“Now, the issue I’m sure every one of you understands is whether or not the Government has created a fraud, and I call your attention that Mr. Frazier’s explanation of the sound of shots coming from the front, which was heard by eyewitness after eyewitness and after eyewitness [sic] — his explanation is that Lee Oswald created a sonic boom in his firing. Not only did Oswald break all of the world’s records for marksmanship, but he broke the sound barrier as well. And I suggest to you, that if any of you have shot on a firing range, and most of you probably have in the Service — you were shooting rifles in which the bullet traveled faster than the speed of sound, and I ask you to recall if you ever heard a sonic boom. If you remember when you were on the firing line and they would say, “Ready on the left, ready on the right, ready on the firing line, commence firing,” you heard the shots coming from the firing line to the left of you and to the right of you, and if you had heard, as the result of Frazier’s fictional sonic booms, firing coming at you from the pits, you would have had a reaction and you would still remember it. It simply doesn’t exist. It is a part of the fraud, a part of the government fraud, and the best way to make this country the kind of country it is supposed to be is to communicate to the government that no matter how powerful it may be, we do not accept fraud, we do not accept false announcements, we do not accept the concealment of evidence with regard to the murder of President Kennedy.
Who is the most believable — a Richard Randolph Carr seated here in a wheelchair and telling you what he saw and what he heard and how he was told to shut his mouth, or Mr. Frazier with his sonic booms? Do we have to actually reject Mr. Newman and Mrs. Newman and Mr. Carr and Roger Craig, and the testimony of all those honest witnesses — reject that and accept the fraudulent Warren Commission, or else leave the country? I suggest to you that there are other alternatives, and one of them has been put in practice in the last month in the State of Louisiana, and that is to bring out the truth in a proceeding, where attorneys can cross-examine, where the defendant can be confronted by testimony against him, where the rules of evidence are applied, and where a jury of citizens can pass on it, and where there is no government secrecy, where you do not have evidence concealed for 75 years in the name of national security.
All we have in this case are the facts — facts which show that the defendant participated in the conspiracy to kill the President, and that the President was subsequently killed in ambush. The reply of the defense has been the same as the earlier reply of the government in the Warren Commission, has been authority, authority, the President’s seal outside of a volume of the — each volume of the Warren Commission, made necessary because there is nothing inside of these volumes. Men of high position and prestige sitting on a board and announcing the results to you but not telling you what the evidence is, because that has to be hidden for 75 years.
You heard in this courtroom in recent weeks eye-witness after eye-witness after eye-witness, and, above all, you saw an eye-witness which was indifferent to power — the Zapruder film. The lens of the camera is indifferent to power, and it tells you what happened, and that is one of the reasons two hundred million Americans have not seen the Zapruder film. They should have seen it many times. They should know exactly what happened. They should know what you know now. Why hasn’t this come into being if there hasn’t been government fraud? Of course there has. But I am telling you that I think we can do something about it. I think that there are still enough Americans left in this country to make it continue to be America. I think that we can still fight authoritarianism: the government’s insistence on secrecy, the government force used in counter-attacks against an honest inquiry; and when we do that we are not being un-American, we are being American, because it isn’t easy, and you are sticking your neck out in a rather prominent way, but it has to be done, because truth does not come into being automatically. Justice does not happen automatically. Individual men, like the members of my staff here, have to work and fight to make it happen, and individual men like you have to make justice come into being, because otherwise it doesn’t happen. And what I am trying to tell you is that there are forces in America today, unfortunately, which are not in favor of the truth coming out about John Kennedy’s assassination. As long as our government continues to be like that, as long as such forces can get away with these kind of actions, then this is no longer the country in which we were born.
The murder of John Kennedy was probably the most terrible moment in the history of our country. Yet circumstances have placed you in the position where not only have you seen the hidden evidence, but you are actually going to have the opportunity to bring justice into the picture for the first time.
Now, you are here sitting in judgment on Clay Shaw, but you as men represent more than jurors in an ordinary case, because of the victim in this case. You represent, in a sense, the hope of humanity against government power. You represent humanity which yet may triumph over excessive government power, if you will cause it to be so in the course of doing your duty in this case.
I suggest that you “ask not what your country can do for you but what you can do for your country.” What can you do for your country? You can cause justice to happen for the first time in this matter. You can help make our country better by showing that this is still a government of the people; and if you do that, as long as you live nothing will every be more important than that.
Thank you.”
- Closing statements of Jim Garrison, trial of Clay Shaw, March 5, 1967
SADDLE RIVER, NEW JERSEY
SEPTEMBER 21, 2010
Chris didn’t know why he was watching “The Biggest Loser.” The news was on before he stepped out to let Sammy and the others in. The remote was around here somewhere, but he didn’t feel like getting it.
What else would he watch tonight, then? He didn’t usually watch TV tonight. Tonight was supposed to be Ramona’s birthday in Toms River. He could still make it if Victor didn’t call. He hoped he didn’t. Victor was on edge lately and was a real shithead to deal with.
He decided to light up a cigarette. As the first puff of smoke wafted around the room, settling near the oven, his BlackBerry rang on the counter. His head drooped a few inches as he picked it up. An unidentified number starting with 908. Victor.
“Yeah,” he said as he put the phone to his ear.
“Chris, it’s us,” said Victor’s voice. Chris saw Sammy, Bill and Julio in the other room. Sammy was looking for a signal.
“We’re on for tonight?” asked Chris as he waved Sammy over to the driveway.
“Yeah,” said Victor. “We’re on in Glen Rock. You got the address?”
“Yeah,” said Chris, angrily spitting out some smoke. “Glen Rock? Really?”
“It’s 10 fuckin’ minutes,” said Victor. “Don’t start arguin’. We need this done.”
“Why’s that?” said Chris as he got up. The remote was on the counter by the door.
“‘Cause we’re in trouble, that’s why,” said Victor. “They’re talkin’ about the FBI now. We’re not takin’ any chances.”
“It’s paranoid,” said Chris as he turned the TV and lights off. “
“‘Scuse me, but you’re talkin’ about Richie here, okay?”
Chris grunted. He looked out the glass door. They were already in his black Sedan, waiting. Chris checked the end table in the living room. They made sure to bring their heaters.
“Warner’s not gonna talk. He can’t give the cops anything they need,” said Chris.
“Hey idiot, is the address tonight the governor’s mansion?” said Victor. Chris could hear Richie’s laugh in the background. Yeah, real serious-like.
“So who is it then? I only got an address.”
“Someone’s squealing. Someone in– with us. We got two rats, actually. One got away. You take out this one tonight, though, and we should be safe.”
“Who is it?” asked Chris as he locked the door behind him. He started the Sedan remotely with his keys.
“Someone big enough to do damage. Marty Fuscioni.”
“Don’t think I met him,” said Chris as he walked in front of the Sedan. The headlights made his shadow stretch out long down the gravel driveway.
“Who gives a shit. Go there now. Call us when you’re done.”
“Fine, fine,” said Chris. His cigarette was almost done but he wanted to suck the last bit out of it. “Hey, listen one more thing–”
He was interrupted by the explosion behind him, caused by a half-pound of C4 right underneath his Sedan. The car similarly exploded, sending shrapnel into the back of his skull as it flung him onto his face. His phone skittered down the driveway.
The explosion was loud to the man who just stepped out from the bushes at the entrance to the driveway. He had watched from there the three goombas file into the car, counting them carefully when they came in two cars earlier that evening. And of course there was only one guy at home that night. All accounted for.
He was surprised to see the phone, its screen still lit up, lying on the driveway. He picked it up. The number was still onscreen, and as his hearing began to recover, he could hear someone talking on the other end. This was better than he anticipated.
“Hello? Hello?” said the baffled caller.
“Is this Richie Oltramoni?” asked the intruder as he climbed up the driveway, a silenced P2000 in his other hand. He could see the flaming remains of the Sedan, and not much of its former inhabitants.
“Chris? What’s going on?” came the voice.
“I said, is this Richie Oltramonti?” asked the intruder. Chris was lying face-down on the ground. The light from the flames reflected off a growing pool of blood around his head.
“…Who is this? What’s going on?”
“I just lit up some of your made men. I need to speak to Richie Oltramonti,” said the intruder as he lightly kicked Chris. There was no response.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Listen carefully, you stupid guido shit,” growled the intruder as he checked Chris’ pulse. He was alive, a little. “I said I just killed a bunch of your men. Now let me talk to Oltramonti. Very urgent message for him.”
On the other end, Victor was staring at the phone. This couldn’t have been a prank, not after Richie made it clear that all hands had to be on deck. He jogged through Richie’s mansion, following the echoes of the trashy R&B coming from his room. He came to the double-doors, both closed and locked tight. He could hear Richie and his two (or three?) made women behind it, laughing over the music.
He pounded on the doors. “Richie!” he yelled.
It took a few seconds for Richie to realize someone was at the door. “What the fuck is this?” he yelled.
“Richie, I need to talk to you. Something serious just happened,” yelled Victor.
“Are you fucking with me?” said Richie. Victor waited, unsure if he was more alarmed by the mystery man on the phone or Richie being interrupted when he explicitly said he didn’t want to be. He sporadically put the phone to his ear, hearing nothing, but the call was still connected. Thirty seconds later, the doors unlatched, and Richie’s red face popped out into the hallway.
“Richie, the phone, someone… someone’s on–”
Richie snapped it out of his hand. “What the fuck happened?” asked Richie.
“It’s Chris, I think… he’s dead?” said Victor, though he felt stupid for saying that.
“What?” asked Richie as he put the phone to his ear. “Hello? Hello?”
“Richie Oltramonti?” came the voice. The intruder had wandered behind the car, surveying as much as he could through the black pillars of smoke. Half-pound was too much, he thought. A little less next time.
“Who the fuck’s asking?” asked Richie, not recognizing the voice at all.
“Three of your guinea friends are dead, four if the ambulance doesn’t hurry. Let’s make this quick,” said the intruder.
“Hey, is this a joke? This isn’t funny at all you fa–”
“Shut up. Listen, Oltramonti, I know you’re feeling some pressure lately over Warner. I know how you operate when you get threatened. I know you’re going to make a move on anyone prosecuting your pal in office. But I’ve got good news: I only give a shit about Warner. I could care less about your faggot cigarette operation or whatever you’re up to now. So step back and hide. Keep your greasy head down and stay out of this.”
As the intruder spoke, he walked across the backyard, keeping his eyes on a small, white camera stuck up on a post next to a bird feeder. It was looking right at him, and as the security lights lit up as he walked by, he knew it would reveal his masked face.
“You gotta be shittin’ me,” said Richie. “If I find out you attacked my men, I’m gonna fuck you up so bad–”
“Shut up,” said the intruder as he came to a stop a few feet from the camera. “No arguing. I’ve got my eye on you and your joke of an operation. If any of your wiseguys so much as piss in the direction of anyone involved in the case, and I mean anyone, I’m gonna personally visit you. And I know there’s not a fucking thing you’re gonna be able to do about it. That’s all.”
“You dumbshit, I don’t give a fuck who you are, you’re dead, you hear me?” yelled Richie. The intruder didn’t hear a word; he had hung up as soon as he stopped talking. Richie flung Victor’s phone across the hall, sending him scurrying after it.
He stormed over to his dresser, pushing Annelise out of the way. He never liked her or her fucking laugh anyway.
“What’s the matter, babe?” asked Maria as she helped Annelise up.
“Everyone, get the fuck outta here now!” roared Richie. “Don’t pick up your shit, I don’t care if you have to walk home naked, get the fuck out now!”
The three women evacuated at once, leaving their shit all over his bed. He’d toss it out the window later. First, he took his phone from his drawer. He called up Paolo, out in Brooklyn.
After five rings, Paolo picked up. “Oltramonti. Why are you–”
“Shut up, Paul,” he said. “I’m calling in my favor, right now. Call up your man in Messina. I need the best guy they got.”
Paolo didn’t respond for two seconds, way too long a wait for Richie. “I said call up Messina! This is dead fucking serious, do you hear me? If I don’t hear from them in 10 minutes, I’m gonna fuckin’ slit your throat, you hear me?”
* * *
Back in Saddle River, with the crackling of the flames dying down in the distance, the intruder stared right at the lens of the camera. He stood up on his toes to get his face as close to it as possible. “Remember what I said, Richie,” he muttered before bashing the camera with a ceramic pot.
Sirens now, from just over the hills. He still had plenty of time to escape. He patted himself down once more, making sure everyone was still on him, before he scaled the fence and dropped down into the brush. He made extra sure to pat his breast pocket, where Chris’ phone was. He never planned on an operation going this well.
