11/22/63

That was something I didn’t have to lie about, and I didn’t. Next, though, they’d ask about the trip from Mercedes Street in Fort Worth to the Book Depository in Dallas. That was the part of my story most fraught with peril. I wasn’t worried about the Studebaker cowboy; Sadie had cut him, but only after he tried to steal her purse. The car had been on its last legs, and I had a feeling the cowboy might not even come forward to report it stolen. Of course we had stolen another one, but given the urgency of our errand, the police would surely not file charges in the matter. The press would crucify them if they tried. What I was worried about was the red Chevrolet, the one with tailfins like a woman’s eyebrows. A trunk with a couple of suitcases in it could be explained away; we’d had dirty weekends at the Candlewood Bungalows before. But if they got a look at Al Templeton’s notebook… I didn’t even want to think about that.

There was a perfunctory knock on the door of the interview room, and one of the cops who had brought me to the police station poked his head in. Behind the wheel of the cruiser, and while he and his buddy had been going through my personal belongings, he had looked stone-faced and dangerous, a bluesuit right out of a crime movie. Now, unsure of himself and bug-eyed with excitement, I saw he was no more than twenty-three, and still coping with the last of his adolescent acne. Behind him I could see a lot of people — some in uniform, some not — craning for a look at me. Fritz and Hosty turned to the uninvited newcomer with impatience.

“Sirs, I’m sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Amberson has a phone call.”

The flush returned to Hosty’s jowls full force. “Son, we’re doing an interrogation here. I don’t care if it’s the President of the United States calling.”

The cop swallowed. His Adam’s apple went up and down like a monkey on a stick. “Uh, sirs… it is the President of the United States.”

It seemed they cared, after all.

7

They took me down the hall to Chief Curry’s office. Fritz had me under one arm and Hosty had the other. With them supporting sixty or seventy pounds of my weight between them, I hardly limped at all. There were reporters, TV cameras, and huge lights that must have raised the temperature to a hundred degrees. These people — one step above paparazzi — had no place in a police station in the wake of an assassination attempt, but I wasn’t surprised. Along another timeline, they had crowded in after Oswald’s arrest and no one had kicked them out. As far as I knew, no one had even suggested it.

Hosty and Fritz bulled their way through the scrum, stone-faced. Questions were hurled at them and at me. Hosty shouted: “Mr. Amberson will have a statement after he has been fully debriefed by the authorities!”

“When?” someone shouted.

“Tomorrow, the day after, maybe next week!”

There were groans. They made Hosty smile.

“Maybe next month. Right now he’s got President Kennedy waiting on the line, so y’all fall back!”

They fell back, chattering like magpies.

The only cooling device in Chief Curry’s office was a fan on a bookshelf, but the moving air felt blessed after the interrogation room and the media microwave in the hall. A big black telephone handset lay on the blotter. Beside it was a file with LEE H. OSWALD printed on the tab. It was thin.

I picked up the phone. “Hello?”

The nasal New England voice that responded sent a chill up my back. This was a man who would have now been lying on a morgue slab, if not for Sadie and me. “Mister Amberson? Jack Kennedy here. I… ah… understand that my wife and I owe you… ah… our lives. I also understand that you lost someone very dear to you.” Dear came out deah, the way I’d grown up hearing it.

“Her name was Sadie Dunhill, Mr. President. Oswald shot her.”

“I’m so sorry for your… ah… loss, Mr. Amberson. May I call you… ah… George?”

“If you like.” Thinking: I’m not having this conversation. It’s a dream.

“Her country will give her a great outpouring of thanks… and you a great outpouring of condolence, I’m sure. Let me… ah… be the first to offer both.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.” My throat was closing and I could hardly speak above a whisper. I saw her eyes, so bright as she lay dying in my arms. Jake, how we danced. Do presidents care about things like that? Do they even know about them? Maybe the best ones do. Maybe it’s why they serve.

“There’s… ah… someone else who wants to thank you, George. My wife’s not here right now, but she… ah… plans to call you tonight.”

“Mr. President, I’m not sure where I’ll be tonight.”

“She’ll find you. She’s very… ah… determined when she wants to thank someone. Now tell me, George, how are you?”