The JFK Letters

[edsiejka]

Everyone in Louisiana knows there’s no easy way of coping with the heat. Like religion and humidity all you can do is accept it. Standing quietly under the shade of what passed for a willow tree, Dave Lawrence didn’t move. Catching his breath he noticed the hospital had a statue of the Virgin Mary along a side wall. Her hands were outstretched in a peaceful gesture and at her feet was the legend “To Care for Those In Need.” Charity Hospital was founded in 1732 by a French seaman who left his entire estate to establish and maintain a hospital for the poor people of New Orleans.
Climbing the stairs to the main lobby he saw four rows of crowded plastic chairs. The warm air in the waiting room was punctuated by the sounds of crying babies and the sullen silence of people accustomed to neglect. The hospital orderly stared when Dave asked what room Oscar Robles was in. Slowly putting his newspaper down he mumbled, “Y’all know visiting hours are almost over. Are you a friend or relative?”
“I’m here on business.”
“What kind of business would that be?’
“Insurance.” Reaching into his breast pocket Dave pulled out his business card.
Holding it up the clerk said, “David Lawrence. Special Investigator. Real fancy.”
Handing back the card he said,” Not many people here have insurance. If they did they wouldn’t be here.” Looking straight at Dave he said, “Oscar must be somebody special to have insurance, ain’t that so? “
When Dave didn’t answer he shrugged and pointed toward the hall.
“Room 38 on the left.”
Entering the hospice wing of the hospital the smell of unwashed bodies and Lysol hit hard. Bracing himself Dave walked down the narrow hallway peering into empty rooms until he found Robles. Oscar was the one with the nasal prong pumping oxygen into his shot lungs. His hands were blue, cold and clammy. They had spoken on the phone a number of times and when Robles was hospitalized for emphysema Dave decided to fly down to meet him in person. But over the few days Robles’ condition worsened.
In a hoarse voice he said, “I’m glad you could make it Mr. Lawrence.”
“It’s good to see you too. Let me get straight away. You say there are some letters you have about the assassination of President Kennedy?”
“Yeah, I did and I have ‘em. They fucked my father and they screwed me. It’s not right what they did to us. Look at me, here I am in a charity ward after all what my father did for them.”
“When we spoke on the phone you told me that your father knew people involved in the JFK plot. What did he do for them?”
“It’s all in the letters that my father kept.”
“Where are the letters now?”
Oscar turned his eyes away from Dave. “They’re safe. I got ‘em where nobody would look.” Pointing to his head he rasped, “No one can mess with a determined mind.” Struggling to breathe he barely pushed out the words. A heavy set woman dressed in white entered the room. Leaning over she peered at his chart, made some adjustments curling the plastic tubing in her strong ebony fingers.
“If you was family I‘d let you stay a while longer. Since you’re not its best you leave.” Placing her arm on Lawrence’s shoulder she followed him to the door, “You come back tomorrow morning when visiting hours start.”
With the door closed behind him Dave looked around. The hallway was empty. Quickly shuffling through medical reports and doctor’s orders scattered at the nurse’s station Dave hoped to find an address for Robles. No luck. No wanting to attract any more attention he left the same way he came in.
Back at his hotel Dave lingered over a map of the city. Robles was not forthcoming with a lot of information but he did happen to mention living in the Bywater section of New Orleans. Figuring he needed something better than a map he spoke with the Marriott’s concierge. Everyone called the concierge Nicky but his real name was Nguyen Toan. Nicky was free with his family history and told Dave that his family escaped from Saigon in 1975 when the fall of Saigon was preceded by the evacuation of almost all the American civilian and military personnel along with tens of thousands of South Vietnamese civilians associated with the southern regime.
“My family never forgot the kindness of America. After Saigon fell we were relocated to Boston where we found the climate cold and damp. I knew some English but I took classes to improve my skills. When my family saved enough money we moved to Louisiana. As Dave stood there with his tie loosened, Nicky added, “Believe it or not my parents loved the heat and humidity of New Orleans because it reminded them of home.”
Nicky pointed out to Dave that despite the ravages of Hurricane Katrina, Bywater, a little ways east of the French Quarter, was considered generally safe and had seen quite a bit of gentrification in the past few years. However, he warned Lawrence that once he reached the end at St. Claude Avenue he should stop. North of there was not safe to walk around.
“Once you get to Bywater be careful if you are stopped and asked along the lines of ‘I betcha I can tell you where you got them shoes.’ Once you engage them, even joking with them, ‘I can't even remember where...’, they have you hooked.”
“It sort of seems innocent enough, isn’t it? Just street people panhandling for change.”
“They won’t let up. They will talk you into agreeing to let them tell you where you got your shoes. The answer will be: on your feet, on the street, in New Orleans. Most likely, this is the point where they will inform you that you now must pay them $20 for this lesson. My advice is be careful since they can be pretty intimidating.”
Thanking him for the information Dave took the elevator back upstairs. The glassed enclosure offered a dizzying view of the lobby as it sped up to his room. New Orleans was like any other city, safe in some spots and dangerous in others. Not even the Big Apple was immune from that problem. So far he wasn’t getting anything from Robles. Tomorrow he would see Robles again and press him for more information.
Dave needed to speak to Roger right away. Dialing his number in New York, Roger picked up on the first ring. Roger was an attorney who had his own nationwide radio talk show, Evenings with Roger. Because of the show and his outsized personality Roger knew a lot of people running both sides of the political spectrum, both liberal and conservative. And most of them were well connected. Experienced and a good talker Roger also kept his ear close to the ground to jump on the latest bit of information to use on his show. Some months ago he was contacted by an interested party who had heard about Robles. From what little Roger told Dave the interested party was from Boston.
“I thought it’d be you. David, it’s good to hear your voice. Gardner chuckled, “Yes you probably figured some of it out already. Robles father, Carlos Robles, was by all accounts, and it is a very strong possibility, that he was to kill Lee Harvey Oswald after the Kennedy assassination. Oswald killed Kennedy but as you recall there has long been suspicion of a government cover-up of information about the assassination of President John F. Kennedy on November 22, 1963. There are also many conspiracy theories regarding the assassination that arose soon after his death and continue to be promoted today. Most put forth a criminal conspiracy involving parties as varied as the CIA, the KGB, the American Mafia, the Israeli government, the FBI, Vice President Lyndon B. Johnson, Cuban president Fidel Castro, anti-Castro Cuban exile groups, the Federal Reserve, or some combination of those entities.”
Switching the receiver to his other shoulder Dave listened as Roger continued with more details, “Carlos was a Cuban exile and he had had reason to be hostile to Kennedy since when first elected, Kennedy supported invading Cuba and then only later changed his mind about how to approach the matter. After the disastrous Bay of Pigs Invasion of Cuba sponsored by the CIA, Kennedy changed his mind again about an invasion, earning the hatred of the Cuban exile community. There you have it in a pretty long winded summary.”
“I may have some issues with Oscar. I don’t know how long he’ll be able to be productive.”
“That’s all out of our hands. If he’s in hospice all you can do is talk to him and get as much information as you possibly can and as quickly as you can. Speed is going to be of essence.”
After Dave hung up he sat down trying to sort out what little information he had. Not much but tantalizing to say the least. President Kennedy had been assassinated in Dallas, Texas over forty seven years ago. Who would be interested in whatever information Robles could provide? A collector? A politician? Blackmail? The Cuban exiles in Miami or someone with a long memory?
The night in the Big Easy descended quickly and quietly. In the morning Dave returned to the hospital. On his way in he passed the same orderly who busily ignored him. Going directly to Robles’ room he heard voices. There was a doctor and a nurse who suddenly turned to face him. The nurse’s lips were pursed in a tight smile. “I’m sorry you can’t come in. Mr. Robles has passed.”
A sinking feeling hit Dave in the pit of his stomach. His ankle hurt like hell. Over the past few weeks he was trying to get in shape, cut out on some of the booze and start jogging. Things worked for a while until he sprained his ankle jogging in Central Park and limped back to his apartment. He was angry at himself and tired of hotels and chasing deadbeats. But he kept his emotions to himself. Over Robles’ bed was a crucifix and looking upward Dave took a moment to wish him a safe journey.
On the way out the orderly made a remark, “Looks like your insurance didn’t help Mr. Robles. Money don’t buy nothing in heaven.”
Controlling himself and playing the game Dave said, “He was a good man. Right now, I need to pay my respect to his family. Do you know where they live?”
“Didn’t know he had a family. No one called and no one ever came to visit.”
“Where did he live?”
Pulling out a clipboard he said, “Over somewhere on Dauphin in Bywater.” Smirking he added, “Can’t tell you anymore than that though.”
Catching three numbers from the dangling clipboard, Dave took a chance. The address wasn’t that far from his hotel. Letting the cab drop him off on the corner he walked along Dauphin Street, a quiet swampy neighborhood downriver from the French Quarter. Passing a house that saw better times and had three of the four missing numbers Dave knocked on the door. A woman wearing a yellow housedress and too much makeup answered. Annoyed at his questions she answered in a drawling French accent that Robles used to be the handy man doing odd jobs for her and neighbors in exchange for rent. Asked if he could see his apartment she eyed him suspiciously.
“I just came from the hospital where Mr. Robles passed.”
“Well, I knew he was sick.”
“Are you a Christian?”
“Since birth.”
“Good. I guess you know him. I was here when they took him away. That crazy Cuban just never had any luck. You can see his apartment but you only got a half hour. I don’t want any trouble, ya hear? God knows I gonna have to clean that place up and rent it out again.”
Putting the key to Robles’ door Dave was always surprised at how much information people were willing to give to strangers. Robles apartment was neat but bare. Nothing that Dave didn’t expect. Dust on the furniture confirmed Robles’ status as a bachelor. In the kitchen a small TV on a wrought iron stand stood in the middle of the room, its rabbit ears pointing outward. There was a brown table, some chairs, a bed and dresser in the back. Opening a closet he saw a tool box, and more tools scattered around. Searching as quickly as he could he emptied drawers and looked for the obvious spots. He didn’t know what he was looking for except for something that might resemble a packet of letters or a binder of some sort. Time was almost up. His ankle started acting up. Frustrated at the need to relive himself he went to the toilet, mumbling to himself, “Handyman, handyman where did you hide it? Where none could find it?”
Finished, Dave pulled the lever and watched it jiggle lose. Funny he thought Robles was a handy man. He could have replaced the handle with an inexpensive part. Intuitively he lifted the tank cover and looked inside. There was something wrapped in heavy plastic gleaming in the cold water. Pulling it out he carried it to the kitchen table. and under the overhead light carefully cut through several layers of plastic until he saw a plastic box. Inside was a packet wrapped in clear plastic. Bingo, this was it.
Not seeing a cab, Dave walked back to the hotel, his footsteps the only sound he heard. Strange, but he hadn’t seen a policeman or a police car since he had been in the Big Easy. Then it happened. Three men stopped him playing the con game the concierge warned him about. The taller one, dressed in a flannel striped shirt, called out in a slow drawl, “Hey mister where‘d you get them shoes?”
Ignoring them Lawrence walked by thinking it was three against one. Fingering the rental car keys in his pocket he figured if it really got bad he’d poke Flannel Shirt in his eyes and take his chances with the other two.
“Hey, must be something important under your arm. Let’s take a look see.”
Standing almost a head taller than Flannel Shirt Dave answered, “Depends on what you mean by important.”
Just then a car pulled up and a heavy set male got out from the passenger side. His wide shoulders blocked the sun and he wasn’t smiling. For all intents and purposes he resembled either a football player or a wrestler on steroids. Figuring the odds were against them Mr. Flannel Shirt and his buddies on the welcoming committee left as quickly as they appeared but not before flipping Dave the bird. Thankful for the lucky break Dave walked the rest of the way under the relentless Louisiana sun.
Back in the hotel Dave turned up the A/C and sprawled on the bed. Getting up he opened the package carefully arranging them in groups. They were letters, some of them written in scrawl and others were copies. It was time to call Roger again. The first thing he told Roger was that Robles had died but he didn’t mention that the letters were laid out on his hotel bed.
“Let me give you some more information about Robles. His father, real name Omar Ruz, was in some way related to Castro and both men had attended the University of Havana. Ruz left Cuba soon after the revolution and grew to hate Castro. Eventually he was recruited, and this is not clear, whether as the second back up man to Lee Harvey Oswald or to kill Oswald after the President was shot. We’re going back too far in time to really get a clear picture.”
Pacing up and down in his hotel room Dave continued, “ In 1967 New Orleans District Attorney Jim Garrison prosecuted a local businessman Clay Shaw on the charge that Shaw and a group of right-wing activists, including a David Ferrie and Guy Banister, were involved in a conspiracy with elements of the Central Intelligence Agency in the John F. Kennedy assassination. Garrison arrested Shaw on March 1, 1967. Garrison believed that Clay Shaw was the man named as "Clay Bertrand" in the Warren Commission Report. Garrison claimed that Shaw used the alias "Clay Bertrand" among New Orleans' gay society.”
There was silence on Roger’s end of the call. Dave held the receiver close to his ear and continued, “So 48 years after the Kennedy’s death we really don’t know what Ruz' involvement in the assassination was and everyone involved is dead. My question and I also have my suspicions about whether Omar Ruz was really Oscar Robles father?”
“Good job David. I must say I am not surprised. Whether Ruz was Omar’s father is immaterial now. There are so many twisted facts and too many conspiracy theories on the Kennedy assassination. People’s memories are deceptive because they’re colored by today's events. However, the memory of this terrible event still lingers and there are people, not necessarily the actual actors, who want any mention of names squashed. The Kennedy family would not be happy if this was reopened and there are conservative groups, especially CIA-military types, who would not be happy. Do you see what this gets us into…trouble with no way out?”
Dave mentioned being stopped on the street on the way back to the hotel.
Roger interrupted, “Yes, I heard you had some sort of issue with some street thugs.”
“How did you know?”
“David, you do a lot of work for me. And it’s all been good. This one is a little tricky and I know you prefer to work alone but I didn’t want anything to happen to you. So I made arrangements for your security.”
Dave hesitated between telling Roger to go to hell or thanking him. He chose the latter.
Thanking Roger he hung up. It was evening in the Crescent City. Not wanting to ask the hotel to provide a safe for the packet or call attention to it he placed the packet in the overhead light fixture for safe keeping. Just in case.
Dave found a little restaurant overlooking a canal that advertised charbroiled clams. The place was crowded and the menu inexpensive. Nursing a double scotch he stared deep into the muddy canal. There were a lot of unanswered questions. Not far away was Lake Pontchartrain and off to the west the mighty Mississippi continued its long journey from Minnesota down to Louisiana. The flowing water relaxed him and he wondered where he would be going from here. In the background Harry Connick Jr.’s To See You played sad and slow,
When was I supposed to make my entrance
How was I to know I had a chance
Now here's a guy who really thought he had it all
My heart was holding up the wall so I could dance
Gripping his drink Dave realized that he was thirty eight years old, married once, and divorced once. No children and no pets. A sad legacy for years of living and nothing to show for it except some battle scars from Iraq and a tiny one bedroom Manhattan apartment facing a brick wall. So many days spent figuring out what Oscar Robles was up to, even what Roger‘s personal agenda was, had come to nothing. Taking a long drink he knew deep down in himself that some of the missing pieces would never be found.
Returning to the hotel Dave slumped on the couch. In the dark he heard muffled sounds in the hallway and a knock on his door. Still groggy his nerves went on high alert. The muscles in his shoulders tensed up as he approached the door in a half crouch. Slowly looking through the peep hole he saw a number of young guys, probably back from a night out, just raising their voices and carrying on. It was nothing. Just his nerves acting up. Relaxing, he stood up and turned on the light. Everything was the same. Reassuring himself he reached over the lamp fixture. The packet was still there. Who would have broken in for secrets from 1963? Who needed the letters or wanted them destroyed?
This whole thing was troublesome. Too many loose ends and all over forty years old. A hunch came up. Oscar Robles had to be buried. Probably a religious service of some sort. He would attend the funeral just to see who showed up, but first he was going to read each letter in the packet and see what they might reveal. Using his bed as a desk he sorted the letters into separate piles: the ones that were photostats and the ones that were handwritten. There must have been over fifty documents, many of them worn out and tattered. They stuck together when he picked them up. Carefully prying them apart he looked over the typed letters, many of which were dated, gave him a background into the mindset of Omar Ruz. The main theme was his lack of money. Someone didn’t pay him as much as he expected or not enough. That was up to interpretation.
Rereading a photostatic copy of letter dated January 4, 1967 Dave found that Ruz mentioned Clay Shaw. The photostat, a precursor to today’s photocopy, appeared grubby and worn by what appeared to have been many hands. The corner, now almost coming apart, had been folded to mark its importance. But what was important about it? Lawrence knew that Clay had been a military hero during the second war. In 1979, Richard Helms, former director of the CIA, testified under oath that Clay Shaw had been a part-time contact of the Domestic Contact Service of the CIA, where Shaw volunteered information from his travels abroad, mostly to Latin America.
Also In 1979, the House Select Committee on Assassinations stated in its Final Report that the Committee was "... inclined to believe that Oswald was in Clinton [Louisiana] in late August, early September 1963, and that he was in the company of David Ferrie, if not Clay Shaw, and that witnesses in Clinton, Louisiana "... established an association of an undetermined nature between Ferrie, Shaw and Oswald and others less than 3 months before the assassination. Dave wondered if Omar Ruz was one of the others?
Dave glanced over the letters one last time before placing back in the box. This time he had them placed in the hotel safe. Catching hold of Nicky in the lobby he inquired about the nearest funeral home in Bywater. The search only took a moment as Nicky scrolled down searching the web for the Dauphin-Lamont Funeral Home on North Claiborne Avenue. The home’s recent obituary list revealed a smiling and younger looking Oscar Robles.
The funeral was simple. A one day viewing. Sitting in the back near an alcove Dave waited and watched as a solitary light flicker over Robles’ open coffin. By 7 p.m. no one had showed up. Just then an older woman appeared taking up one of the front row seats. Taking something out of her purse she held it at an angle to make sure it was what she wanted. Getting up she knelt at the coffin blessed herself and deposited the object with Robles. Then as quietly as she entered she left by the side exit. No one else came. Dave didn’t bother to follow her. His feeling was that she was not involved in any way with the JFK conspiracy. From what he had found out, there was no one alive to connect the missing dots.
At almost nine o’ clock Lawrence peered into the coffin to find a tiny crucifix had been placed in the deceased right hand. No one else came that night. Robles had come into this world and all its troubles by himself and was leaving with only a sad old woman saying goodbye.
It was time to return to New York and meet with Roger. As per Roger’s instructions the packet was sent to him in New York by private courier. Two days later Dave was standing in Roger’s office. The radio host stood up to greet him and returned to his seat. He felt tired. The Kennedy assassination happened when he was in law school. Since then he had heard one conspiracy theory after another. What most Americans forgot about the early sixties was there was a lot of turmoil in this country between the liberals and conservatives. One day prior to Kennedy’s visit to Dallas, a handbill was distributed with a photo of the young president under which read Wanted For Treason. The cause for treason was everything the conservative right hated Kennedy for including Cuba and the Communists. America had ended the fifties with the Red scare still festering in many parts of the country and the belief that Communist Russia was intent on world domination and the enslavement of America.
“I always thought that handbill was just that, a handbill from a bunch of right wing nuts. But I was wrong. The fear factor in this country was deeper than I imagined.”
Dave uncrossed his legs, “You received the packet I sent?”
“Yes I did and thank you. I had them examined and after looking at them I almost said to myself ‘So this is it, eh?’ You weren’t born yet when the President was assassinated but your parents must have told you something about it.”
“They did but it was in passing along with stories about Sputnik, Viet-Nam and Watergate.”
“And the schools didn’t dwell on the topic either.”
“Wasn’t until I was in college that we discussed the Kennedy assassination in some detail.”
“As you are probably aware I meet a lot of people because of my radio show. Half of them want free publicity and the other half want me to do them favors. Which in many cases I don’t mind. The favors are usually small and can be completed by my office making a few calls. But when I was first asked to look into this I thought it might be a case of blackmail. Nothing more than that. But the more I thought about it the more serious it became. Why would someone with connection to an old family in Boston be concerned about events over forty eight years ago? It just didn’t make sense.”
“And then you reached out to me.”
“Correct. You’ve always done a good job for me and you have a unique skill which is hard to find today. And you know what it is. In this day and age keeping your mouth shut is a priceless commodity.”
The radio host placed his hands in his pockets as he paced in his office. “David, what else did you find out?”
“That photostat, the one with the corner turned over as a tab. It had a number of names. Most of which don’t mean anything today. There was a phrase that I found troubling. It was in Spanish, ‘el nombre de Logia.’ Putting it all together I came up with a possible meaning. In English Logia can be translated to mean Lodge as in Henry Cabot Lodge, Jr. Lodge came from an old line Boston Brahmins family. Wealthy, they place a premium on being discreet. Lodge was a Republican United States Senator from Massachusetts and a U.S. ambassador to the United Nations, South Vietnam, West Germany, and the Holy See. He was also the Republican nominee for Vice President in the 1960 Presidential election. Do you see where this could take us?”
Roger listened intently. Removing his glasses he said, “Very good David. You solved a major part of the puzzle. They don’t provide answers as to who the real Omar Ruz was and what his role in the JFK assassination was. Was he the hit man or was he supposed to kill Lee Harvey Oswald? There is no clear and convincing evidence one way or the other. The question now is what do I do with the letters? They’re not conclusive in any way. But I won’t destroy them that’s for sure. I’ll store them somewhere safe. And if anyone finds them after I’m gone they’ll probably think it’s just a script from one of my radio interviews.”
“Can you find a better place for it?”
“I could put it on my mantle piece in my summer home in Sag Harbor or store them in one of those dollar a day storage places. “
“Could you release them?”
“For what? While I like controversy there’s no need to reopen old wounds. I don’t need the publicity nor do I need the money. I’m almost seventy years old. The show has a couple of more years left. I own two homes. I have enough cars and I spoil my two beautiful grandkids. What else do I want?”
“That’s no easy decision.”
Roger picked up the packet. “David, how well do you know human nature? To some people reputation is everything. Especially to the old line families in Boston. Politics in this country has become more vitriolic than they were in the 1960’s. There are more crazies out there than ever before from people not wanting to pay taxes to people wanting to close up our borders. I’m not going to mention any names, but to some people a good name still means everything.”
Smiling Roger added, “And that pretty much is it. I don’t have anything to add. I’ll keep the packet here in my office for safekeeping. And I’ll let you know what comes of it. By the way David I had some money deposited in your savings account. I think you’ll like what you see. Take a few days off and then we’ll talk again.”
Back in his apartment Dave nursed a tall drink. The muscles in the back of his neck relaxed. Putting up his feet he mused that one day he was going to leave this tiny apartment facing a brick wall, find someone and settle down. The radio was on and in the background he heard Roger’s deep voice, “Good evening. This is Roger Gardner and you’re listening to Evenings with Roger. Tonight my special guest is the Senator from New York.” Dave took another sip. It felt better than the first one as he said to himself, Yeah, maybe I’ll find a nice little place in Sag Harbor where I can keep an eye on my good neighbor Roger Gardner.