The shrewd amiability of Lee Harvey Oswald wore off. He had spoken more words to more people on this day than on any other in his life. He had hidden his antisocial attitude, had worn his aura of innocence with authority, and had used the keyboard of the world press to beg for the civil rights which should have been his. The game had become a bore a long time ago. The clock had passed Oswald’s bedtime by three hours.
He was not pleasant in the Identification Bureau on the fourth floor. Posing for the mug photographs, he obeyed directions like an automaton; the teaspoon edge of the lower lip began to emerge in the sullen pout which had been his badge from the age of two. Oswald would not roll his fingers on the print pad; he dragged the fingers across it until a policeman took the digits one by one and rolled them properly. Again he was asked to sign his name at the bottom of the card and he said: “No.”
The police did not remonstrate. They tossed a dirty cloth, damp with benzine, for him to wipe his fingers clean. At ten minutes past one, the negatives and prints were declared satisfactory, and two jailers escorted him through the little foyer with the file cabinets and back up to the fifth floor. He noted that one guard sat on a chair propped outside the alley of three maximum cells; one was inside. There were no greetings either way. He went to his cell—the one in the middle—washed his hands in the chipped sink, urinated in the sloping basin built into the floor, and settled down for the night.
He was on his back on a lower bunk, hands clasped behind his head, eyelids almost closed and glistening at the naked ceiling light. He kept his shirt and trousers on this time, kicked the loafers off, and crossed ankles. The guards could not tell whether he was awake or sleeping. The respiration appeared to be slow.
The guard who sat opposite Cell Two would surmise that Lee Harvey Oswald fell asleep quickly. He could have been wrong, but after a few minutes the toes did not twitch, the eyelids were closed, the features appeared to fall into the relaxed aspect of a weary child. No man who had a grave crime on his mind could relinquish it so easily. No innocent person, charged with so heinous an offense, could sweep the terror from his mind and lapse into sleep.
There was nothing on the conscience of Jack Ruby, and yet he could not entertain the thought of sleep. The two men were only a few hundred yards apart, but Ruby burned brighter as the hours faded toward dawn. He could not let go of his part in this story, small as it was. He asked the men at KLIF how they liked the Exotic Cola. They said fine. Was the interview with Henry Wade satisfactory? Indeed it was, and Glen Duncan and Russ Knight were thankful to Jack Ruby for setting it up.
He wasn’t boastful. Nor was he feverishly excited. The nightclub owner coaxed endorsement from the professionals. He spoke to Russ Knight—known to his fans as Weird Beard—about the techniques of conducting an interview and of how the tapes are cut and spliced to eliminate the weak and irrelevant sections. The mood, which was exuberant, dropped to resentment when Ruby thought of the man who had no name, “you know, the creep.” Jack Ruby had not the slightest doubt that the prisoner was guilty. Dallas had the right man.
Knight was working and listening. Ruby, still the editorial strategist, asked why Gordon McLendon, owner of KLIF, could not deliver a sermon on radio against the forces which spawn “creeps” who placed treasonable advertisements in newspapers, pelt statesmen like Adlai Stevenson, and shoot Presidents who are guests of Dallas. The city was violent. The radio reporter was not too familiar with political terms, but he sensed that Ruby expected that someone “with guts” would speak out against the extreme right wing in Texas. Those who knew Ruby were aware that he had a chameleon character which could switch colors, from hilarity to resentment, from generosity to fisticuffs, from charitable impulses to tears, without changing emotional gears.
Duncan got the impression that the entrepreneur dropped the role of crusader abruptly and, far from grieving for President Kennedy, appeared to relish the personal contacts he had established in headquarters. Out of great tragedy had come a small measure of stature.
He wandered around the studio as Duncan prepared the 2 A.M. newscast and struck up a conversation with a young man. Ruby gave him a card to the Carousel Club. He found another employee, Danny Patrick McCurdy, and confided that he had announced that he was closing his nightclubs for the weekend. Moodily, Ruby stared at the floor and figured it would cost him between $1200 and $1500, but he would rather lose it at this moment in America’s history. Such a loss could easily be translated into a mark of respect for the President.
The shine began to wear off KLIF. Jack Ruby, rumpled and righteous, had told everyone how he felt about everything. He was on the side of the angels. The broadcasts would continue all night long, but there was nothing to be gained in the studio. The paper bags were empty. Everyone had been thankful. Ruby was sure he could gain entrance at night again. He had established a rapport with KLIF. Besides, a new idea had crossed his mind. He had seen the Dallas News ads at Phil’s Delicatessen, and in capital letters they said: CLOSED under the names of his nightclubs. The Dallas Times Herald would be wide awake at this hour, and he could drive over there and make certain that those small one-column ads shouted “CLOSED.” Also he could see the advertisements of his competitors. So far, those gentlemen showed an elemental lack of “class” by remaining open and making a profit.
The final abuse of the body was under way. Pumping leads were established under the armpits. One forced a formaldehyde compound through the arteries of the body as a tube on the opposite side accepted the last of the body’s blood. Gawler’s men were efficient and almost silent. The four maintained their separate tasks. This time it was difficult to keep the hands from trembling. All of the four had lived in and around the capital with this charmer, this buoyant President. When the sheet was curled off the body, the professionals looked at what was left. Each man kept his features immobile, but each felt the depression of death.
A cosmetician studied the bloated face. Roy Kellerman got to his feet, walked over, and whispered: “How long?” The answer, whispered, was “Not long.” He asked again: “How long?” An embalmer looked at his wristwatch. The time in Washington was 2:30 A.M. “An hour,” he said. “An hour and fifteen minutes.” Roy Kellerman strode back to his witness chair and phoned Clint Hill. “Tell the Attorney General we leave about 3:45,” he said. “Tell the White House too.”
The art of making a body presentable is no favor to the dead. It is designed to please the next of kin, to assure the living that he sleeps. The ultimate hypocrisy is jamming shoes on the dead. All of it is countenanced, expected, and paid for by the living. Gawler’s, known for its discretion and good taste, knew from experience that the restoration of those who die by violence—especially with head or face wounds—is particularly difficult. Joseph Hagan walked around the body, noting the lacerated areas, and snipped a small bit of hair from behind the President’s head.
“Go back and match this,” he said to one of his men. “Bring enough to cover this open section on the head.” He looked toward the bench where Kellerman and Greer and Burkley sat like dazed dolls. “And hurry,” he said. A slight curved mesh was fashioned for the missing part of the head. It was a malleable fabric. The scalp would be pulled tight over it.
The Dallas casket, which had reposed against a wall, was taken away.* The dark mahogany one was wheeled in on a trolley. The President’s clothing was placed on a chair, the creases neatly folded. Deft touches of a compound were placed on his eyelids to keep them closed. The lashes were brought down. White shorts were brought up over the legs. Black sox were peeled upward over the feet and ankles. The unresistant body began to take on the hue, the composed expression of John F. Kennedy.
Justice of the Peace David L. Johnston was ready. There was nothing the young man had to do except to read the charge to the prisoner, advise him of his rights, and tell him that murder in the first degree was a nonbailable offense in Texas. The magistrate had been in the room when Fritz signed the document at 11:26 P.M., and he could have read it to Lee Harvey Oswald at that time. There was no room for an exercise of options by the judge. Anyone could have read it and disposed of the hearing within ten minutes.
At 1:30 A.M. he was ready. Lee Harvey Oswald was sleeping. The judge told Chief Curry to get the prisoner and find a safe place for the arraignment. The chief thought that the jailers could bring him down to the I.D. Bureau on the fourth floor, the same place where Lieutenant Knight had made the fingerprints. Phone calls were made. Superior officers of the police department were ordered to be present. This, they were told, was the big charge—assassination of a President.
Fritz slammed a desk drawer closed and took an elevator up. Chief Batchelor walked up. So did Chief Stevenson. Assistant District Attorney William Alexander represented Henry Wade. Another assistant D.A., Maurice Harrell, was present. On the third floor, most of the reporters had left for the night on the assurance that nothing exciting would occur until morning. Many of them were in hotels, tapping out final recollections of a bad day. A few, notably wire service men, remained in the corridor, and asked why top-ranking officers were hurrying to elevators and stairwells.
It was “nothing.” None of them guessed that it would be a hearing on the assassination because the press had been assured that Oswald had been arraigned on that charge before midnight. Some in the hall surmised that the excitement was caused by a possible attack on a jailer by Oswald. Or maybe he had committed suicide. Or tried to. On the other hand, it could be that he had cracked and wanted to confess the crime. He could be bargaining for a second degree plea.
In the nearby hotels, out-of-town reporters were chagrined to learn that Dallas room service stops at 10 P.M. In New York and Washington, they told their hotel operators, there were places where a man could phone for a steak and a bottle of liquor at any hour. They were reminded that they were in Dallas, where decent people are sleeping at this hour. Besides, liquor was out of the question. The chief of the Los Angeles Times bureau, Robert J. Donovan, asked if it would be possible to pay a bellboy to go out and get some food.
An old Negro arrived. Donovan looked at him. The man was an anachronism, even for Dallas. The black shiny skin was furrowed; the hair was white along the sides. He wore a jazzy uniform with bell-bottom trousers and a gay pillbox hat on his head. “We are a bunch of newspapermen,” said Donovan. “We haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast in Fort Worth. We would appreciate it if you could go out somewhere and get us something to eat.” The old man looked at the tired faces and nodded. It could be done.
“Now,” said Donovan, “we can pay you a little extra if you can get us a jug. We know we can’t get liquor in Dallas. We figure that you would know a place.” The dark compassionate eyes of the old man swept the room. “No,” he said. “I can’t do that.” The voice was deep enough to come from the throat of a prophet. “Ain’t there been enough laws broken in Dallas today?”
Two jailers awakened Lee Harvey Oswald in his cell and he demanded to know what was going on. Sergeant Warren said: “I got my orders from the chief. He says to bring you down to I.D. again.” If the prisoner silently debated the notion of refusing, he gave it up. For a bond hearing, they would have carried him. Docilely he held his wrists out and the handcuffs were snapped. He was sandwiched between guards and left the maximum security area, half sleepy, half angry, and was taken down a flight of stairs.
On the fourth floor there was a heavy metal prison door. This was unlocked, and Lee Harvey Oswald found himself in the presence of a considerable company of men. Normally this hearing would have been held in one of the courts on the first or second floor of this building. It was not put on the statute books to become an act of secrecy. This is what it was. The little foyer with the file cabinets was a chosen setting. The prisoner could holler as loud as possible for counsel—or shout his innocence—and no one could hear him except those police officers who believed him guilty. The outcome of the hearing would have remained the same in any case, but there was a desire on the part of the law to recite both charges—Tippit and Kennedy—in a private place. There could be but one reason for this: to keep Oswald’s mouth shut.
Judge Johnston stood behind a check-in counter. He had the formal charge before him. Oswald glanced at all the faces. He saw no friends. This could not have hurt him because he never had one. “Is this the trial?” he said sarcastically. Oswald knew better. The justice of the peace held the affidavit up. “No,” he said. “I have to arraign you again on another offense.” Oswald did not want to be a party to it. The judge appeared to be nervous.
He began to parrot the printed form before him, stating that he was arraigning Lee Harvey Oswald for the murder with malice of John F. Kennedy, cause Number F–154, the state of Texas versus Lee Harvey Oswald.* The malcontent appeared to be offended. “Oh,” he shouted at the assemblage, “this is the deal, is it?” The judge kept talking, saying that this charge had been filed at 11:26 P.M. on November 22, 1963, by Captain J. W. Fritz of the Homicide Bureau of the Dallas Police Department, and that Fritz, as the complainant, had signed it.
Across the bottom of it, Judge Johnston penned: “1:35 A.M. 11-23-63. Bond hearing—defendant remanded to Sheriff, Dallas County, Texas. No Bond—Capital offense.” Oswald watched, and said: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He began to ask about John Abt. He spelled it for the judge. Oswald’s plea was that if he had constitutional rights, then one of them included the services of a lawyer. He had asked for John Abt of New York almost all day. In addition, he told the judge, he had said that if Abt was unavailable he would accept the services of a Dallas American Civil Liberties Union lawyer.
“You will be given the opportunity to contact the lawyer of your choice,” Johnston said blandly. The prisoner was irritated; this is what he had heard all day. He had pleaded for legal assistance for the past eight hours. He had begged for it at the press conference. He had phoned for it. No one had stepped forward. Some of the police officers who now stood silently behind him knew that the American Civil Liberties Union had contacted the police to protect Oswald’s rights. The law lied when it said he had declined the services of a lawyer.
He was boxed in firmly and in inquisitorial secrecy by men who proclaimed themselves the upholders of the law. He cannot have hoped to escape the charge of assassination: there were too many witnesses; he had hidden his gun between cartons; the dead shells were still on the floor when he departed; he must have known that the curtain rod fable could be checked and that even his naïve friend, Wesley Frazier, would not believe it. Lee Harvey Oswald knew, once he made up his mind not to flee Dallas, that he would be caught and charged with the assassination.
Whatever grand design he had in mind for himself involved the use of an attorney. There can be no doubt that, considering the obvious trail of evidence he left behind him, that he would probably have been convicted in a reasonable trial. The mirror maze of thinking in which he involved himself was not deficient in simple logic. Arrested—Tried—Convicted must have been arithmetical progressions to him. Above all, he required a forum, a debating pedestal. He could have made a bid for fame in a Marxist speech at a trial. Or he might have penned a runaway best seller in prison. He was a bookish man. In his extreme penuriousness, he had once spent hard-earned dollars to have a public stenographer in Fort Worth pen the “history” of his visit to the Soviet Union.
Had he listened to Judge Johnston, Oswald might have noted that this was the second time he had been “remanded” to the custody of the sheriff, Bill Decker. He had the right to demand the transfer “forthwith.” It would have embarrassed Fritz and Curry and perhaps the judge.* The hearing was over. Curry nodded to the jailers. They took their man back through the iron gate and up to the fifth-floor cell. He would be permitted six hours of sleep.
Sheba was patient. She dozed on the front seat for hours. The noise of pedestrians seldom disturbed her. The little dog recognized the voice, the cough, and the step of her master. When Jack Ruby came out of KLIF, Sheba was alert, standing on the front seat. He slid in on the driver’s side, made the cooing expressions he always did when he returned to one of his dogs, and put the car in gear.
He was driving west. The streets appeared bright with light, but there was no one on them. Ruby could look down a mile of broad avenue and watch the diminishing rows of traffic lights switch, like an array of colorful soldiers, from orange to red to green. The trouble, as far as Ruby was concerned, was that he had time. He was a night person. The Carousel and the Vegas were closed, but his mind was alert and open. It would not shut down for sleep.
Since childhood he had had a fear of being alone. He spent as little time as possible in the apartment. He asked his friend George Senator to share the place with him so that there would be someone to talk to. When there wasn’t, Ruby read the papers quickly, tossed them on the bedroom floor, and reached for the phone. The hour didn’t matter: “Did I wake you? I’m sorry. Listen, I just thought of something. . . .”
Even the dogs were there for the monologue. He had several. They were small, like Yorkshires, and they stared moodily at Ruby from overstuffed chairs and beds. By day, when he had no work to do, he could stop in the bank to make a deposit or a withdrawal, kill an hour in a newspaper advertising department, stop in at police headquarters and talk crime with the police, visit Eva for an hour, work on ideas to peddle a notion he had, called The Twistboard, shop for groceries, visit a stripper, hand out free cards to his nightclubs, kill time in Phil’s Delicatessen, or glue himself to the phone.
He had no real yearning to visit the Times Herald, except to check his advertisements. He might find someone there to discuss the assassination with him, and he could tell how he nailed Henry Wade for one interview after another, and of how he corrected him—politely, of course—about the Free Cuba group. Jack Ruby knew what a big shot was. He also knew he wasn’t one.