The Unfinished Odyssey of Robert Kennedy

by David Halberstam

  Kennedy looked at Harrington, “My God, you didn’t say I would, did you?”

  Gary. A very tough town; it is black and white and not together; it is steel mills. The kind of city America’s poets once wrote so lyrically about, Oh I hear the blast of your furnaces, Oh America, the fame of your furnaces, the might of your steely strength. Well, that was a long time ago. Now Gary seems to reek of all of America’s urban ills, its drabness, Oh I taste the sweet pollution of your air, Oh America, I see the blast of your furnaces covering the linen on my wash line. Gary is depressing, one sees it and senses the revolt against the industrial revolution which is going on in America. Yes, the city brought them all here, the Negroes and the poor whites and the Slavs, and offered them jobs. They won their great battles, got their unions, kept their fobs, made good wages and yet now the quality of life often seems terrible. The reception for the candidate was mixed—unadulterated enthusiasm from the blacks, more cautious from the whites, who were interested but worried (a few “Bobby Ain’t Jack” bumper stickers).

  Much of the black reception appeared to be for Dick Tuck; he is something of a hero in Gary. He was dispatched there last fall, by Kennedy, to keep the Democratic machine of John Krupa from stealing the election from Dick Hatcher, the black candidate. Tuck, who knew exactly how a machine operates, kept the Krupa machine from voting the dead and the imaginary (and also kept about 5,000 Negroes on the register). He had heard of a plot to have all the voting machines in the black wards break down at the height of the voting, and so he sent off to nearby Chicago for ten Negro pinball machine repairmen, whose credentials he faked, and whom he tutored on a model of the voting machine. At one point Tuck warned them sternly when they began experimenting on how to run the totals a little higher so they registered too quickly. On election day, sure enough, when the machines started breaking down, always in the black wards, Tuck’s men fixed them in minutes instead of hours. Tuck also beat the machine on another ploy traditional with machines which want to discourage Negro voting. The machine had been sending out registered letters to Negroes which said that there was some evidence that the individual was not properly registered. Naturally a registered letter terrifies people in ghettos since it usually means someone wants to reclaim something, wants money or plans an arrest. So the Negroes would not open the letters, and they would come back unopened and the machine could strike the blacks off the rolls. Tuck got hold of the lists and proved the letters were only going to blacks. When Hatcher was elected, Tuck became something of a folk hero in Gary, though he ran up a bill of $130 at Gary’s Steel Club, which is where the local establishment meets and eats. As soon as the election was over he disappeared and there were great efforts to find him. The bill eventually ended up in Chicago with some Kennedy people there. After a few months, when Tuck arrived in town, someone presented him with the bill. He scanned it for a minute, and then said: “That’s outrageous. I wouldn’t pay it if I were you.”

  In Gary the whites remained edgy; there were few of them along the streets as the motorcade pulled through. Yet there were some around and some of them cheered, and considering the racial division in the city, even that was a hopeful sign. “They should really be hating him here,” said one of his press people. “But maybe the magic still works.” The audience in a Gary hall was about two to one black. The speech was good, mainly on the different vision of America that whites and Negroes have, and what America has promised and delivered or failed to deliver to each; how each sees a different thing. “Then the whites say, ‘Why don’t the Negroes come up and work hard and earn it like the Poles and the Italians?’ But it’s more difficult. The jobs have gone to the suburbs, or been taken over by machines, and are beyond the reach of them as they were not before with people of limited background.”

  But the Gary trip had gone reasonably well, and a week later, when the entourage made a trip on the famed Wabash Cannonball, the reporters, restless on the train ride, composed a song to the tune of “The Wabash Cannonball,” called “The Ruthless Cannonball.” One verse went:

  He has the Poles in Gary

  The blacks will fill his hall,

  There are no ethnic problems

  On the Ruthless Cannonball.

  Then it was back to Indianapolis. The suspicion that Kennedy had been trimming persisted. That night Mankiewicz was asked: “Will he place greater emphasis on reconciliation rather than divisiveness?”

  It had been a long day for Mankiewicz and he answered, “Well, I think you can say he will not urge divisiveness.”

  One day out to go to West Virginia for a day of campaigning. Why West Virginia? someone asked Tuck. “That’s the only way you can get news coverage,” said Tuck. “You get it by going in and out as many times as possible. Candidate arrives, news, candidate leaves, news, candidate arrives again. Television cameramen everywhere.” The day in West Virginia was a long nostalgic one: Robert retracing the footsteps of his brother, telling the people how much the Kennedy family owed to West Virginia. The crowds were good in tiny town after tiny town. Kennedy talked about economic progress, of bringing in industry, and yet it had a hollow sound. One looked at the mountains, the gaps, and the population, and one sensed the hopelessness of it, that no new industry would come in here, and that the talented young people would almost certainly have to leave. Some of the stops were infinitesimally small. Oceana: so small that no one seemed to want to give the population. Finally, it was given as 3,000. Oceana is not even a crossroads, it is barely a stop. The candidate stopped, and kids spilled all over him and the car. “I want to be introduced in Oceana,” he said, “where’s the Mayor?” Mayor. Where’s the Mayor? Someone was dispatched to find the Mayor. Eventually the Mayor, a balding man, materialized from the back of the crowd. “Mayor, say something nice about me. Introduce me.” The Mayor looked at him; they had never met before. Then he got up on the car with Kennedy and said, “I give you the next President of the United States.” It was the best and simplest introduction of the campaign. “Very good,” says Kennedy, “We’ll take you with us the rest of the way.” A few words on America; that it must do better, and we departed from Oceana.

  The day was long and hard and he ended it in Charlestown with what was billed as a major foreign-policy speech. This one was not about Vietnam, but rather about the Soviet Union and coexistence. It was absolutely appalling, perhaps the worst speech of the campaign. It read as though the first part of it was written in 1960, about showing the Russians our might, and the second part in 1968, about desperately searching for new ways of leaving the cold war behind. It seemed to alternate paragraphs in this manner, a truly bewildering piece of work. Kennedy himself seemed to understand the discrepancies, and became confused and embarrassed midway through.

  “You ought to introduce your speech writers to each other,” one reporter later told him. Another added: “I thought you told those hawks where to get off.” He paused. “Those doves, too.” Kennedy laughed and took it well. He had been introduced that night by John D. (Jay) Rockefeller IV. Tall, thirty years old, a millionaire now serving in the West Virginia legislature and running, one knew, for Governor. And eventually, after that, for president (though perhaps he will be slowed down and have to run for vice-president first). The press knew all this and was annoyed. It was all too perfect; Rockefeller, tall, bespectacled, had sat up there with his wife, the former Sharon Percy of Illinois (he will cut into the Republican vote in Illinois), and what was worse and most galling, he had made a very intelligent and graceful introduction. Now in the back of the plane flying to Washington, Kennedy was praising him: hadn’t young Jay Rockefeller given a fine speech, wasn’t that good? The reporters were noticeably cool. They were annoyed by this instant celebrity and the fact that young Jay, unlike Uncle Nelson, had the good sense and the good fortune to join a party which might love him. One of them made a strongly anti-Young-Jay remark. You didn’t like the speech, asked Kennedy, surprised. No, said the reporter, it isn’t just the speech, it’s the whole
damn thing of him coming down here and practically buying a base, with all his money, and cashing in on his name. No, said Kennedy, he’s better than that He went to Japan and learned Japanese and did some good things there, and then he came back and he wanted to work in the poverty program and so he came down here, and he was very good at it. The people like him very much. Sure, sure, said one of the reporters, and what he was really saying was Must American politics be like this? Are we going to have only Kennedys and Rockefellers the rest of our lives? The atmosphere was getting a little tense. You guys are pretty rough, said Kennedy, what’s your real objection? He’s too ruthless, said a reporter, and everyone relaxed. Why did we spend the day in West Virginia? someone asked him. I don’t know, he answered.

  The campaign rested for one day in Washington; husbands met wives, children were reintroduced to fathers, there was a desperate search for clean socks, and then back to the plane early Monday morning. The plane was headed back to Indiana. On board, the candidate was in a good mood. “Are you ready for my speech?” he asked a reporter. The reporter replied that he had memorized the Kennedy speech, had indeed amused many friends by giving it at cocktail parties on Sunday. “No, not that speech, my new speech about the four vice-presidents who came from Indiana. It’s my best historical speech.” I’m getting off the plane, the reporter replied. “Or my new speech on the Negroes,” he said, mocking himself, mocking the clichés of American race, “how they’re going too fast ... how you can’t expect people who have lived one way for more than 200 years to have everything overnight ... and then my conclusion, that they have to earn their rights just like all the Americans did, all the other people who came to this country and worked hard and earned a place. Now it’s their turn to make it on their own. ...”

  The plane started in the East, and it was filled with television teams, some working for the networks, some independent, some doing instant documentaries, some working for the candidate. Everywhere he went they followed. The candidate would come aboard, would stop to talk for a moment—How are you? How is your wife?—and all of television would move in, as if to inhale him. Your comments—wife has a headache—are recorded for posterity; every little word is gobbled up. It is the age of documented irrelevance. This sort of thing caused some anger among the working reporters, or writing press as they are affectionately known, the new minority in American journalism. (“Who’s the pool TV man getting him when he shaves tomorrow?” asked one reporter.) The plane zipped across the sky, pushing through occasional turbulence. (Once when John Glenn, the astronaut, was traveling with him and the air was particularly bumpy, Kennedy turned to two reporters sitting behind him and said, “I have a small announcement to make: John Glenn is terrified.”) Bloody Marys were broken out by the time the plane crossed the Appalachians; the drinks were there, they were free and there seemed to be no earthly reason not to drink them.

  A campaign humor also began to emerge. Now when the reporters went to a restaurant and the food was late, they would say, the service is unacceptable, I think we can do better. Or on the genuinely terrible hotel rooms in Indianapolis: I think we can do better, I think we can turn the Indiana hotel industry around. Much of it, of course, fastened on Indiana. We had all been here too long; there was a constant laundry problem, and a constant food problem. Indiana, someone said, is where they say French dressing on your salad, and it’s orange.

  We landed in Indiana and everyone was relaxed. Mankiewicz was on the press bus and was now in particularly good form. We were off to Vincennes and other historical sights. “Vincennes, as you all know, was founded by George Rogers Clark. As you are all aware, Mr. Clark was credited with saying, ‘don’t trust anyone over thirty.’ Now does anyone want to hear about William Henry Harrison?” Tell us about the pacification program, Frank, someone asked. “Well the pacification program is going reasonably well in Indiana,” said Mankiewicz, picking up the Saigon language, “but you must remember that they are a proud people with a culture and a tradition all their own, and therefore these things take time. You can’t expect things overnight. We Americans are too impatient, we expect too much.” Someone asked how long Kennedy would stop in town. “I don’t know,” Mankiewicz answered. “First he’ll make a speech. Then he’ll answer some questions. Then he’ll be besieged by a surging throng of mature adult voters.”

  Much of the humor was unfair, but Indiana was a state which had not changed, and much of it was rural and some of the reporters were bitter about being on an expense account in an area where there was so little opportunity to exploit it. But one did feel, in Indiana, that one had stepped back a bit in time. Later after the campaign, when Gene McCarthy was complaining about his defeat there, he would say of Indiana: “They kept talking about the poet out there. I asked if they were talking about Shakespeare, or even my friend Robert Lowell. But it was James Whitcomb Riley. You could hardly expect to win under those conditions.”

  This day had been given over to television. Kennedy was to campaign on several levels: the normal one which was to make an impact on the towns he visited, the secondary one which was to make an impact on the normal local, state and national coverage, and now a third one which was to create images which his own television teams could use for his television commercials. This last was perhaps the most vital part of the campaign; perhaps one percent of the voters might see him in the flesh, but through television almost all the voters would see him. So the day was devoted to television clips: Was he an outsider as Roger Branigin charged? A tourist? Part of the day was scheduled so that Robert Kennedy would visit and be filmed at every shrine in Indiana. He would come on the screen knowing Indiana’s history and being reflected in it—the Lewis and Clark Memorial, the Lincoln Shrine. In addition, a major effort would be made to counter the ruthless image. Was he ruthless? The television clips would show him a little shy, wittier than people thought, a little slight, and he would not look ruthless but rather would look victimized by all that ruthless talk. Most important it would show him answering questions from the good people of Indiana. They would stumble a little in their questions, which would show the natural touch, though they wouldn’t stumble too much. It would have a sense of real questions put by real people; the questioners must not look like they just came from doing a soap commercial, though they should not be too ugly either. Long leathered faces of farmers were very good because everybody trusts long leather-faced farmers. Everybody knows that they speak with eternal wisdom and that they are bothered by questions which bother everyone. As for students, they should not be too bearded. It would be better to have fairly clean-cut students.

  Kennedy’s advisers had learned long ago that he was far better at questions and answers, particularly tough questions, than he was at set speeches. At set speeches he tensed and went flat. In questions and answers he became alive; he felt challenged and felt a personal relationship with the questioner. In 1964, during his Senate race, the best television clips had come from a meeting with Columbia students; semi-hostile, they had poured it to him, tough ungenerous questions. The best part of him had responded; the intelligence, the candor and the humor had flashed through. Probably it had hurt Keating, for Keating had matched it with little of his own. The television clips for Kennedy had to be a little different than those for most candidates. For most candidates the job was simply to introduce him—here, this is what he looks like, and please get the good side of his face. With Kennedy it was different. Everyone knew what he looked like; along with Lyndon Johnson he was probably the best known public figure in America. The problem with Kennedy was the reaction to him. A lot of people recognized him and did not like what they recognized. When he was running for the Senate, he and his aides had discovered what they had already suspected—that he had a very high antipathy quotient, a polling measure developed by the firm of Bennett and Chaikin. This test reflected the number of people who, when polled, registered a serious objection to a political figure. In 1964 Keating had what was to them an alarmingly low antipath
y quotient of six. It surpassed even that of Dwight Eisenhower in 1956, which was seven. In 1964 when Lyndon Johnson’s A.Q. was 7 (before the escalation, Robert Kennedy had a staggering A.Q. of 36, though many of the people who disliked him might vote for him. Now in Indiana the Kennedy people realized that they had a similar problem on their hands; and that while McCarthy might not be that well known, there were few people who felt strongly against him. All that particular day the advisers tried to get the candidate away from the crowds (which would reinforce the A.Q., showing the sweaty, unruly side of the candidate, or at least an image which projected as sweaty and unruly), and away from reporters. They tried to get him in an indigenous setting, with no teeny-boppers, this man is not discordant. They got him to tiny little crossroad stop, barred reporters, got him into general stores, and encouraged the people to ask questions: the quiet Kennedy in a quiet surrounding.

  In addition, he did the usual twelve stops, his voice ragged at the end. The reporters were still claiming that he was cutting back on civil rights, which he was. (Someone had mentioned to Tuck that Kennedy was giving an Indiana speech, and Tuck became angry. “There is no Indiana speech. When are you guys going to learn that? The Indiana speech died in 1956. Anything you say here goes everywhere. These people here have seen the war just like everyone else, just like Chicago and New York. It’s not 1930. If you ask the people in Indiana what concerns them it’s not Indiana. The Governor is running around saying that the only issue is Indiana for Indianans and we’re going to beat him on that, he’s underestimating these people. There is no Indiana speech or a New York or Wisconsin speech. Learn that will you.”) Late that night, after 11 P.M., Kennedy went to dinner with a few friends and magazine writers. It was very late and he was very tired; all the ideas about preserving the candidate, the conservation of the candidate’s energy, were shot. There was just too much to do, and too little time, and besides, one of the problems of his campaign was that the candidate lacked a Robert Kennedy—someone who would do for him what he did for Jack Kennedy in 1960, who would handle all the endless details quickly and correctly and intelligently, and make sure the candidate himself was bothered with only a minimal amount of detail That was hopeless now. These days he would campaign all day long and then go out very late at night to discuss the next day with aides—sometimes finishing dinner at 2 A.M.; drawing on his exceptional physical condition and energy. “You guys are always complaining about the fact that he doesn’t go into detail on Vietnam and on civil rights in his short speeches,” Dutton once said, “one reason is sheer fatigue. How much energy does a candidate have. Fourteen speeches a day and you want him to touch all the points on civil rights.” That night he was talking about his main campaign poster. He did not like the photograph which was both boyish and surly boyish—“like the guitar player in a high school rock-and-roll band,” he said.