Dallas 1963

by Bill Minutaglio

  Members of the White House press corps glance at each other. This isn’t the reception they expected to see in Dallas. Earlier they’d been joking about the crackpots in the city, offering each other bets on when the shooting will start.

  A receiving line of local dignitaries is awaiting the Kennedys at the base of the steps on the airport tarmac. Mayor Earle Cabell’s wife, Dearie, presents Jackie with a bouquet of red roses. The original plan called for yellow roses, but every yellow rose in the state has already been spoken for, including the five thousand already set up at the Trade Mart.

  The crowd is screaming so loudly that it’s hard for those in the receiving line to make themselves heard. As the president is greeted by Police Chief Jesse Curry, Kennedy leans in close and says:

  “This doesn’t look like an anti-Kennedy crowd.”

  Others descending from Air Force One aren’t so sure. Their practiced eyes spot a few discordant notes among the welcoming signs: YANKEE GO HOME AND TAKE YOUR EQUALS WITH YOU and HELP JFK STAMP OUT DEMOCRACY. Another, referring to presumptive Republican nominee Barry Goldwater, reads LET’S BARRY KING JOHN. Most disturbing is the small, misspelled hand-lettered sign on cardboard that reads YOUR A TRAITOR. One man standing high above everyone else is waving a giant Confederate flag.

  Congressman Henry B. González of San Antonio spots the oversize flag: “I sure wish somebody had invented a spit proof mask… I forgot my bulletproof vest.”18

  Some of the reporters, studying the map of the motorcade route for this visit, notice that one of the streets they’ll be riding on is Turtle Creek Boulevard. They begin to speculate what might happen if the president passes by General Edwin Walker’s house. It is determined that the route will actually miss Walker’s residence by about ten blocks.

  Secret Service agents are tailing Kennedy closely, studying the faces behind the fence. Most people are smiling and shrieking in delight at the sight of the First Couple. The agents are guiding the Kennedys toward the presidential limousine so that the motorcade can begin. The president, however, breaks out of line and walks toward the crowd, which grows frantic at his approach. Grinning broadly, he reaches over the fence and begins shaking hands with people, thanking them for their support.

  The First Lady follows her husband, and Chief Curry notices that two red buds have fallen from her bouquet. He leans over to pick them up. He plans to give them to his nine-year-old daughter as a souvenir. Curry follows the Kennedys over to the fence. A stranger who noticed his action asks if he can have one of the buds to take home for his daughter. Without hesitation the chief hands one over.

  The electric charge between Kennedy and the crowd is unmistakable. Reporters observe that even some of those holding up protest signs seem charmed by the man. The huge Confederate flag, which was once being waved defiantly, has now drooped to half-mast. Much to the dismay of his Secret Service, the president continues to work the crowd for several more minutes.

  “Kennedy is showing he is not afraid,” writes one reporter in his notebook.19

  Kennedy finally stops shaking hands at five minutes to noon, and the presidential motorcade prepares to depart. It is only a three-mile drive to the Trade Mart, but the procession will take a long, ten-mile route that loops through downtown in order to maximize Dallas’s exposure to the president.

  A car driven by a Dallas police officer will lead the motorcade. Following him are two groups of motorcycle officers who will form a flying wedge to keep curbside crowds off the street. Next is a white Ford driven by Chief Curry. Riding with Curry is Secret Service Agent Winston Lawson, who has coordinated security. In the backseat are the county sheriff and the head of the Secret Service branch in Dallas.

  Five car lengths behind is the presidential limousine, a midnight-blue custom-built 1961 Lincoln Continental convertible. The car weighs nearly four tons and is over twenty feet long. It averages less than five miles per gallon. The limousine was flown in the evening before on a cargo plane and guarded overnight by police.

  Texas Governor John Connally and his wife, Nellie, sit in the middle jump seat. The president and First Lady climb into the backseat. The rear seat is raised by a hydraulic lift so that it rides several inches higher than the jump seat in order to give the people of Dallas a better view of the president.

  At the rear corners of the limousine are four motorcycle officers. Their main job is to keep the crowds from surging forward toward the president. Traveling directly behind the limo is the Secret Service car: a nine-passenger 1955 Cadillac convertible with running boards for the agents to stand on. Behind the Secret Service car is the vehicle carrying Lyndon and Lady Bird Johnson. Finally, there are other cars bringing up the rear of the motorcade and carrying congressmen, Mayor Earle Cabell, and other officials. Two press buses are at the very back. As the procession gets under way, the motorcade spreads out over ten blocks.

  Leaving the airport, the cars turn onto Lemmon Avenue, the main route toward downtown. Few people are out on the streets this far from the city center. The motorcade speeds along at thirty-five miles per hour. The plan is to slow down to twenty miles per hour in the crowded areas.

  During this relatively deserted stretch, Jackie amuses herself by waving gaily to the line of billboards that greets their entrance into the city, advertising everything from hamburgers to whiskey. Now that the sun is out, the temperature has become very warm. Mrs. Kennedy reaches into her purse and puts on her sunglasses. Her husband reminds her to take them off—they need to be able to make eye contact with people, he explains.

  About two miles into the trip, Kennedy spots a group of schoolchildren holding a long banner that reads: PLEASE STOP AND SHAKE OUR HANDS.

  Kennedy calls ahead to the driver.

  “Let’s stop here, Bill.”

  The excited children rush forward and swarm the car. A woman with the children keeps shouting: “It worked! Our sign worked!”20

  The streets are gradually becoming more packed in anticipation of the presidential parade. Many people have parked their cars along the right-of-way and are standing alongside them, waving wildly as the motorcade passes by. After several more blocks the president spots a group of nuns lined up to see him. He can’t resist the nuns. He orders the motorcade halted again so that he can shake hands with them.

  Now the motorcade is approaching Turtle Creek Boulevard. At this intersection is Robert E. Lee Park, with the bronze statue of the Confederate general. A half mile to the left is General Walker’s home with its looming American flags. The procession turns right and passes under a twenty-two-story luxury apartment high-rise, a modernist monolith billed as the “tallest, largest, and most luxurious apartment ever erected west of the Mississippi.”

  Inside the building, on the nineteenth floor, Ted Dealey is making himself a drink. He has just returned from a checkup with his doctor and he’s changed out of his business clothing. He’s now in a sport shirt and he plans to relax. He has no intention of attending the Trade Mart luncheon on the president’s behalf. He’s all too happy to leave that duty to his son.

  Dealey is looking out a corner window at the motorcade. It’s hard to make out much detail from so high up, but he sees a flash of pink down below. That, he figures, must be Jackie Kennedy. He walks back into his den and snaps on the television, where the motorcade is being broadcast live to the entire city.

  Though downtown is still three miles away, the sidewalks are filling up with spectators. In some places people are standing three-and four-deep, cheering wildly as Jack and Jackie pass by. No organized demonstrations are seen, but there are a few individual protesters. One man holds a sign announcing: I HOLD YOU JFK AND YOUR BLIND SOCIALISM IN COMPLETE CONTEMPT. Others along the way proudly brandish homemade BARRY GOLDWATER FOR PRESIDENT signs.

  Main Street is only a mile away, and the crowds are growing even thicker. People are now standing five-and six-deep. The smiles on the president and First Lady grow even bigger. It is clear by now that they are experiencing the largest, frie
ndliest crowd of the entire Texas trip. The reporters riding with the motorcade are surprised by this massive outpouring of public goodwill. This is not what they expected in Dallas. Kennedy’s aides are not just relieved, they are nearly giddy with delight.

  Juanita Craft wants to be on time, to get her seat, to be ready. As she puts on her best clothes, she keeps one eye on the television, watching the arrival of the president and his wife. They look so glamorous to her, and each step they take toward Dallas seems to suggest some bigger meaning.

  She makes it through security at the Trade Mart and is shown to her table. The place is quickly filling up. There is a buzz in the air, the room pungent with the smell of roses, cologne, and perfume. Decorators have placed birdcages filled with canaries around the courtyard. There are dozens of uniformed waiters and hosts running alongside the tables.

  And Craft waits and waits. The most powerful people in Dallas are assembling, including many of the members of the Dallas Citizens Council. She sees some familiar faces, some black preachers, including Rhett James. She has often been afraid that people like James are pushing too fast. But today, there is something for both of them to look forward to.

  At the intersection with Main Street, the crowd is so large that people have flowed out onto the roadway. The police working the corner try to push everyone back as the limousine slows to turn onto Main.

  The President and First Lady are now in the heart of Dallas. This is the final leg of the motorcade. The procession will travel twelve blocks through downtown until they reach Dealey Plaza and make a dogleg turn onto Elm Street. Then they will pass in front of the Texas School Book Depository before driving beneath the triple underpass and turning onto the freeway for the quick five-minute drive to the Trade Mart.

  Nearly a quarter million people are jamming into downtown to get a firsthand look at the president and First Lady. The city has never witnessed a boisterously exuberant spectacle like this one: A breeze is making the red, white, and blue banners bob over the motorcade route, and showers of confetti are raining from the sky. People are stacked eight, ten, even twelve persons deep along the route, and in more places the crowds are spilling out into the streets. In the buildings overlooking Main Street, fidgeting, joyous observers are leaning out windows, waving and cheering wildly, and waiting to catch a glimpse.

  When the motorcade crawls into view, when people spot Kennedy, they clap, whistle, and begin to shout: “We love you!”

  The swarms are now so thick that the motorcade is forced to slow down. The speed drops from twenty to fifteen miles per hour. Then it’s down to ten. Then seven.

  Thousands more people are jumping, screaming, waving. For more than a few, it feels cathartic, as if Dallas is letting something go. As the happy crowds push toward Jack and Jackie, the motorcade slows even more. Secret Service agents jump off the follow-up car and surround the presidential limousine to make sure the president and First Lady are protected.

  The procession is now slowly passing Neiman Marcus. Lady Bird spots a friend of hers who works at the store, and the two women wave gaily at each other. Looming above Neiman Marcus, on the opposite side of the street, is the Mercantile Building. Up on the seventh floor, in the offices of Hunt Oil, the seventy-four-year-old billionaire is somberly watching the procession from his window. He is flanked by two young secretaries. No one has to say a word. The huge roars from Dallas say it all.

  Down on the street, a reporter from the Dallas Morning News nudges one of his colleagues and shouts:

  “They’ve got this town wrapped around their little fingers.”21

  The president’s car is finally leaving the huge throngs behind, passing out of the shadows of Dallas’s skyscrapers. Directly ahead is open sky and the small green swath of Dealey Plaza. This will be the final leg of the motorcade, nearly an afterthought, this transition zone between downtown and the freeway. The live television and radio coverage of the motorcade route ended a few blocks earlier.

  Here, at the hem of the Texas School Book Depository and Dealey Plaza, only a few dozen people are on hand to see the president.

  Among them is Steve Witt, who works at a nearby insurance company. He has strolled over on his lunch break to see the motorcade, and even though the rain has passed, he is holding a black umbrella. Witt considers Kennedy to be an appeaser, just like Neville Chamberlain, the British prime minister who once accommodated Hitler—and who was famous for carrying an umbrella. Kennedy has been heckled with umbrellas before, and Witt plans to open his umbrella and taunt the president when the limousine passes by.

  Another spectator at Dealey Plaza is Arnold Rowland, a young man who has come with his wife, Barbara. A few minutes earlier, Rowland was looking across the street toward the Texas School Book Depository when he noticed a man standing in an upper floor window holding a rifle.

  “Hey,” Rowland said to his wife, “you want to see a Secret Service man?”

  By the time his wife looked, however, the man had disappeared.22

  At the entrance to Dealey Plaza, the presidential limousine turns right onto Houston Street. A man named Abraham Zapruder, standing in the shade, turns on his camera as the limousine comes into view. Though the crowds are thinner here, the enthusiasm for the president is hardly dampened. In the president’s car, the passengers are still overwhelmed by the effusive reception they have just received.

  Governor Connally, who’d been so worried about being tied to Kennedy, is immensely relieved.

  The giant clock on the Hertz sign perched on top of the Texas School Book Depository changes to twelve thirty as Greer cuts the wheel to make the sharp left onto Elm Street.

  The president and Jackie are still waving to the people cheering for them. Now that the cacophony of roaring crowds is beginning at last to abate, Nellie Connally turns around in the jump seat and speaks to John Kennedy.

  “Well, Mr. President,” she says buoyantly, “you can’t say that Dallas doesn’t love you.”

  Within seconds, the first shot explodes the air.

  EPILOGUE

  Friday, November 22

  The television in Ted Dealey’s living room is tuned to the local station owned by his newspaper. Coverage of the presidential motorcade ended a few moments earlier, and now a lunch-hour variety show is airing. A stylish-looking Dallas woman is modeling the latest in winter fashions when suddenly the transmission is cut. A visibly flustered local news announcer, Jay Watson, is clutching a sheaf of papers and staring intently into the camera.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “you’ll excuse the fact I’m out of breath, but…”

  He tries to collect himself.

  “About ten or fifteen minutes ago a tragic thing, from all indications at this point, has happened in the city of Dallas.”

  Across the country, millions of other viewers are also having their regular programming interrupted. Many are tuned in to CBS’s hit soap opera As the World Turns when the screen goes black. A still image appears: CBS NEWS BULLETIN. Then Walter Cronkite’s voice comes on, quaking with emotion as he breaks the news to the nation:

  “In Dallas, Texas, three shots were fired at President Kennedy’s motorcade in downtown Dallas. The first reports say that President Kennedy has been seriously wounded by this shooting.”

  Cronkite pauses.

  “More details just arrived.”

  Another brief pause.

  “These details about the same as previously. President Kennedy shot today just as his motorcade left downtown Dallas. Mrs. Kennedy jumped up and grabbed Mr. Kennedy. She called ‘Oh, no.’ The motorcade sped on. United Press says that the wounds for President Kennedy perhaps could be fatal.”

  Dealey glumly studies the frantic, breaking news reports on the television. Downtown at the Dallas Morning News, his reporters are already racing out the door and sprinting the three short blocks to where Kennedy was shot—just by the plaza and looming statue honoring Ted Dealey’s crusading father.

  And already, hi
s newspaper’s phone operators are being deluged with blistering calls blaming Dealey and his paper for the tragedy:

  “I hope you’re happy now,” one angry caller screams into the receiver before slamming it down.1

  A few blocks away, the phones are incessantly jangling at the Hunt Oil Company headquarters. The billionaire’s wife, Ruth, finally gets through after dialing in from Southern Methodist University, where she had stopped to visit one of their children. Hunt tells her not to move. The FBI is also calling, and agents are bluntly telling Hunt to not go home. They advise him to take his family and hide somewhere out of town. Plenty of people know he hates Kennedy, that he has spent millions of his fortune on virulently anti-Kennedy Life Line broadcasts, that he sponsored people in Dallas churning out anti-Kennedy attacks.

  Hunt only grunts at the advice, then says he will not flee Dallas. But his security chief, the former FBI Agent Paul Rothermel, keeps insisting. Hunt has his wife and his children to think about. What if harm comes to them? Finally, Hunt relents. He hurriedly packs some bags. Aides procure immediate airplane tickets, under false names, for Hunt and his wife.

  The Hunts will hide out, for as long as necessary, in a suite at the Mayflower Hotel in Washington, DC.

  As the news spreads, more and more frantic messages are flooding the switchboard at Dallas police headquarters. Distraught women from all over Dallas are on the phone lines. Each one is sobbing, confessing to police that she is certain that it must have been her husband who shot the president.

  Meanwhile, in the jammed hallways of the police station, a horde of reporters has completely encircled Police Chief Jesse Curry. They are shouting questions: What kind of weapon was used? How many shots were fired? Have the police run a trace on the rifle?