The Lacey Confession

by Richard Greener

  “Mr. Chief Justice, I’m afraid the American people are worried and confused,” Johnson went on. “They’re worried that their government, their country, is in jeopardy, facing great danger. They speculate about an enemy. Who is their enemy? Where are they? What are they gonna do next? Who else is gonna get killed? And who’s doing this killing? You know what I mean?”

  “Well, yes. I think I do, Mr. President.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear that. You and I need to keep our heads about us. We need to clear away the cobwebs of confusion and put to rest the nation’s worry. That’s my obligation now. That’s our obligation. The trust of the people is the foundation on which this government rests. It’s the bedrock of our republic. It’s my responsibility—my sworn duty—to keep that trust from being shaken.” Johnson was quiet a moment. He shook his head slightly from side to side, showing his disgust and frustration. “This Oswald problem is getting out of hand,” he said. “How the goddamn hell do they let somebody shoot him? Tell me that!” The Chief Justice knew better than to reply.

  Johnson rose from his desk, raised his fist in anger and walked over to the window looking out on the White House lawn. Special lights, put in place that afternoon by the Secret Service, covered much of the wide-open grassy area in bright light. In the late autumn afternoon, the garden just outside the Oval Office was already dark with only a few ground lights to show the walkways among the flowers and plants, the ones Mrs. Kennedy had arranged so beautifully.

  “Oswald’s dead. Shot and killed in front of our eyes for Christ’s sake! The man who killed the President is dead. And now we got speculation running rampant. Who’d he work for?” Johnson once more turned around, paced from one side of the office to the other and back, slapping his thighs as he walked, then sat down—at the President’s desk—in the President’s chair. He looked like he’d been there forever. “I’ve got reports people are asking questions about his communist ties. Talking about the Cubans—those damn Cubans,” Johnson mumbled, looking down at the floor as if there might be something important there. Then he looked straight at Warren and spoke again in a loud, strong voice. “The Russians too, even Chinese. You know Oswald was stationed in Japan?”

  “No sir, I didn’t. I didn’t know that. Did Oswald have any contact with the Chinese?”

  “He could have, could have. Who knows? Chinese, Japanese. He could have. That’s not the point. The point is—people are asking questions. You understand? People are asking questions. Even you. You just asked, didn’t you? Newspapers are gonna start writing things, all sorts of things. You know that. With Oswald dead we’re never gonna get the truth about why he shot the President. Instead we’ll get speculation. We’ll get dangerous, unhealthy speculation. Crazy stuff. The kind that plays right into the hands of our real enemies. And we,” he said peering straight into Warren’s eyes, “have to prevent this. We have to stop this needless, irresponsible distraction. We have to stem the tide of our national vulnerability. We need time to heal our hurt. We’re hurting. This kind of thing isn’t supposed to happen. People need to be reassured. We have to do what’s right. I must do it. And I need your help.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can, Mr. President, whatever’s appropriate given my position and responsibilities. Legally, you know of course, this is a local problem. Murder, both of them, the murder of President Kennedy and the murder of Oswald, are violations that come under Texas law. There’s no federal crime here that I can see. Quite amazing, isn’t it? You kill the President of the United States, the highest-ranking federal officer in the land and you’re not subject to any federal jurisdiction as a result. You know, I hesitate to say it, actually I . . .”

  “Don’t be shy, Mr. Chief Justice. Our job is to bring this whole sad business to its rightful conclusion.”

  “I was going to say, I’m not sure it was such a good idea to remove the body from the local jurisdiction. I understand, under the circumstances . . .”

  “Under the circumstances!” Johnson bellowed. “I had no information to tell me who else was in danger. Maybe they were after Mrs. Kennedy too. The Governor, my friend John Connally, was hit pretty bad. I didn’t know if I was a target. The thought more than crossed my mind, I can tell you that. You know, when Lincoln was killed they tried to get the Vice President at the same time. Another Johnson too. I had folks saying there was sharpshooters all over the place. Shots were coming from everywhere. Could have been a damn army of them. The Pentagon told me about threats from all over the world. You know, the Secretary of State was in the air over the Pacific Ocean while this was going on. Dallas was no place to be and I wasn’t gonna leave him back there. There’s her too,” he said, referring to the widowed First Lady. “She wouldn’t go without him. No sirree, she wouldn’t.”

  “I understand,” Warren said. “This is not a matter you and I need to talk about at all. It’s improper. I apologize. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.” Then, he asked, “What did you mean ‘they’? Were there others with this fellow Oswald?”

  “See, that’s what I mean!” said Johnson. “We’re all saying things we ought not to. We’re asking questions that don’t make a whole lot of sense and we’re jumping to conclusions, conclusions that aren’t true to the facts. The nation needs your leadership, your help, Mr. Chief Justice. Needs it badly.”

  “I’m not sure what you have in mind, Mr. President. Are you thinking I can help in some way?”

  The President outlined for Chief Justice Warren a plan to form a special temporary Commission to investigate the assassination of John F. Kennedy and have that Commission issue a complete report to the nation. The Commission would include Congressional leaders plus men of national and international reputation, trusted at home and abroad, learned in matters of law and experienced in foreign relations. The Commission members, said Johnson, must be men who were “beyond pressure and above suspicion.” A former director of the Central Intelligence Agency would be asked to serve, bringing his special expertise in the covert activities of other nations. Clearly his role would be to calm any fears about foreign involvement on the part of our communist enemies.

  Staff and budget considerations would be no problem. A one-time authorization would give them what amounted to a blank check. Most important of all, the President told Warren, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court would be the head of this Commission. He would chart its course and direct its efforts. He alone would determine procedure and he would issue the Commission’s report to the American people. “I want that report as soon as possible, right away. I know Christmas is too soon. Only a month away. It’s not the best time either, but I want it done no later than six to eight weeks, about the middle of January, first of February.”

  Warren asked a few questions. Politics was out, said Johnson. No divisions were required for staffing. Neither of the American political parties would be entitled to staff quotas or other perks of that nature. “You pick ’em all. That simple,” said Johnson. To facilitate matters, the Court’s regular docket could be delayed for a couple of months. “We know—you and me, we know—sitting right here this minute—the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court and the President—we know it was Lee Harvey Oswald who did this by himself, acting alone, not part of any group, not working for any nation. Did it, just simply by himself. We know that. We don’t know why. We may never know why. We may never be sure. But we can be sure of this—our entire nation could come apart at the seams—the greatest and most powerful society in the history of human civilization—and it could all be destroyed unless we bring this to a proper end and put this matter to rest for good.”

  Warren talked awhile about some of the specifics Johnson had mentioned, mainly procedural and technical areas—how the Commission would be chartered, the methods for keeping records and drawing funds, the jurisdictional problems which affect any enterprise involving more than one of the three branches of government. Finally, he added what he wanted to sound like an afterthought, no more than a casual personal reference, bu
t what really constituted his reply to the President’s request and the reason for this meeting. “I would have to rule out my own participation,” he said. “Serving on this type of a commission would, as I see it, constitute an inappropriate judicial role for a sitting Chief Justice.” Such an American thought. The anger and frustration in Johnson’s eyes, Warren wrote in his journal, were almost palpable. “But,” Warren said to his President, “I can prepare a short list of retired Federal Judges, some quite well known . . .”

  “You don’t seem to follow me,” said Johnson, restraining himself as best he could. “The Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of The United States of America—that’s who’s needed. The report of this Commission will be the most important document our government issues in this century. It must be beyond reproach. Its stamp of truth must be the stamp of—it must be your stamp! It has to be the Warren Commission!”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. President. I cannot accept. I think I fully . . .”

  “Mr. Chief Justice,” interrupted the President, like a man slamming on the brakes of a runaway truck. “I want you to think about it. Hold your answer. Think about the grave national crisis threatening to overwhelm us. Think about the brave young man we’re gonna bury tomorrow, his family, your family, our national family. I won’t take your final answer now. Just you think about it and we’ll talk some more.” LBJ smiled broadly and shook the Chief Justice’s hand as he would have had he been stumping for votes, gripping Warren’s hand firmly with his own right hand while his left covered Warren’s wrist. It didn’t hurt, wrote Warren. Nevertheless, he went on, I felt the President’s handshake all the way home.

  Neither Warren’s wait nor his sleep lasted too long. At 5:50 am the doorbell rang. A tired and half-dressed housekeeper answered. She was greeted by two agents of the Secret Service. A limo, with the motor running, was parked at the curb. She woke the Chief Justice, told him the President wanted to see him immediately and then, as he dressed, she went to prepare some tea and hot oatmeal.

  At 6:25 am, less than twelve hours since his last visit, Chief Justice Earl Warren walked into the Oval Office again. The beige couch was gone. The desk too. All the pictures on the wall had been changed. He couldn’t recall if the lamps or the two round end tables had been there a few hours before. Johnson was already sitting behind a huge, wooden desk made of a lighter wood, more worn than the one Kennedy had. It must have been moved from the Vice President’s office during the night. The President had been shot on Friday and the new President moved in before the weekend was over. I suppose, Warren later wrote, that’s the way it has to be. Everything seemed in order. The phones were lined up across one end of the desk to the President’s right—two white ones, each with six lines, a black phone with three rows of extra buttons, the kind of setup Warren had never seen before, and a plain, red one—a simple, unmarked red telephone with no dial and no buttons. Warren shuddered to think what use it had. All the personal items were there too, suitably arranged. Among the pens and paperweights Warren could see pictures of the Johnson daughters, another showing Lady Bird and LBJ in work clothes probably taken at the LBJ Ranch, somewhere in Texas, and near the only clock on the desk, off to the side, was an old black and white photograph in a brass 5x7 frame of the young Congressman Lyndon Baines Johnson shaking hands with Franklin Delano Roosevelt. President Roosevelt was holding the Congressman’s right hand firmly in his own while his left hand wrapped completely around Johnson’s wrist. They were both smiling.

  Two young men, neither of whom Warren recognized, stood talking by the window nearest the door leading to the garden. The President was giving instructions to one of his secretaries, a comely young woman. He was especially animated although Warren could not overhear what he said. A valet, an old Negro man, approached carrying a tray. “Coffee or tea, Mr. Chief Justice?” he asked. Warren indicated a certain tea and watched as the old man prepared it with one hand while still holding the tray with his other. “Why don’t I just put it down over here,” he said. “And you can sit right down.”

  “Morning, Mr. Chief Justice,” said the President. “Louise,” he added, waving away the woman he had been talking to, “get that done right now, hear.” Turning back to Warren, LBJ frowned and curled his lips like he was trying to dislodge something stuck between his teeth. “You give any more thought to what we talked about yesterday?”

  “Well,” Warren answered, looking in the direction of the two younger men. “I’m not sure if . . .”

  “Hey, Gene,” the President shouted across the room. “You and whatshisname want to find something useful to do?” He chuckled and they smiled as they left. “Thanks, boys,” he said as they shut the door behind them. It was hard to believe the funeral for the slain President was only hours away.

  “Mr. President, I’ve been unable to change my thinking on this matter . . .”

  “Look here, Earl,” said Johnson, his demeanor radically different from the day before. “I don’t know who the fuck killed Jack Kennedy. I’d swear it was those goddamn Cuban sonsofbitches, if somebody could get me anything on it, any evidence at all. Kennedy tried to kill him—Castro, you know that? More than once as I hear it. Shit, too bad it didn’t work. And I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if that damn sonofabitch Castro just had enough of it. You know—fuck me? Fuck you! And just had him blown away, shot down. The President of the United States. And in Texas to boot, just to make me look bad!” President Johnson grumbled, something Warren couldn’t make out, then he took a deep breath and appeared to gain control of himself once more. “Like I said, Earl, I just plain don’t know. It could have been anybody, from anywhere, for any damn reason. Christ, ain’t nobody knows who did it! I’ve asked. I’ve asked ’em all—FBI, CIA, Joint Chiefs. I’d ask the damn tooth fairy if I thought she could tell me something. No one’s got an answer worth shit. I’ll tell you what we do know. What we do know is that Lee Harvey Oswald is taking the fall on this and he’s already put dead and gone. The American people will be reassured that the man who killed their President was caught and that he acted alone. You got that? I mean A-L-O-N-E, alone, by hisself! Maybe he was crazy, maybe not. I don’t give a flying fuck. But he was alone! Do you hear me?” Earl Warren heard him. He heard him loud and clear. “I ain’t taking the country down that road to ruin,” the President continued. He rose from his chair and walked around the desk and right over to where Warren sat. He stood directly above him, looking straight down into his face. “If people can’t be told what happened—by their government—and damn well believe it, then how the fuck are we gonna make them believe anything else? Goddamnit, Earl, we run this country because people think we know what the fuck we’re doing! And you’re gonna help make sure it stays that way. Do you understand me?”

  Earl Warren took a deep breath and agreed to head a Commission that would bear his name. He thought about Judge Sarah Hughes for just a moment. Maybe she didn’t get such a bad deal after all. My God! read the entry in his diary. Did Oswald act alone? As Johnson spoke to me, a chill ran up my back. My heart beat so fast I thought it would burst. Oswald may have had nothing to do with this!

  In a private conversation eight and a half years later, preserved on a tape from May 1972, and never meant for public disclosure, President Johnson’s successor, Richard M. Nixon, said of the Warren Commission report, “It was the greatest hoax that has ever been perpetuated.”

  PART ONE

  Well searching/Yeah I’m gonna searching/

  Searching every which-a-way yeh yeh.

  –Leiber & Stoller–

  “It’s my nephew,” she said.

  Walter and Conchita Crystal had strolled to the end of the pier. No ferry was in dock. No crowd of tourists waited for their return trip to St. Thomas. They were alone. The sun was high in the sky, very hot. Walter wore a plain, brown baseball cap, one without writing or a logo. It was a soft cap. It hugged the contours of his head closely. The brim kept the sun from his eyes and his long hair covered his neck. Conchita
looked at him. Sensitive as she already suspected him to be, she saw too a roughness about Walter Sherman, an appealing and attractive independence to his personality, a streak of unpredictability coinciding amicably enough with an obvious strength of character.

  “Do you remember Charles Bronson?” she asked.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “You remind me of him.” She smiled, this time almost as an afterthought, and sheepishly looked away, giggling. Had she known Bronson? Had she liked him? Walter didn’t know if she meant it as a compliment or not. He wasn’t sure himself. Charles Bronson?

  “What about your nephew?” he asked.

  “He’s not safe. He’s in great danger.”

  “I thought you said this was a matter of your life and death, Ms. Crystal.”

  “Please call me Chita.”

  “I’m not sure I know you well enough, yet.”

  “Well, whatever you prefer. It is a matter of life or death for me. I’d die if anything happened to him.”

  “That doesn’t exactly qualify, you know. But I’m already here, aren’t I? Why don’t you tell me what it is that’s on your mind. Maybe you’ll find a way after all to make it fit.”

  She began at the beginning—her beginning. At first, Walter wasn’t sure why. Conchita Crystal, she told him, was born Linda Morales, to a single mother in Puerto Rico. Her mother gave her up at birth. She had been a sickly baby. Particularly disturbing was a skin condition that looked awful and smelled worse. When she told him that, Walter was hard pressed not to blurt out how beautiful her skin was now, like creamy caramel or café latte, and how wonderful she smelled. He almost did, nearly started to, but caught himself just in time. Her skin, she said, did not begin to clear up until she was almost nine years old. Thus, the youngster Linda Morales was not an attractive product on the adoption market. She kicked around foster homes until landing in an orphanage, that passed for a Catholic Church school, near Ponce, Puerto Rico. Four years later, at fifteen, she ran away, somehow survived on the streets, and found her way into the music and club scene of San Juan. It went without saying—and she didn’t say it to Walter—that Linda Morales must have been quite a beauty, easily able to look grown-up even at that tender age.