BLACK PRESIDENT, CHAPTER 29. Another opportunity for 'conspiracy theories,' when the odd facts of MLK death are examined. But nothing can change the horror of those times.

https://www.cnn.com/2008/US/03/28/conspiracy.theories/index.html

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

April 3, 1968

It had been a rough few days for Martin Luther King, with the Memphis march turning into a disgraceful free-for-all. He decided to dig in and try it all over again, only within the rules he had originally set forth. He actually believed that he could somehow erase the images of looting and violence that he’d seen, both in person and on the nightly news.

“For fuck’s sake, we’re going right back into battle tomorrow,” was how the man of God had put it. As Martin had said before, “If the Lord wants me to swear, then I will...if it gets HIS purpose done!” Martin couldn’t have known then that the decision to retake Memphis would be repeated by his aide, John Crosby, get back to the FBI, and cement the sinister plan to stop King that Hoover had OK’d.

At the FBI, Frank Holcolm called the shots. He helped get the editorials into local newspapers, articles that accused King of “staying in the White Man’s fancy hotels.” And it took just one more bogus call to get the room at Lorraine Motel switched to a second floor, so King’s room would offer a clear view across the courtyard and parking lot, make it easier to draw a bead through a rifle’s telescopic sight. While the plan did have some risks, agents commanding the police station, as well as the streets, would help with any post-hit fallout. It would be the same basic disinformation rollout that had been employed in Dallas for Kennedy. Agents dressed as cops were always above suspicion. The two Black firemen who were on duty at the fire department across the street were also removed, by re-assigning them to another station across town. When the eight main “Intruders” met at Holcolm’s office, it was decided that three would operate as cops, while the others would remain undercover. “Raoul,” AKA Jules Kipling, would be the shooter, using a 30.06 from the backyard of Bessie Brewer’s boarding house. There would be a good, clear shot from just under the magnolia tree that shaded her back lawn.

And of course there was a “patsy,” the role Oswald had played in 1963. The big guys Holcolm had assembled, Johnny D., Milo, Fred, Bill D., Raoul, and Terry, looked like serious people on the outside, but when it came to talking about James Earl Ray they really got their laughs.

“So, that guy...Ray... in his slot, right?” Holcolm asked, looking over at Raoul who stood at the corner of the desk near the blackboard. There wasn’t much room to move around in the tiny, third floor office of the Davis Street Precinct; some of the men had seated themselves on the large desk to take the weight off.

“Yeah, got him secured. The $25,000 has been paid. Ray thinks we’re running guns out of Bessie’s and that there’s an even bigger payoff up the road,” said Raoul, chuckling.

“Sorry guys, but got to bust a gut here. The guy is just so damn gullible. Could have told him that we’re going to Mars and he would have packed a space helmet.”

While the others laughed along with Raoul – their kind of joke. The weak guy was going to take a fall. Holcolm thought about how dependably the “patsy” cover worked. Some things just plain delivered, time and time again. It was like the “Pigeon Drop scam.” That con had always worked the best on decent, law-biding people. They would always just continue sitting there on the bus stop or wherever, holding that big sack of alleged twenty-dollar bills while the cons emptied their bank accounts and ran off with the real dough.

The other big joke of the day was that in police headquarters there stood three of Marcello’s men, made men, wearing the dark blues of Memphis’s police officers -- badges, hats, boots, the full effect. The thin line between mafia and Intelligence had gone beyond blurry this time, thought Holcolm. It was surprising how legitimate they all looked, just as believable as any real cops he’d ever seen. Their southern features, generous jaws, thick necks, stout builds – the New Orleans in them – worked perfectly with the police blues. And they seemed to revel in their newly assumed identities. If they hadn’t looked like arbiters of life and death before, they certainly radiated that now, with irrefutable police power.

At any rate, all the markers were in place. Ray’s fingerprints were on the 30.06 (he’d been given the rifle to inspect several days earlier), and the rags Ray called clothes were all neatly tied up in a bundle. All it took to put him at the crime scene was Milo walking over to the Canipe Apartments from two doors down and dropping off the long rifle and clothes sack as soon as he heard the shots. That’s why the firemen had been removed from across the street. No witnesses – at least none of the kind that couldn’t be bought – could be allowed within eyeline or earshot.

Bill Donavan had located a second identical white Mustang to match Ray’s. Hadn’t taken much time to find a double, since that model had been popular throughout the south. When another white Mustang was spotted in Nashville, parked in front of Jimmy’s Bar up on Fourth and Taylor, Donavan just went inside, announced his interest in purchasing the vehicle, flashed that big roll of taxpayer dollars and waited for the owner to step forward. Offering twice the going rate for the car, the lucky guy, escorting an expensive-looking blond on his arm, didn’t need any extra persuading. He drove over to his apartment house, dug out the pink slip, returned in minutes, and was back drinking up the profits before Donavan could reach city limits. Money was an easy way of making everything a no-brainer.

Within the confines of his office, Holcolm drew the schematic on a chalk board. Dr. King was indicated by a circle with an X through it. Holcolm then drew in a large rectangle to represent the view from the back side of the Lorraine Motel.

“The balcony is the hot zone, with our target here, near the railing,” Holcolm said, marking the board.

“Crosby will get King to walk out into the open, at exactly 2:15 PM. Most people will be inside, finishing lunch or working by then, so the prospect of witnesses will be reduced. Crosby knows to point up toward Ray’s room after the shots are fired. We got that phoney apartment rented by Terry here, who’s just about the same build as Ray. He’ll get to tool around in the Mustang while we do all the dirty work, right?”

“Well, he’s white,” says Johnny D., the heavyset man of the bunch. Everyone laughed and gave Terry pats on the back and butt, teasing him. But each link was critical, and Holcolm refocused the discussion.

“So Terry leads the heat away, over to where Ray will be hanging out...down the roadway a bit. Johnny will take the rifle off of Raoul and walk it across the street, to Jim’s Grill. The owner there, Lloyd, CIA retired, will dispose of it while Raoul walks across here.” Holcolm drew a chalk line behind the Grill, going south.

“Lloyd says he doesn’t mind a 5 G tip for just walking away from those greasy burgers for three minutes.”

That statement brought another good laugh all around.

“As long as Raoul sets his position – Crosby will get a hand signal – and King stands near the handrail, we’ll have a clean shot.”

“Everybody knows their back door, right?,” Holcolm added. He didn’t want any of his crew standing around twiddling their thumbs.

“Don’t want anybody picked up for vagrancy, OK?” Hearing a few grunts and smiles, he knew that they knew.

Martin Luther King’s last minutes on earth were spent in a phone conversation with his wife, in which she voiced her concern over the violence she had seen on television the day before. King was trying to allay her fears as Crosby stood nearby in the motel room, double- checking his watch.

“No honey. It won’t be like that,” he told her, taking a deep breath before speaking again. “The more attention we get on TV the less they’ll try the rough stuff. I don’t know who did the vandalizing. I know it looked bad, but it wasn’t our people breaking windows and stealing...”

Crosby, walked over to the curtain, parted the fabric and looked out across the patio. He could see some movement just below the tree that shaded Bessie’s Rooming House. It was another warm day, but the humidity hadn’t hit as hard as in the early part of the week. Still, the gnats were out in full force and no one would be able to comfortably remain outside for very long.

King’s phone call seemed to be winding down. Crosby could hear the final sweettalk, King’s voice low and gentle, making promises he couldn’t keep. Across the room from him, Jesse Jackson got up from watching the TV, the shifting light from which gave King an eerie glow in the dark room. Crosby checked down below the balcony as the last King words were spoken...“Please, honey...” and “Yes, I’ll be careful!”

It was risky standing outside in the hit-zone, but Crosby trusted Raoul to be accurate with the scope. Holcolm had assured him that his shooter was not the trigger-happy type, but strictly pro all the way. Still, Crosby felt very vulnerable as he stepped out onto the balcony and looked down, checking for the black Ford below. Yes, it was there, right on schedule, with the chauffeur, Morris, keeping it idling.

Crosby checked his watch again: 2:12PM. Three minutes and he’d go get King off the phone. Suddenly King emerged through the curtain on his own, striding out onto the balcony ledge, totally shaking up the timetable.

Shit! thought Crosby. This is happening too soon! Three minutes off! But there was King, stretching and letting his eyes adjust to the bright sun. The warmth felt good on his face, and the air refreshed him. The summer humidity was preferable to those freezing

Chicago winters, he told himself. With a few deep breaths he cleared his lungs of the stale motel room air. Sure, he’d been disappointed to lose the comfort of the “White man’s hotel” uptown, but he didn’t want it to look bad at this late date.

“Ah...Crosby...my man. It’s going to be good,” said Martin Luther King, beginning to feel the hopefulness of the day. Crosby tried to walk sideways, make sure he was out harm’s way, but King grabbed him and hugged him tightly. Just then Jesse Jackson came out through the curtains and started a conversation with the music coordinator standing on the pavement next to the chauffeur. They were discussing what songs to use to kickoff the benefit.

Ducking down behind the fence that separated the boarding house property from the motel parking, Raoul tried to look busy, fiddling with the trash barrel, examining plants, keeping the rifle deep down in the weeds until the time was right. He had watched Crosby emerge onto the porch, but was thrown when King suddenly walked out through the curtain. His watch told him it was early, but he hefted the 30:06 up to his shoulder and looked through the sights. No good. Both men were sideways, with Crosby blocking out half his target area. He immediately backed off and lowered the firearm down again. Up against the fence he tried to stay calm and collected, as he waited for the correct opening.

Suddenly Crosby couldn’t help it – the shaking began. He felt it start in his arms, then radiate around his belly. King must have felt it too because he released his grip and held Crosby out at arm’s length, an odd look crossing his face.

“What’s wrong there, boy? You look a bit sick.” He smiled like an old auntie concerned about her favorite nephew’s well-being. At that moment there was love in King’s eyes for his friend Crosby.

“Just tired, Martin,” Crosby muttered, breaking eye contact to look down at King’s hands. Later, thinking back to the last moments, Crosby wondered if he’d been holding his breath. He was terrified that King would keep him close, endanger him as the moment of shooting approached. He knew Raoul would take both men out before he’d let the schedule slip. He checked his watch: 2:14 PM. He could only wait a few seconds more for Martin to let him go. He imagined having to roughly jerk free of King’s grip, perhaps break the hold with a judo chop. Crosby closed his eyes and prayed that Martin would just get disinterested, let go, turn out toward the parking lot like he was supposed to do. And his prayer was suddenly answered.

The Reverend didn’t need to be bothered further with a man who couldn’t even meet his gaze. That Crosby was a strange bird, thought King, as he relaxed his grip. He took two steps, leaned over the railing, and looked down to address the chauffeur below, ready to discuss travel arrangements as Crosby had instructed. As soon as he was freed, Crosby took a wide step to the left and crouched down to tie his shoe.

The sound of the shot made Crosby twitch, blinking his eyes, then closing them down hard. As the shouts and cries of horror rose from King’s close companions, Crosby stood up stiffly, lifted his right arm – heavy as lead now – and pointed tentatively toward the designated third-floor window across the way.

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(Chapter 30 next)