Frame 232 Read online

  There was still part of her that harbored hope for a miracle. She knew what she had seen, but there was always that chance. She had analyzed the shooting in her mind and figured that such a young man could likely survive the first strike, the one that pierced his throat. Maybe it would permanently affect his speech; maybe he’d need some kind of medical equipment to assist with his breathing. But that second strike, the one where his head . . . where it . . .

  She erased these thoughts and trained her attention on the little screen. Cronkite was there, sitting at his anchor’s desk in a white shirt and black tie, addressing the nation.

  “. . . policemen called in on their day off because there were some fears and concerns in Dallas that, uh . . . that there might be demonstrations, at least, that could embarrass the president. Because it was only on October 24 that our ambassador of the United Nations, Adlai Stevenson, was assaulted in Dallas leaving a dinner meeting there—”

  He was interrupted, presumably by a news editor who had just pulled an Associated Press bulletin from one of the wire machines. Cronkite put on the horn-rimmed glasses that gave him the academic bearing of a nuclear physicist. He read through the bulletin once while America waited, then turned back to the camera.

  “From Dallas, Texas, the flash, apparently official. President Kennedy died—”

  At this point he removed the glasses again, and Margaret Baker let out a warbling, uneven cry.

  “—at 1 p.m. Central Standard Time, two o’clock Eastern Standard Time . . . some thirty-eight minutes ago.”

  The glasses went back on again, and a clearly affected Cronkite took a moment to compose himself. “Vice President Johnson has left the hospital in Dallas, but we do not know to where he has proceeded; presumably—”

  Margaret switched it off. She then covered her face and wept. Kennedy had offered so much hope, so much promise. He had fresh and exciting ideas that represented the dawn of a new age. And it’s all gone now.

  When the tears dried up, she went to the mirror and wiped her face with the hardened tissue mass. Then she found some busywork, putting the glasses in their case and back into the forgotten reaches of her top drawer and setting the scarf by her jewelry box so she wouldn’t forget to bring it back to the neighbor who’d loaned it to her.

  She took hold of the overcoat, planning to put it back up in the attic, where it had been stored. Then she felt the weight of it, of something semi-heavy that was—

  The camera.

  She stopped. Every function in the universe, in fact, seemed to pause while she digested the magnitude of the discovery. She reached into the pocket, found the hard metal shape, and brought it out. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she stared at it as if it were a living, breathing thing. Then the unavoidable question came. The film—what should I do with it?

  A litany of possibilities marched through her mind, none of them palatable. From a financial standpoint, it would likely be worth a small fortune. She had been about thirty feet from the car when the president was struck, and she was certain the quality was above average. But . . . No, she decided. I will not profit from this. Absolutely not.

  Should the film be turned over as evidence? Maybe. . . . Surely there would be a massive investigation. But what about the people pointing to the high window in the book depository? If that really was where the assassin fired from, I never turned the camera in that direction. And even if I had, what good would it do now? Would it bring the president back?

  Realistically, then, there was only one option—keep quiet about it. That was almost certainly the safest choice. Or is it? Had anyone recognized her while she was there? She had friends all over town. She went out for lunch at least twice a week, and she did a fair share of shopping in the area. Some of the people she saw on a regular basis had to be Kennedy supporters. It followed, then, that at least a few of them had also come out to see him. Did they see me, too?

  Of one thing she was absolutely certain—she would never watch the film. There was no reason to relive the experience. Besides, the film had to be developed, which presented an assortment of new problems. Sometimes the people who worked in those labs looked at the things they were developing. They weren’t supposed to, of course, but they did. If some technician saw those images, what were the odds he’d keep his mouth shut? A person in that position might even feel it was his responsibility to say something to the authorities. If that happened, Margaret might be criminally liable for withholding—

  Or . . . what if the film didn’t come out right? What if it got “accidentally” ruined before I even had the chance to develop it? The story came together easily in her mind—I was running with the rest of the crowd immediately after the shooting. I fell down. . . . The camera tumbled out of my hand. . . . It popped open, and the film was exposed. Then she would show the police (or FBI or CIA or whomever) the exposed and ruined roll as proof, and that would be that. They wouldn’t suspect her of anything dubious. Why would they?

  She ran her hand over the camera and found the little ring that opened the protective panel. She sat staring at it for a long time, taking slow, measured breaths. Then she slipped her forefinger into it.

  There was a metallic clunk downstairs—the lock on the front door being opened—followed by the familiar rattle of Ronnie’s keys. The door squealed, and he called out, “Honey? Honey! Where are you?”

  She took a deep breath and slid her finger back out.

  “Margaret? Are you—?”

  “I’m up here, Ronnie.”

  “In the bedroom?”

  “Yes. I’ll be down in a minute.”

  “All right.”

  She gave the Bolex one last look, hoping a decision would come. It did not, and she didn’t want to marinate in the uncertainty for another dreadful minute. Ron would want to talk about the events of the day. That would be followed by hours in front of the television and dozens of phone calls from friends and family. The film could be dealt with later. When, exactly, she didn’t know. Just . . . later.

  She opened her bedroom closet and knelt down to retrieve the Bolex box. She laid the camera carefully inside, set the lid on, then stored the box in a far corner next to a shoe-shine kit.

  The two people responsible for what she did next were her husband and a local blowhard named Ellis Clayton.

  The capture of Lee Harvey Oswald did not sway her one way or another. She never had any doubt the authorities would make an arrest. The fact that the shooter turned out to be some defiant little pip-squeak didn’t shock her as much as it did some people. It’s always a nameless face from the crowd, she thought as she watched him whine to journalists about police brutality and being someone’s patsy. Another nobody with delusions of grandeur. She found his own murder two days later at the hands of nightclub owner Jack Ruby as shocking as the rest of the nation, but more due to the fact that it occurred on live television than anything else.

  The following week, Ron said he wanted to take a break from the media madness in the area and drive out to Granbury, a town southwest of Fort Worth where he’d spent his childhood. Then he added, “Let’s bring the camera, too. I’d like to take some movies that I can watch when I’m feeling homesick.”

  Margaret decided at that moment that the film would be disposed of. Stuffed in the trash—and out of my life forever. The president’s gone; his killer is gone. . . . Why hold on to it?

  What changed her mind was a routine trip to the supermarket the following afternoon. Standing in one of the checkout lanes, yammering to one of the clerks and slowing everyone else down as usual, was Ellis Clayton. Clayton was a retired municipal utilities worker who padded about town in shorts and a tank top. He had a harsh, growling voice that he used as if certain every syllable that fell from his lips was sacred.

  When Margaret first spotted him, she deviated to the only other lane that was open and tried to tune him out. As she unloaded the carriage, however, her attention was drawn by something he was saying about a possible conspiracy in the
assassination—that Oswald might not have acted alone, might in fact have been part of a larger organization—and that new president Lyndon Johnson was ordering a group headed by Chief Justice Earl Warren to look into the matter. Margaret was trembling by the time she reached the car.

  She knew she could still destroy the film if she wished . . . but that option no longer seemed realistic. What if it’s true? What if there really were more people behind the killing? From there her imagination sailed. The Russians? The Cubans? Fidel Castro? Or maybe President Johnson himself? Anyone who paid attention to politics knew Johnson had loathed being vice president. That would make sense, she thought, unaware that she was among the first to dabble in the kind of wild speculation that would occupy much of society for a generation. The fact that he launched the investigation would give him good cover. . . .

  Regardless of who was responsible, of this much she was certain—these kinds of things occurred on a level of society so far removed from her own that it might as well have been part of a different universe. And if the president’s murder had, in fact, been a carefully coordinated effort among multiple parties, then those involved were likely well connected, well funded, and frighteningly powerful. In other words, very, very dangerous.

  The following Monday—the office was closed on Mondays so Lomax could play golf at his country club—she drove all the way to Plano because she’d found a developing lab listed in the yellow pages and, more importantly, because she didn’t know anyone out there. She used a false name and paid in cash, including an extra fee to have the processing done within two hours. She was so nervous when she walked back into the shop that the technician, still wearing his rubber apron, asked if she was feeling all right. She lied, saying she was in the early stages of her first pregnancy and still experiencing the effects of morning sickness. He congratulated her as he handed her the change, the receipt, and the finished film in a brown paper bag. There was nothing in his manner that gave her the slightest impression he had looked at it. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help asking, “Did it come out all right?”

  The tech appeared to be horrified at the suggestion of such unprofessionalism—precisely the reaction Margaret was hoping for. “I wouldn’t look at a customer’s film, ma’am,” he explained, with patience colored ever so slightly by prideful irritation.

  Back home, Margaret made a point of securing the front door not just with the dead bolt but also with the chain. She didn’t expect Ronnie to arrive home from work for a few hours, but if he came early for any reason, she’d be alerted when he had to ring the bell. She would explain that a salesman had come earlier in the day, so she had decided to put the chain on before opening the door and had neglected to remove it.

  She went into the basement pantry, unfolded the stepladder, and slid one of the ceiling tiles aside. She had chosen the pantry because it was dark and cool—ideal for film storage. She never removed the reel from its flat yellow box, nor the box from its brown paper bag. She simply set the whole package up there, then moved the tile back into place. At no point did she feel the need to put the film on the projector they kept in the hall closet upstairs. Seeing John Kennedy murdered once was more than enough.

  After refolding the ladder and wiping the dust from her hands, she whispered a little prayer that she would not have to take the film out of its hiding place for any reason.

  And the Lord would grant this request . . . for a time.

  April 1976

  Margaret opened the basement door and felt around for the light switch. This simple action was not as easy as it had once been, as her diminishing vision made depth perception difficult. Also, abrupt shifts from light to dark gave her instant headaches, often compounding the chronic migraines that already arrived, unannounced, several days a week. Bright sunlight, which she had loved as a child, was the worst. One look into a clear sky at high noon sent knife blades into her eyes.

  She found the switch and flicked it, shielding her face like a frightened animal. Compromised vision and paralyzing migraines weren’t the only manifestations of the hypertension that had become a relentless presence in her life. In spite of being only forty-one, she had acquired obvious streaks of gray in the thick wave of brown hair that had once shimmered with such radiance it earned the envy of many of her girlfriends. And her face, which had retained much of its youthful clarity well into adulthood, now bore the first lines, blemishes, and discolorations that commonly flow in the wake of unyielding anxiety.

  She took the steps cautiously. There was a faintly electric uncertainty to all her movements these days, resulting in a clumsiness previously unknown to her. She had already slipped and gone down this staircase three times, once resulting in a badly sprained ankle and a chipped bone in her right elbow.

  When she reached the bottom, she crossed through the laundry area and went into the pantry. She did not turn on the bulb in here; there was enough light slanting through the ground-level window set high in the corner. Summoning all her willpower, she took the stepladder from its hooks and unfolded it, setting it beneath the ceiling tile in question.

  She sat down on the ladder and took a pack of Parliaments from the breast pocket of her blouse, which was fashionable for the times but fairly wrinkled. Ron didn’t care much for the smoking habit she’d acquired a few years back. She told him she had smoked in college—therefore it wasn’t really a new habit—and that she only indulged occasionally. She was pretty sure he knew she was lying on all counts, even if he didn’t say as much.

  She fumbled with the lighter, eventually got the cigarette going, and reveled in the curling threads of bluish gray. Her thoughts inevitably followed those threads upward, settling on that accursed tile and the even more accursed package that waited behind it.

  She was struck again by the fact that there was actually a point along the timeline when she could go days without the film even entering her mind, when it had become all but forgotten. She had even determined an exact date when this “era” began—September 27, 1964. That was when the Warren Commission released their report to the public stating that Lee Harvey Oswald had been the president’s sole assassin and had not been part of a broader conspiracy. Those who believed otherwise scrutinized the evidence to the subatomic level and volubly protested the commission’s findings. But the eight-man team that produced it—which included future president Gerald Ford—stood their ground, and the lone-gunman theory became a matter of official record.

  Margaret had been so overwhelmed with relief that she broke down in tears and thanked God for his infinite mercy. It’s over—at last. The verdict has been handed down and written into the ledger of history. That’s that. And thus, there was no longer any need to worry about the accursed film. It would never be needed as evidence and could be recategorized as nothing more than a personal curio. A remarkable record of a remarkable moment in history, but nothing that would send shock waves through humanity.

  She had thought again about simply throwing it away but decided instead to keep it as a family heirloom. At some point she’d tell Ron about it—she didn’t know when because it just wasn’t that important—then label the box and put it with all the other reels: the road trip to New Mexico, camping in Arizona, and that wild weekend in New Orleans, where they recaptured the spirited times of their premarital courtship. It was no longer radioactive, and that’s what mattered most.

  Drawing in another lungful of smoke, she moved to the next significant point on that timeline—1969. It was a turnabout year in so many ways, with the needle swinging in a wide arc across the emotional spectrum. On the joyful side, there was Sheila Marie, born on January 15, shortly after midnight. She was pink and plump and perfect in every way, and Margaret could not have been more delighted. Thoughts of the assassination were so distant on that day that it seemed amazing to her, even a little ridiculous, that she had been worried in the first place. The conspiracy crazies still stuck their heads up from time to time, and Margaret would occasionally invest a moment or two t
o listen. But they never came up with anything convincing, so she dismissed them and went on with her happy life.

  Her blissful contentment was shattered just two weeks after Sheila’s birth when New Orleans District Attorney Jim Garrison hauled local businessman Clay Shaw into court in what would prove to be the only prosecution relating to the president’s murder. Garrison accused Shaw of working with both right-wing activists and the CIA to facilitate the killing, but he could not prove his case, and Shaw walked. While conspiracy theorists were disappointed, one aspect of the trial had such a powerful impact that it went all the way to Addison, Texas, and landed in the center of Margaret’s life—for the first time in any public forum, the Zapruder film was shown in its entirety. This “new” evidence reignited the conspiracy frenzy, and Margaret found herself powerless to do anything except tend to the benign hope that the furor would once again die down.

  Instead, Americans began to reconsider their stance on the assassination. To Margaret’s astonishment, the people who had railed for years about the Warren Report being the product of a crooked government trying to cover up a brutally implemented coup now found an eager audience in the general public. New theories were being explored and new technologies utilized in private but well-funded investigations. Reenactments of the shooting were carried out, documentaries produced, and dozens of books and articles published. Some ideas were downright idiotic, but a few others seemed entirely plausible—and from there public interest grew even further.

  It was around this time that Margaret began to think of the assassination not as a historical event but a cancer that had awoken in her life on November 22, 1963. It had gone into remission for a while but was now active again. She also began to realize it had been one of the central governing factors in almost every major decision she had made since that sun-soaked Friday.

  With the cigarette now half-gone, she glanced up briefly at the ceiling and shook her head. In her memory, she reached the most recent segment of this interminable nightmare. It also had a specific launch date—March 6, 1975, just over a year ago—and coincided seamlessly with the decline of her health. That evening, millions watched as two conspiracy theorists, along with host Geraldo Rivera, played the Zapruder film on ABC’s Good Night America. The public’s reaction was immediate and decisive, with renewed demands on the government to finally resolve the question of who really killed John Kennedy. This horrified outrage eventually led to the formation of the United States House Select Committee on Assassinations as well as a small army of neo-conspiratorialists, all of whom dedicated an abundance of time, energy, and money to the examination of virtually every piece of evidence that could be found. No stone went unturned, no theory unstudied, and no witness unquestioned.