say about her:

  Victoria Adams, who worked on the fourth floor of the Depository Building, claimed that within about 1 minute following the shots she ran from a window on the south side of the fourth floor, down the rear stairs to the first floor, where she encountered two Depository employees—William Shelley and Billy Lovelady. If her estimate of time is correct, she reached the bottom of the stairs before Truly and Baker started up, and she must have run down the stairs ahead of Oswald and would probably have seen or heard him. Actually she noticed no one on the back stairs. If she descended from the fourth to the first floor as fast as she claimed in her testimony, she would have seen Baker or Truly on the first floor or on the stairs, unless they were already in the second-floor lunchroom talking to Oswald. When she reached the first floor, she actually saw Shelley and Lovelady slightly east of the east elevator. . . .