“I’ll be watching,” Tammy said.
With that, John Kennedy Jr. shot Tammy Holloway a big grin and was off with a flash, running across the long stretch of sand- and pebble-covered beach. She followed him with her eyes until he was just a small dot on the far-off horizon. Then he turned around and headed back her way, this time a little farther out into the ocean so that he was running in perhaps just a few inches of water. And as he got closer to her, he found his secret spot and, sure enough, it looked to Tammy as if John Kennedy Jr. was running on the surface of the sea. Knowing how it must have appeared to her, he gave her a broad smile and a thumbs-up as he passed her by… and then he just kept on running.
PART TWENTY-TWO
Camelot Loses Its Prince
Mike Tyson’s Advice
It was March 1, 1999. The black Mercedes pulled up to the runway of a small airport in Montgomery, Maryland. The driver, Virgil McLyn, was employed by boxer Mike Tyson as his bodyguard. He’d been asked to pick up a friend of Tyson’s who was flying down to visit the fighter in jail. At the time, Tyson was serving a one-year sentence at the Rockville Detention Center for assaulting two motorists after a traffic accident. As McLyn pulled up, he noticed that the small private plane had already landed. In a few moments, the cockpit door opened and down the metal ladder walked a smiling John Kennedy Jr. wearing dark suit pants and an open white shirt and carrying a garment bag. “How you doin’?” he said to McLyn as he extended his hand. The two men spoke for a moment before McLyn opened the rear passenger door of the Mercedes for Kennedy. “No, that’s all right,” he said. “I can sit up front with you.” As the two drove along the highway, McLyn had soft jazz playing in the vehicle. “Do you have anything else?” John asked. “Maybe some hip-hop or something?” Sure. Seconds later, the two men were bopping their heads to Wu-Tang.
“John, I’m going to take you to Mike’s house first to see his wife, Monica, and the kids,” McLyn explained. “And if you don’t mind, maybe take some pictures with them? Is that cool?”
“Sure,” John said. “Sounds good.”
“And you know what?” McLyn said. “My mom, man, she loves the Kennedys. I hate to ask, but if I could get a picture with you too, that would mean the world to her.”
John had to laugh. “Sure. I think we can arrange that,” he said.
The two men then drove to Mike Tyson’s mansion, where they were met by Tyson’s second wife, Monica Turner, a physician; the couple’s two small children, Rayna and Amir; and Monica’s child from a previous marriage. John excused himself and went to wash up. He emerged a few minutes later wearing a gold tie and a suit jacket. After he took pictures with everyone, it was off to Rockville.
Once at the detention center, John and Virgil were escorted to the visitors’ ward, a small concrete room with a glass window on one of the walls, on the other side of which would sit the prisoner. As they walked in, the four guards present looked as if they couldn’t believe their eyes. As soon as Kennedy sat down on one side of the partition, Tyson showed up on the other side. McLyn stood directly behind John.
“So, what’s up, Mike?” John asked.
“Nothin’, John. Just trying to get through this thing, you know?” Tyson answered.
“Obviously the two of them were friends,” recalled Virgil McLyn. Indeed, these seemingly unlikely pals had known each other since June 1997 when John attended Tyson’s Las Vegas fight, the legendary bout during which the boxer bit off part of Evander Holyfield’s right ear. Madonna was at that fight, too. The two spoke afterward, Madonna asking John, “Do you think he swallowed it?” referring to Holyfield’s ear. “No,” John said, chuckling, “I’m pretty sure I saw him spit it out.” John felt Tyson’s sentence was ridiculous, that he was being targeted for who he was. “It’s like [Bob] Dylan’s Hurricane song,” John said. “It’s racism that has Mike back in jail, pure and simple.”
“At the jail, John was just trying to lift Mike’s spirits,” recalled Virgil McLyn. “They talked about how it was going. Just pleasant chitchat. A little bit about boxing, too. And they talked about Mike’s public image and how the media seemed to always be on his case. John offered some advice, just told him to try not to let it get to him, that this jail sentence was just a misstep but that he’d be back strong soon, that kind of thing. After about an hour, we were getting ready to leave. It must have been about three in the morning.”
“So, what did you do, fly down here?” Mike asked John.
“Yeah, sure.”
“I can’t believe that,” Mike said. He added that John took the plane from one location to the next “as if it was some kind of flying taxicab.”
John smiled. “I do love it.”
“Virgil’s not a fan of small planes,” Mike said, looking at his bodyguard and laughing.
“Yeah, I had to take a little plane up to Indiana,” Virgil said, according to his memory. “It was me, Mike’s wife, and his lawyer. And that was some scary shit,” he said. He added that the plane “was dropping and bouncing” so much, he never prayed so hard in his entire life.
“Yeah, well, it can get a little turbulent up there sometimes,” John said, laughing.
“You’re not flying back tonight, are you?” Mike asked.
“Sure I am,” John said.
“Dude, really,” Mike said. “You oughta spend the night and fly back tomorrow.”
“No, I’m cool,” John said.
“I don’t know,” Mike said. “I think flying that little plane is nuts, John.”
John smiled. “Look, you love your bike, right?” he asked Mike. “And you were in a wreck a couple years ago. Yet you wouldn’t give up your Harley, now would you?”
Mike laughed. “Yeah, but that’s different,” he said. “At least I’m on good ol’ terra firma.”
“But you can’t imagine how beautiful it is up there, Mike,” John said.
“Do me a favor, John,” Mike said. “Promise me something.”
“What’s that?”
“Promise me you won’t bring anyone you love up there with you,” Mike said. “You want to fly? Cool. But fly alone, John. Not with anyone you love. Promise me.”
John just smiled again. After a few more minutes of conversation, he and Virgil McLyn left. The reason for the late-night visit had been so that John could slip in and out unnoticed. Of course, it didn’t work out that way. As soon as they got outside, John was surrounded by reporters. He said a few kind words about Mike Tyson, let the press take some pictures, and then got back into the Mercedes with McLyn.
On the way back to the airport—Wu-Tang still playing—John said he wanted to stop at a 7-Eleven and get a cup of coffee. “Dude, to stay awake?” Virgil asked, alarmed. “I mean, if that’s the case, let me take you back to the house and you can fly tomorrow.” However, John insisted he was fine. After they stopped, Virgil offered to go into the convenience store with John. “No, I’m fine,” John said, getting out of the car. As Virgil watched from the car, John went inside, poured a cup of coffee, and took it to the counter to pay for it. Every person inside—maybe five or six—stopped what they were doing and stared. Then, as John left, everyone ran to the glass door and peered outside, disbelief registering on all of their faces.
Soon after, Virgil pulled up to the airport and then onto the runway. The two men got out of the car and Virgil walked over to John. “I liked him so much,” Virgil said, years later. “I mean, he was such a regular guy. And I don’t know why I said it, but I did.” Indeed, as he shook John Kennedy Jr.’s hand, Virgil McLyn said, “You know what, man? For a white boy, you sure are cool.”
John laughed. “Thanks, my friend. So are you,” he said.
John Kennedy then walked over to his plane, jumped into the cockpit, and, ten minutes later, pulled onto the runway. Then, as Virgil stood watching, the plane began to speed down the asphalt and smoothly lift off the ground. Soon it was soaring. Within a minute, it was just a dot. Then it was gone.
“The Worst That C
ould Happen”
On Saturday, July 10, 1999, Ethel and Rory Kennedy were sitting in Ethel’s living room at the Kennedy compound with thick notepads in their laps, talking to Holly Safford, the caterer for Rory’s upcoming wedding. Ethel has a longtime cook at the compound, who also travels with her. For special events, though, she uses Safford and her company, The Catered Affair, which is located outside of Boston. Safford had been catering Kennedy events for many years, starting with Rose Kennedy’s hundredth birthday in the summer of 1990. “You have voluminous notes when you leave a meeting with Mrs. Kennedy,” Holly Safford recalled. “She has a vision, which is the whole look of the space, the tablecloths and the china and everything that is going to be used, and then you move to the menu very quickly, which is paramount to her because she’s extremely food-oriented. ‘There is a lot of mediocrity in food,’ she’s told me, ‘but I’ll have none of that.’ She’s very specific about every detail. So specific that, once, she drew a picture of the exact size of the crouton that she wanted for a Caesar salad, put it in an envelope, addressed it by hand, and sent it to me in the mail. And it was positively miniscule!”
On this day, bright sunlight streamed through every window, making Ethel’s decor—yellows, pinks, and pale blues—seem all the more vibrant. It was cheery, bright, and inviting. It was also the first time Holly Safford would meet the bride-to-be, since all of the decisions relating to food preparations had been made by Ethel.
“So we have a final menu now, is that right?” Ethel asked.
“We do,” Holly said, according to her memory of the conversation. “Let’s see,” she began enthusiastically, now referring to her own notes. “For the main course, the guests will choose between grilled-to-order six-ounce sirloin steaks, grilled portobello mushroom caps, or orange-cured salmon filets. We’ll have a salad of Maine organic potatoes with summer truffles and leek, towers of grilled summer vegetables, and orzo salad with shrimp, pink grapefruit, and mint. There’ll be orecchiette with white beans, grape tomatoes, Asiago, and fresh basil. And we’ll also have a Caesar salad.”
“Wow, that sounds great, Mom,” Rory said, excited. This was to be a special time for Rory, who was now a filmmaker. The last of Bobby’s and Ethel’s children to be born—Ethel was pregnant with her when Bobby was murdered—she was set to marry Mark Bailey in just one week, on July 17, 1999. Rory was—is—a remarkable documentary filmmaker and producer, with dozens of films to her credit, her subjects illuminating the human condition and revealing her own social consciousness. For instance, she has made movies about women imprisoned for using drugs while pregnant and disabled mothers fighting to raise their children.* Just eighteen months earlier, she had tried to breathe life into her brother, Michael, after he careened into a tree in Aspen. Getting over the trauma of that ordeal was hard, and in fact she never really did—she just got past it, somehow. Now she was about to start anew.
“You know us Kennedys,” Ethel said. “We like our good food. But what about dessert?” she asked. “We have the wedding cake, but what else?”
“Well, we’ll have ice cream,” Holly offered. “Double vanilla and chocolate.”
“That’s it?” Ethel asked, her eyebrows raised.
Holly nodded.
“Oh, well, I’ll want coffee ice cream too, and peach as well,” Ethel said. “And Chunky Monkey, too. That’s Teddy’s favorite, so we must have Chunky Monkey, all right? And let’s do something fun,” she continued. “Let’s not serve it in bowls but, instead, let’s have ice cream cones passed to everyone and they can then scoop out what they like. Doesn’t that sound like fun?” Ethel asked.
Rory and Holly nodded with big smiles. “Oh, and don’t forget the jimmies and color sprinkles,” Ethel said.
Holly made a note.
“Oh, I wanted to ask you something,” Rory said, turning to Holly. “What is the very worst thing that you’ve ever seen happen on a person’s wedding day?”
It was an odd question, so much so that Holly was taken aback. She immediately recalled quite a few scenarios, but none that she felt comfortable sharing for fear that they would put a damper on an otherwise very happy day. For instance, what came to mind was the time one of her clients learned that her father was terminally ill. The bride-to-be moved the wedding up three months just so that he would be able to attend. But then he died the very morning of the wedding. Though devastated, his daughter went ahead with the wedding because she knew that’s what her dad would have wanted. Years later, Holly recalled, “I was sitting there looking at Rory and trying to decide how to answer her question when it occurred to me, ‘Is she having some sort of premonition about her own wedding day?’ If so, I didn’t want to say anything that would set any fears in motion.”
“Well, actually, we haven’t had anything significantly bad ever occur with any of our brides,” Holly answered, fibbing. “I do remember that story about the gal in New York who was getting married at the Essex Hotel, and not only did the bridegroom not show up, he and his best friend used the honeymoon airline tickets and went off to Hawaii together for a good time, leaving his fiancée at the altar. He didn’t show up, call, or anything.”
“Oh my gosh, that poor girl,” Rory said, her eyes wide with astonishment.
“Heavens to Betsy!” exclaimed Ethel. “How sad!”
“That’s like the worst that could happen at a wedding, isn’t it?” Rory asked. “My gosh!”
“I know!” Holly said. “It doesn’t get worse than that, does it? But nothing like that has ever happened to any of my brides.”
“And nothing bad will happen to this bride, either,” Ethel said. “What a great day this will be for you and Mark, kiddo,” she added as she reached out to touch her daughter’s hand. “I’m just so happy for you.”
“Please Tell Me John’s Not Dead”
On Friday night, July 16, 1999, the rehearsal dinner was held for Rory Kennedy, Mark Bailey, and their wedding party at Ethel Kennedy’s home on the compound. All of the guests had participated in the making of a large quilt for Rory, with each person contributing a specially selected colorful square. Afterward, the women in the bridal party had their hair styled by Christina Rivers of Hyannis. All in all, it had been a very successful event, the happy prelude to what was sure to be a memorable wedding the next day. Of course, many of the Kennedys would be present for the occasion—all of Rory’s siblings and their spouses and all of their children were expected, as well as a wide assortment of aunts, uncles, and cousins, including, of course, John Kennedy Jr. and his wife, Carolyn. John’s sister, Caroline, would not be present as she was planning to be rafting with her husband, Ed, and their children. They were celebrating their thirteenth wedding anniversary, and also Ed’s fifty-fourth birthday.
On the night of July 16, John and Carolyn were scheduled to fly in John’s single-engine Piper Saratoga from Essex County Airport at Fairfield, New Jersey, to Hyannis Airport on Cape Cod for the wedding. John had recently been wearing a cast after having broken his ankle in a paraglider crash just three weeks earlier. Now that the cast was off, he was able to fly solo again and he couldn’t wait to get up in the air. This would mark his first flight without a copilot since the accident, though he was still limping badly. He had actually told Caroline that—just to be on the safe side—he would have a copilot on this particular trip too. But apparently he changed his mind.
On the way to Hyannis, John and Carolyn were going to stop in Martha’s Vineyard to drop off one of Carolyn’s two sisters, thirty-four-year-old Lauren. At around 8:30 p.m., the three of them took off from the airport in Fairfield, New Jersey—John, of course, in the pilot’s seat, and Carolyn back-to-back behind him in a passenger seat facing Lauren. Kennedy was flying under visual flight rules, or VFR in aviation terms, meaning he was not required to file a flight plan with the FAA and was navigating on his own rather than relying on instruments. However, when Lauren wasn’t at the airport on time at a little after 9:30, the friends who were to meet her there became con
cerned. By ten o’clock, John’s plane was half an hour late. Something was wrong.
Ted Kennedy had arrived in Hyannis Port with Vicki earlier on the sixteenth for Rory’s rehearsal dinner. At around midnight, he got a call telling him that John’s plane had not arrived in Martha’s Vineyard on time. There was mounting concern. Ted got out of bed, Vicki made a strong pot of coffee, and the telephone calls began. Ted called John and Carolyn’s apartment, and when someone answered the phone, he must have had a second of relief. But it was just a person staying at the apartment for the weekend since the air-conditioning wasn’t working at his home. Yes, John and Carolyn had left on time, as far as he knew. Now Ted was getting worried. He called Joe Kennedy, Ethel’s son, who was staying at her home, and told him not to wake his mother yet, but there was a problem. Joe got on the phone and started making his own calls. The FAA and the First Coast Guard District Command in Boston were contacted—but no sign of John’s plane. By 3 a.m. the FAA had alerted the Air Force Rescue Coordination Center at Langley Air Force Base in Virginia. Radar had tracked the plane at 2,500 feet as it left the Rhode Island area at 9:26 p.m. At 9:40 p.m. and 20 seconds, it was tracked at 2,200 feet, having dropped 300 feet in fourteen minutes. It dropped 300 more feet in only four seconds, 300 more in the next five, and 500 more in the five seconds after that. Then it was… lost.
Ted waited until around 5 a.m. to call Ethel to tell her that there was trouble. He woke her from a sound sleep. From that time on, frantic telephone calls were made by many of John’s close friends and relatives. “But there was this sense, you know, that John would show up,” said Brian Holloway. “People were saying, ‘You know John, he’s just going to walk right through that door at any second with a big grin plastered on his face.’ ‘Man, you will not believe what just happened,’ he would say. And he would then tell this phenomenal story, and at the end of it we would be looking at each other and say, ‘Only to John would this kind of thing happen.’ That was the dream, anyway…”
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