Shadow Play: The Unsolved Murder of Robert F. Kennedy
356
Shadow Play: The Unsolved Murder of Robert F. Kennedy
356eBook
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Overview
On June 4, 1968, just after he had declared victory in the California presidential primary, Robert F. Kennedy was gunned down in the kitchen of the Ambassador Hotel. Captured a few feet away, gun in hand, was a young Palestinian-American named Sirhan Sirhan. The case against Sirhan was declared “open and shut” and the court proceedings against him were billed as “the trial of the century”; American justice at its fairest and most sure. But was it?
By careful examination of the police files, hidden for twenty years, William Klaber and Philip Melanson’s Shadow Play explores the chilling significance of altered evidence, ignored witnesses, and coerced testimony. It challenges the official assumptions and conclusions about this most troubling, and perhaps still unsolved, political murder.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781250215420 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 06/04/2024 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 356 |
| Sales rank: | 51,256 |
| File size: | 18 MB |
| Note: | This product may take a few minutes to download. |
About the Author
William Klaber earned a Golden Reel Award nomination in 1993 for The RFK Tapes, a nationally broadcast, one-hour public radio documentary on the murder of Robert Kennedy. Klaber is a host on the new podcast of the same name, The RFK Tapes, which investigates one of the most significant crimes in American history and debuted at #1 on the iTunes chart.
Philip Melanson was a political science professor and the chair of the Robert Kennedy Assassination Archives at University of Massachusetts, Dartmouth. He died in 2006.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
The Embassy Room
John Howard stepped through the door of the interrogation room and stared at the man seated in the chair. The prisoner, now showered, looked considerably better than he had before. Still, nobody knew his name.
An hour earlier Howard had told the prisoner, who had not been saying anything, that he had the right to remain silent. The slightly built, dark young man responded politely that he wished to "abide" by that "admonishment." Well, that settled one thing: he could speak English. The deputy district attorney then offered a card with his telephone number: "If you want to talk to someone."
Upon learning that the husky man in a suit was with the Los Angeles County DA's Office, the prisoner brightened and made his first non-perfunctory utterance since being in custody.
"Remember Kirschke?"
"I've known Jack for a long time," answered a surprised Howard. "Why? Why did you ask that?"
"Interested," the young man replied.
When John Howard got word a little later that the prisoner was asking to speak with him, he had forgotten all about Jack Kirschke. But the mysterious young man had not. To Howard's chagrin, that is what he wanted to talk about.
"Yeah, we were talking about Kirschke," said Howard, thinking that if they could get going about one thing it might lead to something else. "How come you followed that?"
"No, I didn't follow it. I was hoping you'd clue me in on it, brief me on it, you might say."
"It was a tough lawsuit. You'd have to know Jack. He was a deputy. I worked with him."
"No, I mean — I mean the substance of the case."
Jack Kirschke, like Howard, had been a deputy district attorney in Los Angeles. Several years earlier, he had been charged with the bedroom murder of his wife and her lover. The story made headlines for months.
"The substance," Howard found himself saying, "actually was whether or not he was the guy that — there is no question his wife and a friend of hers got shot. There is no question about that. The question was who did it."
But the prisoner wanted to talk about things more subtle than guilt or innocence: Had Jack Kirschke sown the seeds of his own destruction? In prosecuting others, did he feel he was above the law?
Suddenly the absurdity of the situation overwhelmed John Howard. Only hours before, the unidentified man in front of him had gunned down a United States senator, a presidential candidate. Now the two of them were having a friendly philosophical discussion. Either this guy was one cool customer or something was wrong. Howard's instincts took over.
"Do you know where we are now?" he asked. "I've told you you've been booked."
"I don't know," replied the prisoner.
"You are in custody. You've been booked. You understand what I've been —"
"I have been before a magistrate, have I or have I not?"
"No, you have not. You will be taken before a magistrate as soon as possible ... You're downtown Los Angeles in the central jail. Now, when I say this, if you know, you know — I'm not saying this because I don't know. We're not communicating very well up to now, but you are downtown Los Angeles, okay? This is the main jail for the L.A. Police Department. You'll be booked into a cell.... Do you understand that? Do you understand where you are?"
* * *
Like the prisoner, John Howard had not had any sleep that night. Normally on a Tuesday he would have been home in bed early, but this was primary night in California. Howard had been out at the Plush Horse Inn in Redondo Beach, campaign headquarters for his friend Lynne Frantz, who was running, unsuccessfully, for Congress in the Seventeenth District.
Political gatherings were happening all over Los Angeles. There were three in the Ambassador Hotel alone, the largest of these in support of the presidential campaign of Robert Kennedy.
June 4, 1968, was arguably the most important day in the political career of the young senator from New York. A week earlier, in losing the Oregon presidential primary to Senator Eugene McCarthy, he became the first Kennedy to be defeated in an election of any kind. California, however, was the big test. The winner would take its 174 delegates into the Chicago Democratic convention, now only weeks away.
Even with a victory in California, Robert Kennedy would still trail Vice President Hubert Humphrey in the crucial delegate count. But the momentum gained would be impressive, and there were many who thought Kennedy would swoop down upon the Humphrey delegates like a cattle rustler. Kennedy was a proven master at managing a convention floor, and there were still favors owed to the family that could be called in. In addition, Kennedy could leverage the feeling within the party that he was the man best suited to defeat Richard Nixon in the general election, as his brother had eight years before. But for any of this to happen, Robert Kennedy had to win in California.
As the first results of the evening came in, Senator McCarthy took the lead. But the vote from Los Angeles County, where Kennedy expected to do well, was locked up in an electronic purgatory — something had gone wrong with the new computer vote-counting system. Eager for a resolution, CBS projected a win for Kennedy just after 9 P.M. A little later, NBC did the same. But the vote from Los Angeles was still not in, and McCarthy, despite the network predictions, was leading in the vote that was.
In the Royal Suite on the fifth floor of the Ambassador, Robert Kennedy huddled with what amounted to his shadow cabinet. Pierre Salinger, Richard Goodwin, Ted Sorensen, Fred Dutton, Frank Mankiewicz, Larry O'Brien — all these men had worked closely with President Kennedy. Also nearby were supporters such as United Farm Workers leader Dolores Huerta, pro-football lineman Roosevelt Grier, Olympic decathlon champion Rafer Johnson, and labor activist Paul Schrade. These were friends the senator had made on his own and, in a sense, they represented the new energy that was igniting the campaign.
Downstairs in the Embassy Room more than eighteen hundred jubilant campaign workers and admirers filled the hall beyond capacity. The Secret Service, however, was not there: they would protect presidential candidates only after the events of this night. Also absent were the Los Angeles police, even though three political functions were going on with thousands of participants. Safety and order depended on less than a score of hotel security personnel and hired guards from the Ace Guard Service.
By 11:30 a Kennedy victory seemed certain. Aides begged the candidate to move quickly to salvage some small portion of the national TV audience that could have been his only two hours earlier. As Kennedy prepared to go downstairs, he paced back and forth rehearsing his remarks and the list of people he would thank. On a nearby couch his wife, Ethel, rested, three months pregnant with their eleventh child. Kennedy asked if she was ready. Ethel rose from the couch, and the two of them headed toward the service elevator that would take them to the kitchen on the second floor. Once there, Kennedy flagged down a waiter, popped an olive into his mouth, and then made a triumphant entrance onto the ballroom stage.
The night before, in San Diego, Robert Kennedy had nearly collapsed while making his final speech. The campaign had left him physically and emotionally drained. Now, in victory before his followers, he seemed refreshed. He thanked by name many of those who had helped him in California. Then, feeling a little giddy, he also thanked his dog Freckles, "who has been maligned"; jokingly attacked his brother-in-law Stephen Smith for being "ruthless"; and, to great applause, invoked Don Drysdale's sixth straight shutout as though he had been watching the Los Angeles Dodger pitch that evening. When the cheering died down, Kennedy spoke about healing a divided country.
"What I think is quite clear is that we can work together [to overcome] the division, the violence, the disenchantment with our society, the division ... between black and white, between the poor and the more affluent or between age groups or over the war in Vietnam.... We are a great country, an unselfish country and a compassionate country. And I intend to make that my basis for running...."
Kennedy's words were engulfed by cheers. After a long wait, his supporters were finally getting satisfaction.
"What I think all of the primaries have indicated," he continued, "... [is that] the people in the United States want a change.... The country wants to move in a different direction. We want to deal with our own problems within our own country and we want peace in Vietnam."
In ending his remarks Kennedy made a playful swipe at an old political enemy. "Mayor Yorty has just sent me a message that we've been here too long already. So my thanks to all of you and on to Chicago and let's win there."
Once again, the room erupted. "We want Bobby! We want Bobby!"
As Kennedy stepped away from the podium he seemed to be heading toward the campaign workers who had formed an escort phalanx off the right front of the stage. "This way, Senator," said someone in his entourage, and Kennedy moved instead to the back of the stage and toward the food-preparation area, which has become known as the pantry — the route that would take him to a scheduled press conference in the Colonial Room. It was 12:15 A.M.
Bill Barry, the ex-FBI man who functioned as Kennedy's bodyguard, attempted to help Ethel down from the stage.
"I'm all right," she said. "Stay with the senator."
Barry left her and tried to catch up. He pushed his way through the crowd, but he was too late to assume his usual position in front of Kennedy, who was being led down the narrow hallway behind the stage by hotel maître d' Karl Uecker.
As Kennedy passed through the doorway that led into the pantry, he was joined by twenty-six-year-old security guard Thane Eugene Cesar. Cesar wore the uniform of Ace Guard Service and had a holstered revolver on his hip. He took hold of the senator's right arm at the elbow and moved along with him.
The room was crowded and a bit chaotic as Kennedy and his entourage made their way through. The splicing of events filmed before the shooting and the chaos captured afterward has led many people to believe that they saw the murder replayed on television, but all the television cameras were shut down as they passed from the dramatic speech to the upcoming press conference.
By official count there were seventy-seven persons in the pantry when Robert Kennedy was shot. But it was not as though the senator were onstage with a roomful of people looking on. It would be more useful to imagine seventy-seven people stuffed into a subway car. Taller people see more than shorter people, but even their views are obstructed. One of the tallest men in the pantry was Jesse Unruh, the powerful speaker of the California legislature. When asked if he had seen Kennedy fall, Unruh said, "I would not say he was in my view, but I could tell approximately where he was. There were several larger people behind him, including Paul Schrade. I saw glimpses of him."
The sound in the room was also a confusing montage. There were greetings and cheers, balloons popping, some pushing, more cheers, some more popping sounds, a few screams, cheers, cursing, some shoving, people falling down, screams, more shoving, and then general chaos. Most people in the room saw only bits and pieces of things that happened right around them. What we know of the event is a mosaic, derived from their accounts and the physical evidence.
* *
As Kennedy made his way through the pantry, he stopped to shake hands with Jesus Perez and Juan Romero, busboys at the hotel. Karl Uecker, the maître d', who had been leading the procession, was eager to keep moving. "Let's go, Senator," he said in his thick German accent. He took the senator's arm and began to lead him forward again.
Lisa Urso, a San Diego high school student, stood near the pantry exit. As Kennedy moved toward her, she was shoved from behind. A young man considerably shorter than she stepped in front of her and moved to her right.
"I thought it was gonna be a waiter and it looked like he was trying to get in there and shake the senator's hand," she recalled. But then the young man's arm made an odd movement across his body, and Urso sensed something was wrong. Vincent DiPierro, a waiter at the Ambassador, saw the short dark man push past Urso and advance on Kennedy. The man had a strange smile on his face. TV producer Richard Lubic thought he heard the man say, "You son of a bitch!" Lisa Urso saw a flash from the gun. She saw Paul Schrade fall, then Robert Kennedy.
Karl Uecker also saw the gun. He felt it fire very close to his face — twice. After the second shot, Uecker said he grabbed the man's gun hand and slammed it onto the steam table — leftward and downward, away from Kennedy. Several men, including Roosevelt Grier and Rafer Johnson, joined the struggle for the weapon, but after a short pause it began firing again. Down went seventeen-year-old Irwin Stroll, shot in the leg. Down went TV director William Weisel, hit in the stomach. Several more shots. Reporter Ira Goldstein was wounded in the hip, and artist Elizabeth Evans was struck in the head.
Radio reporter Andrew West turned on his tape recorder and began to narrate over the screams and the sound of gunfire:
"Senator Kennedy has been shot. Is that possible? It is possible, ladies and gentlemen. It is possible. He has. Not only Senator Kennedy but ... Oh, my God! Senator Kennedy has been shot and another man, a Kennedy campaign manager, and possibly shot in the head."
The struggle for the gun went on and on.
"Rafer Johnson has ahold of the man who apparently fired the shot.... He has fired the shot. He still has the gun.... Be careful! Get the gun! Get the gun! Get the gun! Get away from the barrel. Get away from the barrel, man. Look out for the gun!"
As soon as he heard shots fired, writer George Plimpton joined the struggle. Just inches from the assailant's face, Plimpton noticed something odd. The man with the gun had "enormously peaceful eyes," an almost beatific expression on his face. "In the middle of a hurricane of sound and feeling," Plimpton recalled, "he seemed peaceful."
Peaceful or not, the small man had great strength. It took over forty seconds to separate him from the gun. Once disarmed, the man began to feel the kicks and punches of angry onlookers. "Keep people away from him!" yelled Andrew West. "We don't want another Oswald."
Jesse Unruh tried to stop people from attacking the gunman. The physically imposing politician started pulling people away. Finally he jumped up onto a steam table to try and calm the situation. "We don't want another Dallas," he shouted. "If the system works at all, we're going to try this one."
* * *
Robert Kennedy lay on his back, limbs spread, bleeding from behind the ear. Juan Romero knelt down beside the fallen senator. "Come on, Mr. Kennedy," he said. "You can make it." Young Daniel Curtin took rosary beads from his pocket and handed them to Romero. The busboy wrapped them in Kennedy's left hand.
"Is everybody all right?" Kennedy asked in a barely audible voice.
Dr. Stanley Abo, a Los Angeles radiologist, was the first medical doctor to reach Robert Kennedy. He put his ear to the senator's chest and heard very shallow breathing. He took a pulse. Abo then stuck a finger into Kennedy's head wound to relieve the pressure that had built up. The wound bled profusely. "You're doing good," the doctor told Kennedy. "The ambulance is on the way."
Ethel Kennedy arrived. She begged, with little effect, for the crowd and newsmen to move away. Then she began to comfort her husband. Robert Kennedy was aware of her presence.
"Oh, Ethel, Ethel," he said softly.
* * *
Police Sergeant Paul Sharaga had just stopped to buy cigarettes. As he climbed back into his patrol car he heard a radio call about a shooting at 3400 Wilshire. Sharaga knew that was the Ambassador; he was a block away. He swung his car around and drove quickly to the rear of the hotel.
As Sharaga moved through the parking lot he encountered a couple in visible anguish. The woman, in her late fifties, told him that they had been near the exit stairs when a young woman and man ran past shouting gleefully, "We shot him! We shot him!" In response to the question "Who did you shoot?" the woman, who was wearing a polka-dot dress, replied, "Senator Kennedy. We shot him! We killed him!" The young woman and her companion then disappeared into the parking lot, laughing as they went.
Sharaga immediately went back to his car and put out an all-points bulletin on the two reported suspects.
While Sergeant Sharaga was in the parking lot behind the Ambassador, LAPD patrolmen Travis White and Arthur Placencia arrived at the hotel's front entrance. Both were rookies. White had been active on the force for about a year, Placencia for two weeks. The officers jumped out of their squad car and followed the motions of various bystanders who were shouting, "He's up here. He's up here."
White and Placencia entered the hotel pantry and saw a pile of bodies at the far end of the room. Several large men had a small man pinned to a table and were warding off people who were trying to get at him. "Kill the bastard! Kill him!" Placencia heard someone shout.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Shadow Play"
by .
Copyright © 2018 William Klaber.
Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
1. The Embassy Room
2. The Summer of '68
3. Voir Dire
4. The Judge's Chambers
5. Doorframes and Dish Trays
6. The Criminalist
7. Missing Persons
8. The Spotted Ghost
9. Malice Aforethought
10. Sirhan Bishara Sirhan
11. Rorschach and Freud
12. Hypnotic Dreams
13. Betrayal
14. Life or Death
15. The Hidden Files
16. Prison and Parole
17. The Phantom Photographs
18. Trailing Edge Waveforms
What People are Saying About This
A gripping and insightful account of the RFK assassination and the Sirhan trial.