BLACK PRESIDENT, Chapter 31. (Warning, for those of us who finally got some hope from Bobby Kennedy's 1968 Presidential run, this chapter about his demise will hurt!).

June 5, 1968

It was the waves of applause in the hall that gave Robert Kennedy, the California primary winner, the energy to make one last speech before hitting the sack. The day had been a long and exciting one, what with meeting people every five minutes, sitting and standing and sitting again on the sofa, and listening to the forecasts. And while the numbers had looked good almost from the beginning, it hadn’t been until the call came from campaign headquarters at 11 PM that he knew he had won. California was his.

He thought of all the pain he and his father had endured together. Old Joe Kennedy, a stroke victim, could now only communicate with his eyes. Still, when Bobby had knelt down beside his wheelchair-bound parent weeks before, and told him about the latest polls, he had surely seen pride and satisfaction in his father’s eyes. He had watched his father’s quivering lips very closely, to make sure he didn’t miss anything the old man might try to say.

“Yes, dad, I have a chance,” he had said, mostly to himself, to bolster up his own personal doubts. “I won’t let the family down.”

The camera lights were blinding Kennedy and the smoke-filled air made him feel like coughing, but he had gotten himself through it all. Turning away from the elated crowd, he felt exhausted, but good. He had accomplished his mission, delivered the speeches, done the glad-handing, given the old and young the assurance that their programs would still be intact at the end of the day. This was his shining moment to say it loud and clear: You just can’t keep the Kennedy’s down, you know! You make a touchdown on one of us and you’ll get some serious retribution. You’ll have to deal with the next body hurdling through the air in your direction! We know that fine feeling, running through the wet grass with the ball, the Cape Cod sun on our faces. We’re winners, even when we lose. You can beat us down for a while, even kill us, but we’re still coming back!

Jack. And Marilyn. They were up there somewhere, watching him. Sexy and smart Marilyn. He imagined her diligently taking notes from her seat in front of the TV, making observations, detailing events in her little red book, framing questions to ask him later after their lovemaking. He had come close to sacrificing it all for her, had almost traded away political power to possess a love goddess – what man wouldn’t have been tempted? He thought back to Marilyn’s voluptuous body, the way she moved and made love. But it had become clear that it was his wife Ethel who must be there in the public eye. The people liked Ethel. And, after all, she was the mother of his kids. Now everything finally made sense. It all fit. For you, Marilyn, for the love we never got to enjoy...this is your moment too.

As Bobby was ushered through the door into the kitchen, he was thankful that they could take the back route, a path that that security guard, Cesar...Cesar-something, had suggested. With his friend Rafer Johnson along, that big hunk of football invincibility, he was sure no one could get in their way for long. Rafer just plowed through crowds.

Cesar kept one hand tight on Bobby Kennedy’s coat tail. He knew that the moment was quickly arriving. As they hustled through the first half of the kitchen, he reached into his deep right pocket and wrapped his fingers around the handle of a .22 pistol, placing his index finger gently alongside the trigger guard. Keeping his eyes forward, not looking down at all, he pulled the gun above his cuff-line, inside his sleeve, just like he’d practiced at home. His regular .38 would remain holstered, unfired – his alibi – before he would conveniently disappear.

As the group moved together into the dimly-lit kitchen and proceeded toward the rear, Cesar watched closely for Judy and Sirhan. She and her loud dress would be his signal. He had told them he needed the visual warning to have time to ready his own gun, and she had decided a bright red and yellow polka-dotted dress would serve the purpose.

Suddenly up ahead, in-between the bobbing heads, Cesar spotted Judy’s matching hat with its large, floppy brim. As people shifted, the crowd adjusting to the narrower hallway, her face appeared, then disappeared. He caught more glimpses of her dress, the big red circles and half-circles jumping out, as he gripped the handgun’s handle tighter and prepared for the moment.

As he let himself be shuffled along with the human tide of his entourage, Bobby's mind focused on the days ahead. He would be President of the United States. And once he sat in that Oval Office again, where he had resided with his brother five years earlier, he would do some MAJOR housecleaning. He believed he knew the bad guys...who they were. And he knew some bad-apple CIA and FBI personnel who had been working behind the public’s back. He had his suspicions about his brother’s killers and he would move against them soon. And he’d get that old whore Hoover, rush in there and clean out his desk, throw his shit into the hall, get a restraining order and confiscate his personal files where all the dirt was stored. How much did Hoover really have on the Kennedys, he wondered? Yes, he’d finally expunge the evil.

Sirhan would not remember what happened. A woman, Judy, had walked him into the restaurant by way of the back exit. She had played the part well – just like a political groupie, her garish outfit a fitting masquerade for the celebratory event. Sandra Serrano, a passserby, would later swear to seeing the two of them entering the kitchen together.

Big Johnson – GO RAFER – pushing the mass of people aside, is all Bobby saw. Yes, go for the touchdown, he thought. He really was going to win the thing.

It was finally his turn. Destiny!
For Jack. For his father. For Joe Jr. and Teddy. For all the Kennedys...

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Three more quick shots followed: CRACK,CRACK,CRACK.

The loud sounds echoed off the kitchen walls, reverberating off the metal pots and refrigeration units, making it impossible to tell where the gunshots originated. Cesar held onto Kennedy’s hips – narrow but strong is how he remembered them. Sirhan Sirhan was firing high, up above the crowd into the ceiling as he’d been trained to do...hypnotized to do. While Sirhan Sirhan kept firing, Kennedy automatically ducked. That’s when Cesar steadied his arm along Kennedy’s back, held him tight and fired three times. He had been so close that he saw Kennedy’s brown hair blown aside as bullets entered the skull. Without the small caliber it would have been an impossible mess. But the .22 worked well. As Sirhan Sirhan was being grabbed and punched, Cesar let the small gun slip back into his pocket. He held Kennedy for just a second before letting him drop.

Bobby Kennedy felt the terrible pain and then the floor coming up hard against his head, arms and legs, feet and shoes. What was happening. He couldn’t move his arms. Strange. A face. The ceiling and lights off and on.

“Is everybody all right?” came automatically to his lips. He was in charge. Finally in charge. He’d get those people who hurt his brother...He’d...

Coldness now...That sleep he’d promised himself. Just let go and relax into the sheets...finally...

“WHERE IS HE!” shouted Jackie, running down the halls of Mercy Hospital in San Diego. The aides that flanked her could barely keep up. When they entered the Critical Care wing it was filled with reporters, half the room cordoned off. The family members, along with Rafer Johnson, other close associates and doctors, were huddled near a few doors across the way, two Los Angeles policemen guarding the space in front of the unit where Bobby Kennedy was installed. Ethel Kennedy, on sedatives, was being looked after in an adjoining room. Jackie entered Kennedy’s room and immediately knelt down beside him, taking his still hand in hers. The nurse backed off and stood by the door.

“You too,” Jackie mumbled under her breath.
“They got you too.”
The doctors had told her that he wouldn’t last the night, might not even be alive when she arrived, but they had been wrong. He was hanging on. No one knew how long he’d live, but some speculated that he might stay in that vegetable state for days. No one wanted that, but none had been ready to pull the life-support plug out of the wall. Doctors had assured Jackie that she’d be alone with him, so she asked for that and the nurse politely excused herself.

Just her and Bobby. Like old times. She reached over and touched his face, felt his next day’s beard trying to penetrate the layer of makeup for the TV lights. His Lincoln eyebrows and nose seemed more prominent than ever. She stroked his shoulder, arms, hands, before standing. Walking back out into the harsh glare of the hospital corridor, Jackie tried to contain her grief. Wiping her tears away, she couldn’t help wondering about the scope of the Kennedy curse. She prayed it could all end now, before her kids became future targets for assassins.

https://people.com/politics/robert-f-kennedy-tragic-presidential-run/

In Las Vegas, atop the Desert Inn, an isolated and codeine-drugged Howard Hughes sat in bed with his face glued to the TV screen. Scenes of Bobby Kennedy’s last address to the crowds, the applause, his promise to win in Chicago, his walk toward the kitchen, the shots and screams, and the downed hero in a pool of blood, kept replaying into the early hours. Hughes watched again and again, staying tuned to CBS, the only channel that remained on the air all night in Nevada. Sometime, in the middle of the night, he grabbed his yellow legal pad from the side of his bed and started drafting new memos to Maheu, the ex-CIA bagman and errand boy employed to handle government officials he needed to control. Now, with Kennedy gone, a great gaping hole had opened up. Hughes saw it as the opportunity of a lifetime, to simply pay off some people and grab the entire Kennedy machine for his already bought-and-paid-for politicians, like Hubert Humphrey, Richard Nixon.

I hate to be quick, but opportunity’s here that may not happen again, ever! scribbled Hughes, his excessively long fingernails occasionally scratching the surface of the paper. I don’t aspire to Presidency, but I do want political strength.

Maheu received over forty memos from Hughes over the twenty-six hours during which Kennedy’s life supposedly hung in the balance. Few knew that he had actually died within hours of being shot, that news kept top-secret by U.S. officials for fear that publicity surrounding Sirhan Sirhan’s Palestinian ethnicity might adversely affect the U.S. policy in that region. Had the announcement of Robert Kennedy’s actual time of death been made public, it would have fallen right in the middle of the holiest of holy days. Perhaps the biggest beneficiary of that extended bid for time had been Hughes.

***

Before Maheu called O’Brien he reviewed the man’s history, trying to understand the connections and sensitive issues. O’Brien had worked for the Kennedys in the late 1950’s, helping JFK get elected to the Senate. Then he’d been retained by Lyndon B. Johnson, joining that cabinet. At the opportune time, O’Brien had quit that job to join Bobby’s team as campaign manager, with hopes of getting awarded some big assignment as a reward for helping him get elected. Secretary of State or...?

People like O’Brian played the winners no differently than gamblers at the track. They won when their man ran hard and won. But with Bobby Kennedy’s death, O’Brien had taken quite a fall. One minute he’d been headed for four, maybe eight years of White House pay and prestige. Then suddenly he’d been out of prospects. Maheu would dangle a carrot and watch the rabbit lunge for it. He dialed O’Brien’s home.

“Yes, O’Brien here.”

“Larry, this is Robert Maheu,” Maheu said, “calling for Howard Hughes.” The Hughes name was his ticket to get almost anyone’s attention. To the person on the other end of the line, it was like hearing he or she’d won the lottery. The rumors about Hughes generous payoffs had swirled around the Capital for decades, and those in the know were well aware that Maheu was Howard Hughes’ bagman, the guy who delivered suitcases full of cash.

“Yes. Hello, Robert,” said O’Brien, immediately alert. “What can I do for you?”

O’Brien had an automatic political response to each and every phone call: What I do for you = how much can you pay? That was the name of the game in Washington.

“Been talking to Howard, who, as I’m sure you know, is very aware of the political scene. He wants me to first pass on his condolences. The tragedy of Bobby Kennedy...is immeasurable.”

“Yes. Can’t believe what’s happened. We’re all too stunned to....”

“Well, yes, of course. That’s only natural. What Howard wants to do is, if I may speak bluntly...”

“Please do,” said O’Brien, sensing that he may be bailed out.

“Howard is prepared to offer you a top-ranking position, doing just what you’ve been doing – organizing and coordinating with your same people. Bobby’s people. The question is, can you...can someone...keep the team together? We’ll need that.”

“So Howard wants me and the Kennedy team to work for him in some capacity?”

Maheu coughed to clear his throat. “Yes., on his upcoming projects, which may include some other political runs for office. For the time being, though, you would be put on salary just to listen and comment on his future proposals, give him some support and guidance.” Maheu paused, waiting for an interim response.

“O...K.,” said O’Brien, measuring his answer.

“Howard would like you to visit him here in Vegas, so you and I can work out details. We’d put you up in style of course, a few days in the sun...iron out what’s expected and the pay scale, that sort of thing.”

After agreement from O’Brien, and both parties had hung up, Maheu realized Hughes had been right to move swiftly. O’Brien had off-handedly mentioned there were “other forces about,” presumably trying to recruit him. Maheu reported back to Hughes that O’Brien would be arriving that next Tuesday. Within two days of the phone call, he related to Maheu that he had a solid three, maybe four of the Kennedy team in a holding pattern, awaiting his word that the deal with Hughes was a GO.

https://www.britannica.com/biography/Howard-Hughes

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(Chapter 32 next)