Copyright
This edition first published in paperback in the United States in 2008 by
The Overlook Press, Peter Mayer Publishers, Inc.
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Copyright 2008 by Robert Blair Kaiser
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.
Much of this work was published by E.P. Dutton in 1970 under the title R.F.K. Must Die!A History of the Robert Kennedy Assassination and Its Aftermath. Since then, for almost forty years, the author gathered string on the story until it became a rather large ball. This work is an attempt to unwind itto tighten the original tale he told, to review and critique what others have written (and imagined) about many of the storys most puzzling elements, and to bring to some relatively satisfying conclusion a story that remains a mystery still.
ISBN: 978-1-46830-868-6
Contents
PREFACE
Getting Into the Mystery
W HEN YET ANOTHER ASSASSIN S BULLET TOOK THE LIFE OF YET ANOTHER Kennedy, the whole world demanded to know who did it and why. They soon discovered who. It was a young Palestinian-Arab refugee with a strange double name: Sirhan Sirhan.
But the story of why he killedthe one he propounded at the trialdidnt make any sense. Just exactly why I thought it should make sense is part history and part autobiography. I am a Christian of a particularly thoughtful kind, a convert to Catholicism at the precocious age of thirteen who found comfort in a system of belief that told me who I was and why I was here and where I was going. I needed that lifeboat because my familys little barque had gone aground in the shipwreck called divorce. It wasnt only the symbolic waters of baptism that calmed my chaos. I soon found myself in a Jesuit prep school; that brought me a sense of order borrowed from the centuries. This Weltanschauung was enough and more than enough to get me through my teens.
And then, still trying to nail down The Full Meaning of It All, I joined the Jesuits, who not only taught me who I was and where I was going, but also gave me a set of critical toolsmainly how to think and how to write (which is really only a way of consolidating our thoughts), but also how to look for the meaning of things. I thought my way right of the Jesuits, of course, because I couldnt live reasonably and humanly with a community of men who were then stiffening under their own rigid rules, but I didnt think my way out of the Church itself. By the Church I do not mean the hierarchical Roman Catholic Church, which still suffers from what my friend Michael Novak once called non-historical orthodoxy, but rather the peoples Church as defined by the Fathers of Vatican II, which was marked by two things: 1) a way of thinking and feeling oft identified by the words my faith (which comes down to being a man for others) and 2) citizenship in a community of loving persons who would be there for me when both fortune and misfortune struck, as they tend to strike most men and women who dare to dive into the action and passion of our times.
I found the action and the passion I was looking for by becoming a, well, I was going to say journalist. Red Smith, a mid-century, no-nonsense sports columnist for The New York Times, once defined journalist as a reporter who needs a haircuthis catty put down of some pretentious Brits he met at the Helsinki Olympics who were more interested in writing about the abstract meaning of a record-breaking 1500-meter run than they were in actually talking with the young record-breaker to find out what made him run so fast.
So, okay, I had a three-year apprenticeship as a reporter on Arizonas largest newspaper, and then I became a serious, Time-magazine foreign correspondent, a step up from being a mere reporter, but nothing so pretentious as a journalist. Except that I was working for a magazine that had its high-minded moments and some writers whose reportage had a perspective and a context that came very close to the kind of history written by a Thucydides or a Gibbon or a Theodore H. White. White started out as a freelance foreign correspondent in Chinafor Time magazineand had just published a book-length account of the John F. Kennedy-Richard Nixon presidential campaign that transcended anything I had ever read about our political system. By employing political and sociological theory in his Making of a President, 1960, White found meaning in the entirely contingent events of a political campaign.
Since I was a foreign correspondent for Time magazine, I didnt think that creating a Teddy White-style contemporary history was beyond me. I was soon writing my first book about that turning-in-time called the Second Vatican Ecumenical Council, which critics hailed as an inspired piece of something that went well beyond mere reportage. By putting things in context, I was able to draw out a special meaning in the conciliar narrative, and I crafted a story that enlightened minds and enkindled hearts.
Where would I go from there? What I like to call Providence put me in Los Angeles on June 5, 1968, two years retired from Time. At thirty-seven, I was too young to retire from Time (and for many years I half-regretted that decision), but I was ambitious; I wanted to write for a whole raft of magazines and I wanted to write books, too, books that made a splash and made a difference.
Then, bang! I woke up that June morning, turned on NBCs Today show, and learned that yet another Kennedy had been gunned down, and in Los Angeles at that. My friends at Times sister-publication, Life, called me into the story, and soon I was way into it, with far deeper access than anyone could have dreamed of, right up close and personal with the assassin himself and those who were probing him: police, prosecutors, defense attorneys, psychiatrists, psychologists, reporters.
I had wangled my way inside the assassins defense team. I did so out of curiosity, mainly, and out of a suspicion that the public would learn something less than the whole truth if it had to rely on either the assassins unchallenged version or even the story told by the police and the prosecutors. I talked to Sirhans family and some of his friends; I sat in on the defense attorneys conferences with Sirhan; I became a participant-observer in the attorneys own private working sessions; I conferred closely with the psychologists and psychiatrists in the case and served as a kind of bridge between the assassins doctors and his lawyers. I had access to police and FBI files, which would remain out of public view for the next twenty-two years, and, most important of all, I was able to visit Sirhan in his cell two or three times a week until he left Los Angeles for San Quentin, condemned to die.