by Joan Mellen
On the March 9, 1971 tape, Garrison asks Gervais what he wants to see him about. “The money,” Gervais says. “Oh,” Garrison says. On that same day, Gervais says, “The boys are talking of running you for governor.” “Gee, that’s great,” Garrison says. On the doctored tape, Gervais says, “The boys have agreed to pay us $1,000 every two months,” and Garrison replies, “Gee, that’s great.” Gervais is then heard to reply, “No, there’s a thousand every two months,” a non sequitur demonstrating that the tape machine had been turned off, and then on again. The conversation makes no sense.
On another tape, when Gervais states that Boasberg and Nims sent him $1,000, Garrison replies, “Don’t get greedy. That’s what always catches these bastards,” another incoherent moment. On heavy painkillers, and distracted, Jim Garrison says of police investigator Frederick Soule, “oh, he’s not with me any more,” although Soule was in fact very much entrenched at Tulane and Broad.
One of those ultimately indicted, Louis Boasberg of New Orleans Novelty, confided to his lawyer, Jim McPherson, that Jim Garrison had never asked for bribes nor had he ever given him any bribes. One day Sharon Herkes took an anonymous call. “We’ve given the envelopes, so what’s the problem?” the caller said. But those envelopes had not gone to Jim Garrison. He received a warning telegram, signed by “Impeccable Washington Source, S.” “Watch out for ‘friend’ conversing about your finances,” it read. “He’s bugged to frame you for lay fraud.” Still, Garrison did not suspect Pershing, whom he called his “closest friend.”
On May 28, 1971, Herbert Christenberry dismissed the perjury charges against Clay Shaw on the ground that Garrison’s investigation had been funded by a private organization, although four years earlier Louise Korns had determined that the Truth and Consequences contributions were entirely legal. In a press release, Garrison called Oswald “a low-level intelligence employee of the United States government.” The assassination “was carried out by the domestic espionage apparatus of the United States government.” He hoped to continue to educate the public about how the intelligence agencies had been “in the business of assassination— both foreign and domestic—for a number of years.” Those involved were people engaged in cover occupations, well regarded in their communities, like Clay Shaw, and did not wear “black capes nor villains’ mustaches.”
A month later the government made its move. On June 26th, Gervais drew sketches for the federal agents of the layout of Garrison’s house, remarking that Garrison often put money in the desk drawer in his study. Three days later, bearing a cheesecake, Pershing paid his final visit to the Garrison home. Garrison was, as usual, upstairs in bed. Outside, the federal agent assigned to Gervais, Arlie Puckett, sat in a surveillance truck, listening as the tape recorder clicked on and off.
Pershing has brought more than a cheesecake. He carries as well a plain white envelope with $1,000 in fifty-dollar bills, dusted with fluorescent powder. The bedroom is scented with Ben-Gay. Jim asks Liz for hot chocolate, but Pershing declines, Pershing is in a hurry. He needs a favor, he says. He wants Jim to hold some money for a few days. Put the money in the desk, Garrison says. He trusts Pershing to do it himself, since he knows the house well. Downstairs, Pershing puts the envelope in the middle drawer of the desk, locks the drawer, pockets the key and vanishes into the night.
“So perish all enemies of this country,” Pershing whispers into his microphone, paraphrasing John Wilkes Booth as he drew his weapon to kill Abraham Lincoln.
The next morning, a small army of federal agents armed with a search warrant entered the house on Owens Boulevard, trooped upstairs and arrested Jim Garrison. Later Federal Prosecutor Eric Gisleson, playing out some imaginary scenario, said, they had “two teams stationed outside to protect his wife”; they were “fearful of what he would do to his wife.” They demanded that Jim Garrison empty his pockets, but the fifty-dollar bills in his wallet did not match the serial numbers on their list. There was a metal box in the dresser, but it was empty.
Downstairs, the agents marched to the desk and demanded the key. Garrison looked at them blankly. He might have a spare in the office, he remarked. Revealing they knew perfectly well that he had no key—Pershing had taken it—the agents had come equipped with an eighteen-inch screwdriver. An agent jimmied open the desk and there was the money.
“A friend came by last night and left it,” Garrison said. He was going out of town and had asked Garrison to hold it for his return. These serial numbers did match.
“How much is in the envelope?” Garrison asked. Later the agents lied and said Jim Garrison wouldn’t tell them where the key was. They insisted he had put the money in the drawer. They said they found tiny traces of the fluorescent power on his fingers.
As far as I’m concerned, Jim Garrison said on the day he was arrested, “It’s just another day at Tulane and Broad.” Even vice squad officer Mike Seghers, who was helping Pershing all along, says that Garrison was being punished for the Shaw trial. (A total stranger to loyalty, Pershing had told the government that Seghers was “too rough on some violations and does nothing on others.”)
Garrison blamed the CIA. “Congress doesn’t control the country anymore,” he said that night on television. “Neither does the president, really.” The arrest was his reward for the Shaw case where he “communicated not wisely but too well.” Shakespeare was ever his solace.
There would be nine defendants, but the trial was all about Jim Garrison. Even before he was formally indicted, in an astonishing breach of ethics, the government released to the press a 113-page affidavit of the charges against him. Appalled, F. Lee Bailey offered to represent Garrison for no fee. Pershing was now swept off to Canada and a witness protection program, where for $22,000 a year he need do nothing for his employer, General Motors. So General Motors functioned as a government proprietary.
The CIA gloated. “Looks like Mr. Garrison is on the ropes and will have all he can do to keep the hornets away,” Jake Murphy of the Dallas field office wrote to the director of the Domestic Contact Service. When the government delayed in charging Garrison, his lawyer, Lou Merhige, came up with the strategy of having the case tried in state court. The special prosecutor would be Benjamin Smith, one of the Dombrowski defendants—three lawyers charged with “subversion” for helping to finance the integration efforts of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., Smith, Garrison and Merhige assumed, would be someone likely to be vigilant in the safeguarding of a defendant’s rights. The charges would be the same as those listed on the federal affidavit. Simultaneously, Smith would ask Judge Malcolm O’Hara for a change of venue.
In a meeting with Merhige, Smith agreed to prosecute in state court. Then, in a double-cross, Smith walked into court and said there was no evidence, despite the outlining of evidence in the federal affidavit. Smith charged Garrison only with malfeasance, a charge Malcolm O’Hara at once dismissed. The civil rights lawyer had behaved like a hired hand of the federal government.
On December 3, 1971, Jim Garrison was finally indicted by a federal grand jury for conspiracy to obstruct law enforcement and for fraud and false statements on his income taxes, including failure to report $48,000 in gambling protection money, the bribes. “Had I chosen to be crooked,” Garrison said, “I easily could have made more than that.” The IRS indicted him separately in March.
Assistant Attorney General Henry E. Petersen wrote to Richard Helms. Had any of the individuals under indictment been subjected to electronic surveillance “of any type, lawful or unlawful, by your agency?” There is no available record of Helms’ reply. In a moment of confusion, while he waited for the case to come to trial, Garrison qualified for the State Supreme Court, then withdrew.
In May, languishing in Canada, Pershing telephoned his favorite New Orleans reporter, Rosemary James. He had something important to tell her, Pershing said. James flew to Vancouver where Pershing declared he was ready to tell the truth. “They wanted to ‘get’ Jim Garrison,” Pershing confessed. Walter Sheridan had
told him he would unleash the IRS against him. “I was forced to work for them,” Pershing said. “But more than that. I was forced to lie for them.”
“Are you saying that you participated in a deliberate frame of Jim Garrison and a whole bunch of pinball executives at the direction of the federal government?” James said.
“Without a doubt. I’m saying that unequivocably [sic],” Pershing said. “I was convinced I was going to jail. Jim Garrison never, ever, ever, fixed a case for me. Not ever.” While pretending to be interested in the Mafia, the Strike Force was really interested in only “one man, Jim Garrison . . . they wanted to silence Jim Garrison.”
Previously, Pershing had denied that he was being paid by the federal government.
“How many years do you know me, darling?” Pershing said. “I never did anything for nothing in my whole life.” Pershing admitted that there was not “a single thing” that the Justice Department said “that was true ... it was a total, complete, political frame-up.” James asked whether Garrison had given Pershing money on a recent trip he had made to New Orleans.
“Mr. Garrison ain’t got thirty cents,” Pershing Gervais said. The government’s only witness against Jim Garrison had rendered himself useless.
POTOMAC TWO-STEP
21
Nobody there really wants the truth.
—Richard Case Nagell
THE TRIAL OF United States of America v. Jim Garrison et al. opened on August 20, 1973. U.S. Attorney Gerald Gallinghouse already feared the worst. The evidence you sent over was weak, Gallinghouse complained to Aaron Kohn. Even after the trial had begun, Kohn continued to search for information to incriminate Jim Garrison. All they had to connect Garrison and the pinball racketeers came through Pershing Gervais and, perhaps, a pinball owner named John Aruns Callery. The federal prosecution hoped that the defense would not be able to prove that Garrison had ever loaned Pershing any money, although Sharon Herkes could testify that one day Garrison had told her that Gervais had repaid him; “I never thought I would get this money back,” Garrison had said.
During the voir dire, prospective jurors were asked if they knew who Jim Garrison was. Not a single hand went up. Eric Gisleson passed a note to fellow prosecutor, Michael Ellis: “We just lost the case.”
How does it feel to be on trial? Rosemary James asked Garrison.
“It’s considerably below an orgasm and considerably above a cremation,” Garrison said. Wearing horn-rimmed glasses, he sat at the defense table and read David Halberstam’s The Best and the Brightest, looking like a man “in his living room going through the mail.” Presiding was—Herbert Christenberry. “You can bet it’s not by accident,” Pershing had said as soon as Christenberry’s name was announced.
The climax of the trial came when one of the defendants, police officer Frederick Soule, that officer still, indeed, attached to Garrison’s office, confessed to taking pinball bribes. Soule produced the contents of a pickle jar he had buried in his wife’s garden: $63,000. He had warned bar owners in advance when the pinball machines would be checked, Soule admitted. Then he testified that “the man at the top” at Tulane and Broad had received a considerable cut of the money. This man was not Jim Garrison, however, but Superintendent of Police, Joseph Giarrusso, a fact since confirmed by both Mike Seghers and Joe Oster.
Every Friday afternoon, Seghers later confided to the head of the police union, Irvin L. Magri Jr., the bread stuffing was removed from a “po’ boy” sandwich and hundred-dollar bills put in its place. Then this po’ boy would be delivered to Giarrusso at his home on Cameron off Robert E. Lee in the Gentilly section of New Orleans, courtesy of the pinball owners. Sometimes Seghers delivered the po’ boy, sometimes Chris (“Bozo”) Vodanovich did it. Suddenly the trial was not about Jim Garrison, but his longtime adversary, Joe Giarrusso.
Under oath, John Callery, Lawrence Lagarde and John J. Els Jr. of TAC Novelty all confirmed that “the big man on Tulane Avenue” was Giarrusso. Lagarde said he never gave Garrison any money. Els admitted to sending Garrison a $1,000 or $1,500 campaign contribution, but he had also given a contribution to Charlie Ward. Louisiana law permitted the perpetual collection of political contributions. Gallinghouse had no choice but to invite Joseph Giarrusso to visit a federal grand jury.
Gallinghouse wanted to subpoena William Alford, but Alford had no desire to testify against Jim Garrison. He engineered what he called a “Gervais,” after the master, and qualified to run for district attorney against Garrison in his coming reelection campaign. Now there would be a conflict of interest in Alford’s testifying. “You’ve ruined yourself as a witness!” Gallinghouse sputtered. Precisely, Alford thought.
After the altered tapes were played in open court, Judge Christenberry, eschewing impartiality, told the jury that there was abundant evidence to support a guilty verdict for all the defendants. Given the shoddiness of the proceedings, Lou Merhige was reluctant to put Jim Garrison on the stand. But if he dismissed his lawyers and represented himself, Garrison would make the closing argument, which was as good as testifying, and he could not be cross-examined.
“Are you receiving legal aid since releasing Barnett [F. Lee Bailey’s associate] and Merhige?” Christenberry demanded, as Garrison assumed the role of defense attorney. “I’m already receiving assistance from Captain America,” Garrison replied, “but I believe it is unintentional assistance.” He was referring to Gallinghouse.
Lynn Loisel testified that he had learned Gervais was taking pinball bribes, and that he heard Jim Garrison say frequently that Gervais owed him money. Lou Ivon added that the amount was $5,000 or $6,000. Gervais had been fired, Ivon testified, because he took a $3,000 bribe from Burton Klein to fix a case, and Klein had filed an affidavit to that effect.
Having run the office now for several years, John Volz testified that Jim Garrison never interfered with the prosecution of pinball gambling cases. No one could buy Jim Garrison, he said, if only because he was “too undependable.” Although Garrison did not support him actively in his effort to retain his judgeship, generously Jimmy Alcock testified for him. The pinball owners could not be prosecuted successfully because the state lacked the power to grant any one of them immunity—they always took the Fifth Amendment—Alcock explained. Warren Commission lawyer and former New Orleans district attorney Leon Hubert also stood up for Jim Garrison. Defense expert witness Louis Gerstman called the tapes a “fraudulent fabrication.”
The government had no choice but to bring in Pershing Gervais as a rebuttal witness. Pershing claimed that Jim Garrison had corrupted him, and that it was Denis Barry who filtered bribes to Garrison to the tune of $150,000. Before it was over, Pershing admitted to a meeting between himself, Garrison and a lawyer, Russell Schonekas, where Pershing had requested $50,000 to write the script for the trial.
“My God, Pershing,” Schonekas said, “are you offering to perjure yourself?”
“I don’t believe in God,” Pershing said. He pointed upward. “You, God! If you’re up there, strike me dead!”
Just before he began his closing argument, Jim Garrison learned that his mother had suffered a heart attack. Often Jane had exasperated him and often he had evaded her, not taking her calls, failing to appear at lunches they had arranged and resenting her interference in his life. Yet always he admired his mother and was grateful to her; The Star-Spangled Contract is dedicated to “Jane Garrison Gardiner.” The news was shattering.
Liz and the five children sat in the front row. “It might hurt your dad if we’re divorced,” Liz had told the children. She had postponed the coming inevitable divorce proceedings.
Garrison spoke for three hours, his subjects justice, the system of law and what constituted patriotism. Defining the “Declaration of Independence” as a document designed “to protect the individual from the government,” he requested that the jury stand as a shield, protecting him from the federal government, which had made a systematic effort to frame him.
A “small army of
federal secret police” had been pursuing him, he said. In that secret meeting at the office of Russell Schonekas, Pershing had asked for $100,000, not $50,000, to help him. “Can you trust the word of such a man, whose only God by his own word is money?” he asked. He admitted that he was not without flaws: “It has been nearly 2,000 years since the last perfect man was on earth.”
He spoke of how for two years he had to bear the knowledge that his children “must have some doubts about my innocence.” His voice cracked as he choked back tears. Quoting the English poet, Robert Browning, he hoped the jury would not permit “an innocent man to be convicted: One more devil’s triumph and sorrow for the angels, one more wrong to man.” Two black jurors wept. Even his Uptown detractor, Judge Tom Wicker, had to admit that Jim Garrison’s closing argument was “brilliant.”
Only one ballot was taken. The vote acquitting Jim Garrison was unanimous on the first ballot. F. Lee Bailey says that “the jury would have let him go even if he had confessed in open court because the judge was so rude.” Having failed to convict Jim Garrison, the Strike Force, forgetting about organized crime and Carlos Marcello, packed up and left Louisiana. John Wall, its leader, resigned.
