Clint Hill - My Travels with Mrs. Kennedy

The trunk

CLINTON HILL

THE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON D.C.

We both stood there, silent, staring at it for a moment, and then Lisa said, Its just as you always described it. She paused, looked at me, and asked, May I open it?

Lets wait until tomorrow, I said. Its getting late. And you better have some rubber gloves. Whatever is in there is more than likely covered with mold and God knows what else.

I shuddered to think of the disgusting mess that must be inside. Years ago, the garage flooded after a heavy rain. It was up to here, I said, holding one hand at my waist. Its probably crawling with worms and big black spiders.

Oh God! Lisa grimaced. Did you have to say that? Now Ill have nightmares. But youre right. Lets get back to the hotel and well start fresh tomorrow. I can hardly wait.

Dont get your hopes up, I said. If theres anything salvageable, its probably just junk, like all the rest of the stuff in here.

I had been procrastinating dealing with the house at 1068 because, frankly, the thought of cleaning it out was overwhelming. I had long since taken out everything I needed, or thought was of value, and I would have been happy to call 1-800-GOT-JUNK to go in and clear the place out.

What about your medal? Lisa had reminded me. It must be there somewhere. You dont want to see it on eBay or, worse, have it end up in a dumpster. Its too important.

On December 3, 1963, I had been honored with the U.S. Treasury Departments highest civilian award for bravery. There were photos of the ceremony, even a video of it now on YouTube, but the medal had never meant anything to me. I never wanted it, never thought I deserved it. I didnt see myself as brave. I was just doing my job. As a Secret Service agent on the White House Detail, I had trained for that moment. Trained to jump into the line of fire, to be a human shield for the president, the first lady, or whomever we were assigned to protect. But I would never get over the feeling that if only I had reacted a little bit quickerone second, or maybe half a secondI wouldnt be here, and thered be no damn medal. After all these years, I honestly didnt know where it was. But Lisa finally convinced me that it would be better for us to go through everything ourselves rather than have some strangers deciding what was trash and what was history. The medal was really the only thing we were looking for.

W e were staying at the Willard InterContinental in Washington, D.C., about a twenty-minute drive from the house in Alexandria. Lisa and I had been traveling almost constantly for the previous several yearswhether conducting research for a book, promoting a book with media and speaking engagements, or, more rarely, traveling for pleasure. We made it a habit to visit the D.C. area three or four times a year. Wed have lunch with my two sons, Chris and Corey, and their families, who still lived nearby, and wed catch up with friendsand it had become our routine to stay at the Willard. The historic hotel was centrally located to familiar restaurants where wed meet friendsmostly other former Secret Service agents and their wives and it was just across 15th Street from the White House complex where I attended an annual meeting of the Special Agents in Charge of Presidential Protection each December. At Christmastime, the hotel lobby was decorated with miles of festive garland and a towering Christmas tree covered in white lights, red bows, and an enviable selection of the collectible White House Christmas ornaments produced by the White House Historical Association.

The first time we stayed at the Willard, I was offered an upgrade to a suite, which I happily accepted. The bellman took us up to the fourth floor, and as we exited the elevators, he turned right and said, Here you are. This is a very special suite, Mr. Hill. I think youll enjoy it.

On the door was a brass plaque:

John F. Kennedy Suite

Lisa and I looked at each other but didnt say anything as the bellman opened the door and led us into the spacious suite. Hanging on the wall in the entry was a painting of JFKa reproduction of the Aaron Shikler painting of him with his head down, arms crossed, deep in thought. The same one that hangs in the White House.

At the end of our stay that first time, Lisa wrote a note to the general manager thanking him for the lovely hospitality and explained why the John F. Kennedy suite really was particularly meaningful to me. From that point on, whenever we were in Washington, we stayed at the Willard, and if it was available, they would put is in Room 410.

T he following morning, we returned to the house at 1068 North Chambliss Street, armed with several pairs of rubber gloves and a fresh supply of Hefty garbage bags. Lisa could hardly contain her excitement to see what was inside the trunk.