11/22/63: A Novel

“No, cool as a cucumber, but he always was.” I leaned toward him. “I want you to listen to this part very closely, Detective Fritz. I knew she meant to go with me no matter what I told her. I could hear it in her voice. So I got the hell out. I did that to protect her. Just in case.”

And this is an in-case if there ever was one, the Sadie in my head whispered. She would live there until I saw her again in the flesh. I swore I would, no matter what.

“I thought I’d spend the night in a hotel, but the hotels were full. Then I thought of Mercedes Street. I’d turned in the key to 2706, where I lived, but I still had a key to 2703 across the street, where Lee lived. He gave it to me so I could go in and water his plants.”

Hosty: “He had plants?”

My attention was still fixed on Will Fritz. “Sadie got alarmed when she found me gone from Eden Fallows. Deke did, too. So he did call the police. Not just once but several times. Each time, the cop who took his call told him to stop bullshitting and hung up. I don’t know if anyone bothered to make a record of those calls, but Deke will tell you, and he has no reason to lie.”

Now Fritz was the one turning red. “If you knew how many death threats we had…”

“I’m sure. And only so many men. Just don’t tell me that if we’d called the police, Sadie would still be alive. Don’t tell me that, okay?”

He said nothing.

“How did she find you?” Hosty asked.

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?”