The Day John Fitzgerald Kennedy Past: A Sequel to Portrait of Mass Murder

Chapter I

IN THE ATLANTA FEDERAL PRISON

The day I was convicted I went to prison. I did not have to do so, I could have gone home to await the sentencing, and in retrospect, I should have. But I was so angry and embarrassed that I just felt like I should be punished for the damage I had done to my children, most especially my son who was an honored soldier who had served in the Gulf War and came home to become a police officer and while serving his community he was paralyzed in a fall while saving the lid, of a young girl threatening suicide. For his own private reasons, enhanced by my own condition, my son would take his own precious life.

To say that I was sick with depression and hatred and a lack of understanding as to why my life had come to this state, would be a gross understatement.  But that pain was only beginning, as I would soon discover while at Manchester Federal Camp in 2008. To begin with my wife divorced me (after 38 years) without a how-do-you-do as they say...and has not written or spoken to me since 2007. Of course it did not stop her from stealing my identity, running up bills which she failed to pay. But this was typical of her Holly-Go-Litely attitude, the irony was that I knew who she was when I first met her, and I loved her for it…so you gets what you are due!

I was poisoned by a Cambodian PA at Sick-Callwhile at Manchester Federal Prison (because she said that I had killed innocent children). The medication she prescribed caused me to bleed for a period of five (5) weeks until I sued the Bureau of Prisons in a habeas corpus motion seeking medical attention for the condition which caused the loss of fifty-five (55) pounds in less than sixty(60) days.

I was taken to the hospital at Hazard, Kentucky where several kidney stones were removed by a wonderful Indian doctor who saved my life. As a result of my aggressive action to take care of myself, the warden placed me on diesel therapy which is a punitive action the BOP uses against inmates whom they considered to be troublesome.

Shackled hand and feet, placed in a bus and driven ten (10) hours to Atlanta where I was placed in the most draconian, antiquated, notorious prison in the United States with the possible exclusion of Sing Sing, Alcatraz, and Leavenworth (where I would go later).

Worse than the condition of the prison was the brutal manner in which the prison guards treated the inmates. Forcing them to be herded into small rooms with no chairs to wait for hours to be processed which included cavity inspections, verbal and physical abuse with the slightest provocation.

I was so weary, I curled-up by a post and went to sleep on the concrete floor as the other inmates yelled at each other and walked over me. Finally near midnight was rousted by the inmates as we were lined up in single file and marched through the pipe dripping rust and rat infested dungeon somewhere beneath the floor of this archaic federal prison.

I was struck by the amount of noise at this hour but as I was led to my cell, dragging a mattress, blanket, towel, soap, toothbrush and toothpaste, trying to walk in shower shoes that had to be size 14 for my 10 1/2 left me to scooting like I was skating, I got a glimpse of the construction which had an open center with cells around it. There were TV's on each floor controlled by the black trustees who programmed BET and soaps as loud as the sets would permit so that all the blacks on any floor could watch.

On arrival at the cell, the door opened and I was told to step forward...I could not see there were no lights on in the cell.

Can you turn on the light? I asked the guard.

Better ask Ham...he owns this cell the guard responded.

From the corner of the cell there was a grunt...leave the fucking light off!

I stood there hoping to acclimate to the darkness. My eyes took on a new life... I could make out a window with holes in the glass and a wall outside that was twenty-five feet tall with razor wire, there were two iron beds or cots, a wash basin, toilet, small desk and chair.

I drugged the mattress to the bed with nothing on it and placed it on the metal shelf. I put the soap, toothpaste and brush in the towel as a pillow, kicked off the shower shoes and fell into a deep sleep as I heard myself make the comment..." No offense.

THE NEXT DAY

I do not recall dreaming, or moving... I slept as though as I had been gassed and when I woke I thought that I was in Hilarity Hall at the circus...there sat this elderly man...who looked 100, had a huge white beard...and no clothes as he stared at me from the next bed.

Thought you had died pilgrim. He said.

I had a rough twelve hours. I said

Try twenty-four hours, he said You have lost track of time.

Too bad my times not up,

‘Guess the diesel therapy you spoke of in your sleep was like riding a bucking bronco without a saddle? He laughed.

That is a mild understatement...I came out of a life threatening situation at Manchester where a Cambodian nurse tried to poison me, because, you know, I was responsible for the war and ate up all their dogs and rats...so I lost 55 pounds in about 45 days, high fever, vomiting yellow poison and bleeding pure blood for three weeks.

Dammit. He said.

Yeh...would have died if it had not been for an inmate named Joe Bicket from Marion County, who was in for growing weed...told me I had to file a habeas action to get in front of a federal judge.

"So you became the next Perry Mason?

Not quite, but I may be the only guy in America who dropped his pants for a woman judge. I laughed at myself.

The hell you did pilgrim.

"Sure did, and when she saw all that blood she came unglued...started screaming and pointing at the warden...who was also a woman...demanding that she take the stand.

What is this...no don't answer that, I can see what it is and it needs your prompt attention...take this man to the Hazard Hospital today!

So two weeks after this surgery, they place you on diesel therapy to the Gulag?

Pure hatred from those sworn to protect the rights of inmates to medical care from a Country reaching out to protect the oppresses throughout the world who are downtrodden and whose civil rights have been taken from them...makes you want to barf.

You sound like a man with experience.

Oh, I know a thing or two. He said.

I have nothing but time, and don't know when the next coach leaves, I said, Maybe a couple of days or a couple of years...but after seven months in prison, have come to three definitive conclusions which are essential for getting through this nightmare.

#1 would be" He said.

I promise not to say another religious thing to you, since religion is quite the sensitive issue in prison...but you did ask for it...and # 1 has to do with the Lord's prayer that Christ taught us over two thousand years ago which says, Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who have trespassed against us.

So you must forgive everyone who has kicked you in the nuts.

You know...you are half smart.

I'm anxious for #2. He laughed.

I'm going to need this time to come to grips with the heavy depression I'm suffering as a result of the death of my beloved son.

We will come back to that...after #3.

You have to take a huge stretch to understand # 3...In 1959 I was a high school student working a part-time job as the mail boy at Louisville Credit Men’s Association. Around the corner the Democratic Party had its headquarters...Danville Davis; the janitor introduced me to the place as a spot for good eats to draw a crowd. There was a great deal of excitement over a visit by Senator Kennedy, a candidate for the presidency. It was my first vote since I was turning 18. So Danville and I went to the headquarters.

Did you see him?

Not only saw him, I shook his hand!

And you haven't washed your hand since... and that is #3?

I take my Kennedy politics very seriously... you see Kennedy is not only my hero, my mentor...but he is my saint as well and I promised myself that one day I would write a book as a legacy to his memory and my part in it...that hand shake, so that my children and grandchildren will know in 50 years, how important Kennedy was to this Country...and I will not let them forget him.

Well, alright pilgrim, The old man using his best John Wayne...where are you with this mind altering transformation?

I'm not even close...I've only been down less than a year.

Well little partner, you got the talkin’ part done.

I know that one...its Clint Eastwood. So say the magic word, and win $ 100! That would be Groucho...Groucho Marx.

Son, we're going to get along just fine, if you'll accept the advice I want to give you...coming from a man who is seventy-five and has been down for 42 years...most of it in this cell.

I could not believe what I had heard but chose to say nothing...just listened.

"While it is magnanimous of you to forgive those who were responsible for taking your freedom, it’s an exercise in futility... when your Christ said at first...'Forgive them Father, they know not what they do!'

Just remember that was followed by his final words...'Eli, Eli, Lama Sabacthani'The translation please...the old man said pointing to me as through he was the master of ceremonies"

My God, My God. Why hath thou forsaken me? I said.

So you see, even in the most tragic death in the history of mankind, the God made Son chocked on his misery...you can have one way or the other...and it is my belief that at the end of the day you will be just like Christ...cursing those who took their own form of justice...a lynch mob...took you down to the hanging tree to dispense justice...those who conspired against you, destroyed your family, burnt your ranch to the ground, stole all you cattle, killed your son...and took vengeance on you because you refused to wear the blue pin-striped suit and red tie.

42 years. I said (lost on the question)

Yes, for sedition...because I know something about the truth behind the Kennedy murder and the government’s role in it.

But sedition? I asked.

I think Black's Law Dictionary says that sedition is perhaps the very vaguest of all offenses known in the criminal code and is defined as the speaking or writing of words calculated to excite disaffection against the Constitution. He said.

Look, I never ask an inmate about the amount of time they got or about their case,

Well I haven't spoken much to many folks, but you are a different breed of cat...you understand and speak the English language. You know what I mean, Joe?"

No the name is Welby...

They call me Ham, names Merwin Sylvester Hamilton

They shook hands with the inmate fist...just to acknowledge the issue of contamination.

Anyone checking in on these two old geezers would have been struck by how much fun they seemed to be having. Ham Hamilton for his part had spent so much time in this antiquated prison and raised so much hell over the celli assignments that those on high had simply decided to let him have a one man room. In the process Ham had lost many social skills, including personal hygiene.

When the Atlanta prison was originally built it must have been an awesome facility for any student of architecture. The facade is truly inspiring and the design of the atrium, now copied by the most elegant hotel chains, (Hyatt Hotels) comes to mind, set the precedent for the future, 100 years hence.

The prison policy provided one (1) hour for inmates to leave the cell and to perform one of the following: Get fed, get ice and water, use the phone, get reading material, socialize...and last but not least...take a shower.

The design of the showers was an afterthought and had to have been designed by a homosexual staff member because they were designed to face the atrium...like a closet, providing no privacy to undress or dress, additionally there was an ever present film and the odor from a series of long standing farts which had taken residence within the small space to be shared with other unspeakable matter which coated the walls and the floor.

Little wonder that the vast majority of the inmates utilized the sponge bath and avoided the spectacle and dehumanizing emphasis placed on and designed into the shower.

But Ham Hamilton had carried this issue to an extreme, following in the footsteps of the latter day genius and bazaar nature exhibited by Howard Hughes. In fact, Ham Hamilton had become Howard Hughes, and since he lived in darkness and there were no mirrors, Ham felt safe and comfortable within his skin, and regardless of the weekly comments of the inmate population, Hamilton was going to spend his, under his own conditions and to hell with what anyone else thought.

Unlike most incoming cellies, most especially the black population who carried all hygiene to an extreme and had perfected their own sense of standards because they were the majority...I chose not to cause a stir over Ham's appearance and his odor. He had secured disinfectant in a spray bottle and both of us used it on the toilet and sink. I took it upon myself to wash the floor on hands and knees so that the space was close as we could get to clean and the air was reasonably fresh because the glass was broken.

It was in this atmosphere of mutual respect and generational comradely that I was not only able to confirm what I knew about the Kennedy assassination, what was out there in the public domain but through providence I was on a 24/7 co-habitation with the keeper of the clandestine operational methodology employed by the government, principally the CIA to murder the President.

There was only one path for me to take...and when you come to the end of the road which only goes right...take it. I chose to wait Ham out, when he wanted to talk, I was all ears...and note pad.

More importantly, I had begun to develop a respect and warmth for a man who through no fault of his own, was caught in the performance of his duty in the library at the CIA at Langley and his very participation as an American patriot dedicated to his country formed the basis for that very government to indict him for sedition and conspiracy to commit murder.

Like Lee Harvey Oswald, because Ham Hamilton knew the shadow network and the players employed in the scheme initially to bring down the government of Fidel Castro and to salvage the failed effects of the Bay of Pigs, Hamilton refused under his right to testify against himself and the right to remain silent under the Constitutional rights of the Fifth Amendment, when the Warren Commission came calling, those responsible for the operation, found Oswald to be a convenient patsy.

So far Hamilton had told me little, except that there was a conspiracy to overthrow Castro and this accomplished by an attempt on the life of President Kennedy, designed to inflame the government of the United States and the citizens demanding retaliation against the obvious source of this failed assassination attempt by a disaffected and mentally ill Oswald who had been selected and trained to take the fall.

Deep within the shadow of this dark conspiracy, by government operatives rested the flaming question and the chilling answer ostensibly sought by the Warren Commission, Why was it done and who was responsible?

Hamilton had the answer to both questions, even-though every sophisticated spy methodology had been put in place to cover the true identities of the layers of the principles.

Never again in his long life, in this world or the next, would he know the inner power, rising to a clarion call, this secret force of the soul, waiting in the wings to bring down the curtain. Ham Hamilton was to be the Narrator, the Captain of the ship and only upon his command would the ship of state… sail on.

Chapter II

INSIDE LANGLEY

Darian Welch is in a room surrounded by books, the room of documents, the room of theories and dreams. He is in the fourth of five extended contract periods, each lasting for five years. He knows his way around and he often wonders if he is becoming moribund. Age is creeping in, his memory is failing him and there is an issue with his right hand, the hand that is so creative...is it carpal tunnel or something more serious. It is, he believes, an insidious function of his job.

A job that will not permit him to file for disability, even though, he can no longer concentrate on the research and must return often to plowed ground. He wonders over these tended fields that give reason to speculation and compromise on solutions.

Naps become essential... on a sofa, in a chair, even standing at a book shelf. This safe house where he has grown old, only the books, only the walls know that his career is over.

But Welch knows where most everything is in the system; any file on any of the shelves is within his reach. The place is a tornado to the uninformed, cassette tapes, yellow pads are to be found on every shelf. The books for research cover all but one wall, all the tables and even the floor is a solid mass of research. There are confidential documents in file cabinets which go back to the beginning of time for the agency. Fire is a major concern. There is no formal system except for the design of the curator; Merwin Hamilton wakes with a jolt, wondering if he is at home...and if not where is he?

He is terrified now by the enormity of the job...this mill of dynamic aggression has him by the throat and he is chocking in despair. He lies in the research...and the casualty of all of the lives that have been impacted by it.

Welch knows the importance of the curator, his man Merwin Hamilton, whom he calls Bob Crachet...fills his orders. Hamilton, though he is just thirty something has been with the company straight out of college, for about eight years and a lot goes down in that time.

Welch has found that this is a unique man who never forgets and lives for the agency. He is not only dependable but is reconciled over his dedication to returning the precise research request... a man like this makes you look good and Welch knew it.

It wasn't just the proper documents... nor even an obtuse remark or opinion by a marked suspect. The Curator brings him the confidential research that no one outside the company at Langley...research that is so sensitive, including the results of internal investigations and files from the Agencies own Office of Security.

Welch lays back in his Italian leather recliner...the senior analyst for the Central Intelligence Agency reflecting on his extended contract which requires him to write the secret history of the assassination of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy on November 22, 1963.

In just six point nine seconds of the heat and light from three shots from an ancient weapon (call a meeting to analyze the blur) or devote Agency lives to understanding the moment, separating the elements of each crowded second and in the sequence the frame by frame photo of the lives of those in Dilley Plaza on that fateful day.

The team will build theories that gleam like stainless steel from the overpass on Elm, intriguing systems of assumptions. They will follow the bullet trajectories backwards to the lives that occupy the shadows, actual people who moan in their dreams. Elm Street, a woman is crying and wondering why she is sitting on the grass with brains and blood-spray on her new blouse. Tenth Street, a witness leaves her shoes on the hood of a bleeding police officer's car. Strangeness, Welch believes, that is solemn cry of the day.

There is much here that is divine, an aberration in the midst of reality...let us get a hold on this moment in history...Welch knows that his Merwin will make him look good.

He enters a date on his computer, one the agency has provided for the sake of convenience and security and the ease of tracking. The names appear at once with all pertinent detail.

The skies are endless, and the sun provides shade along the street of stately homes caressed by giant oaks. Welch knows that his bonus provided by the company’s primary benefactor, known only by his code name Skipper will serve him well in early retirement.

Chapter III

FOUR CAR GARAGE

This one has a pool and Mother-In-Law suite, where a man named Michael Flynt sat pondering, Mick as he was called, lost to the morning noises descending upon him, a stir of the all familiar...the quilt work of every happy home. The morning paper, with local news folded by newsboys who wrapped the paper with a rubber band and pitched it on the porch.

Mick stirred the coffee and pursed his lips to blow across the top of his china cup, sending the steam toward his Golden Retriever (Finn) who sat on his haunches eager for some command (go capture a platoon, Finn). Mick stirred again, and the large pet wagged his big tail and gazed lovingly at his master, a kind man who loved dogs and little people, and from all appearances he was gentle and tentative...but looks are deceiving.

Today Mick has secrets on his mind and he was wondering why people were consumed by secrets...and what do they mean?

He did not notice as his wife petted Finn and slipped him a doggie biscuit, Mick had something on his mind...so did his wife. Mick did not notice that she had not dressed for breakfast he had to get to his office; the secret he pondered was still there at lunch.

When Mick came home he sat alone outside in his garden continuing to think of the secret. He believed it was the law of nature for men with secrets to be drawn to each other, not because they have a need to gossip, but because they need company of others with secrets... the fellow afflicted. A respite from the other life...and its contrast in living among the ordinary people who do not keep secrets as a profession or duty or a business fixed to one's existence.

Mick knew about the need to draw together, the code of the west to seek mutual solace over the guilt and the depression. That is why he liked it here in the garden, he had time to think...time to become an old man but he did not have time to notice the sounds coming from the master bedroom.

It was not unusual for men in the intelligence service to retire early. A pension plan had been approved by some committee with a statement that this appropriation was necessary because of the dangerous lives led by these dedicated and fearless government employees and the transient nature of the assignments.

But Mick's retirement wasn't exactly voluntary; there was that business in Coral Gables, causing visits to the polygraph machine. And from three levels of specialist he heard the term, Stress Fatigue. Two were CIA staff psychiatrists, the other a cleared contractor in from the outside world...the place Mick Flynn found to be strange and ordinary.

They called it semi-retirement a semantic kindness. They set him up in a teaching post and paid him a retainer to recruit likely students as Junior Officer Trainees. In a college for women, this was a comic thrust even Mick could appreciate in a bitter and self-punishing way...as if he were still on their side...watching himself from a distance.

IS THIS THE WAY OLD SPIES GO AWAY? Do we just begin to spy on ourselves? Battered and beaten into submission at the mercy of our own personal bereavement.

Chapter IV

STRIPPED OF PASSION

Louis Wagner...Sat there...his wife could not help but notice the framework of his former self...all of the attributes and physical appeal which had attracted her to him so many years ago. His certainty, driving with conviction toward any goal delivered to him, a man with a purpose who would not be denied.

She was saddened that this spark was fading now that the company was no longer asking him to lead the research teams or the task forces and most of all the camps where men are honed into fighting machines...she knew that when you take away this juice... and the man is reduced to passion and principle that he would turn into an angry old white guy. He taps out the messages of the past, on technology requiring only the tip of the finger...telegraphing that was no longer valid for a mind in another era.

The two men sat in Mick Flynn's new office now under serious renovation, located in the basement of The Sign of the Bull and Bear a restaurant on Main Street.

The fluorescent lights flickered as George Waters stood momentarily.

You must have a weapon on you? Mick asked. Hell, I have to go hild...that is policy.

I know but the electrician is trying to rewire for new lights.

And you think my piece is preventing that process? Waters said.

I Didn't have the problem before you arrived. Don't be so edgy George; we have a lot to do.

Mick was all business, pleased with the high level of energy over the new assignment providing the opportunity to once again communicate with old spies.

Mick's presence was felt; he was tall and had the demeanor of an officer. He carried himself in a way that demanded respect. He knew his strengths. He had been in Guatemala in 1954 and they had all been together for the Bay of Pigs.

So they put you in a Women's college?

Yeh, I'm teaching world politics...DDP thought that since I was old enough to have actually been there it would be good cover to check out the students who might be influenced to develop an interest in the CIA and world politics.

I see, foreign princesses...the CIA makes them while they are still young and innocent.

Good Lord...why so scenically?

Just a reality check Mick...I know on which side my bread is buttered and we in the spy industry develop certain jaundice."

Listen George, why don't you just say it as you truly feel...that is, that anyone who is not in the company is a liar and a total piece of shit?

Well, yes.

But Mick you must be in awe of your place in the new structure...why you are the inspired narrator...remember what Ms. Jean Brodie said...Give me a child at an impressionable age and she will be mine forever."

Will that give me another tax deduction? They laughed.

Actually this has saved me, and I whisper the name (CIA) when I pray the rosary...who knows perhaps the descendant of the Immaculate Conception, a princess from a developing country...may become its next leader. How cheap would that be from a developmental standpoint?

He sat there approving...He and Wagner had belonged to a strategy group of military analysts and intelligence men. The group was one element in a four stage committee established to confront Castro. There were several different levels with experts coming and going.

Well it could have been more traumatic, at least you are here and still in the game.

Truly, that is a problem and I'd like to be out, but people get trapped.

Of course you know the community would treat you like they treat an immigrant...suspect, are you here to go through my garbage?

What would you do?"

I don't know...maybe start my own shop, you know become a contractor...other ex-politicians have done extremely well at that.

"There aren't many opportunities for people.

And the birds flock to it. The company would perpetuate itself with all its warts and all its exaggerations...when the bride walked; all eyes would be on the dress...copying at least until the boots where on the ground.

The Bay of Pigs changed everything. Mick spent the spring of 1961 traveling between Miami, Washington and Guatemala City to wrap up the business of the company operation. He became the diplomat trying to explain to exiled leaders why it had failed.

A new committee replaced the old faces, and no one was surprised that the old players retained a majority of the seats at the table. The death of Castro was on the lips of the attendees and the blue lagoon swallowed the departing committee members. They simply disappeared and were given missions in other parts of this troubled world...unrelated to Castro.

It was interesting how a market for failure seemed to open doors for opportunity...and that was what this meeting was about.

Sure he knows where we are? He may be here. Mick said. I have an appointment.

Don't worry, you'll make it.

They were in Denton County, just outside Dallas, at a lunch spot near the town square. Mick had coffee though it was well over 100. He thought of his dog Trip and how he chased the evaporation.

They didn't carry on a conversation of small talk; the subject ostensibly was all about Cuba.

They had previously met in Coral Gables just outside Miami, a hotbed for wealthy Cuban immigrants and a place to brief Cuban pilots on their way to Nicaragua. There were five men who could not let go of Cuba...and they were outlaws. There was only one secret that mattered now and that was the Group itself.

They left the cafe' and walked through a pharmacy, Mick purchased some Chap Stick. When they got back to the rental car, they saw a figure seated in the front seat. It was Ray Ray Beltray, a rustler who had a professional reputation with a rifle or a knife and for training exiles in the use of assault weapons and explosives. Neither would be required for the job they had in mind for him, to organize covert operations.

"Well there is a wonderful opportunity in the Middle East and they have plenty of money taken from the United States...and what the hell, I could take a look at the other side, China."

Traitor.

True enough and I know I'd be spoiled meat, the truth is, I know how to teach...business is not my forte.

Don't fret about it, you'll be back.

Working for the CIA is a double edge sword, at times you hate them, and at the moment I love them.

The members of the committee knew that the President they sought to protect from the political fallout connected to another incursion...knowing how badly JFK wanted Castro in a body bag...made it certain the President could not know that his wish was their dirty business."

And they were charged to carry it out. Even where there were deeper furrows...typically political; hence surrounding plans to invade Cuba. The resident knew and had a sense of the promised outcome from the hawks in and out of the hallowed halls of the congress. Regardless, the JA would shield the President. If it failed, the company would kick dirt and then take the poison pill...if it went well the President would take the glory and the company got a bonus in the next appropriation.

Secrets have a way of building their own nest.

Chapter V

THE OLD MAN WAKES

On this day, the morning found Hamilton in a good mood, rested and well fed, he sat on his bunk and continued to share with me the experience as the Curator at Langley for the CIA. Hamilton's job, requiring a read of all documents in order for them to be filed correctly, to be recovered with some efficacy and the look of professionalism.

Michael Flint climbed into the driver’s seat of the rental car, he was smiling about something...it was a secret that he could not share.

Elliott sat in the back behind Flynt to help him with directions. They were waiting for Ray Ray whose arrival would please all since his arrival would give meaning to the meeting. Ray Ray did not bring small talk. He was the cool collected assassin, tough guy the Cuban exiles would follow without question.

When the Cuban invasion failed, the CIA looked for any number of scape goats they had on the payroll...and their investigation had settled on the men in this car, plus a couple of others who were now deceased.

Ray Ray was the only man of the three who refused to sign a reprimand when the secret meetings in Boca Raton which were monitored by CIA security.

Flynt signed the reprimand. Elliott signed the letter and a Quit Claim that he also would volunteer to take a polygraph, which he had failed. Elliott's office at the new headquarters in Virginia was sealed when the investigators discovered evidence that uncovered the depth of his participation in the fraud precipitated by a few insiders.

It seems he was hiring people for the patrol of a major corporation, Westinghouse Security an ever expanding CIA front in Florida that provided cover for the CIA's new wave of operations against Cuba while heading a group that ignores orders to stand down. Then he runs his private operation inside the CIA.

Flynt drove south out of Denton, sparsely inhabited by a few scrub trees; mesquite and abandoned pastures containing a few starving Long Horns eating the bark from the Live Oaks.

Ray Ray seemed detached.

Flynt turned right after crossing an ancient wooden bridge. They were now on a dirt road running along the banks of a creek which was dry and supporting only scorpions, snakes and frogs. Flynt pulled the car alongside a fence on property that was cleaner with Live Oaks and Hickory’s that gave sign of some prosperity. He set the parking brake. Elliott cracked his window and lit a cigarette. The two men in the front sat with their heads tilted slightly but facing forward.

Flynt broke the silence. "When my son, who is now seven, tells me a secret, his hands get to be very busy. He first hugs my neck and then le takes my wrist in both hands to keep me loose. It is his way of keeping my attention. He knows the importance of intimacy when it comes to sharing and keeping a secret.

My son enjoys telling me these things, but what this little guy doesn't realize is that secrets are conspiracies that will not let you go. Unlike other altered states, they reappear in the morning...but for a time they stop the world and I am able to see him.

A segue perhaps defining why you are here, I simple gave you a place and time. You came without comment. You didn't consider the risk to your family, your job that might inure to you by associating with Everett, after what happened at Boca Raton. You are here because you trust me and love me and because we have run the tables more than a few times. Unlike family we have been faithful, watching each other’s back and we all share the need for psychological drama provided by these secrets.

My son is generous with these secrets. Some­times I wish he weren't, because they make me buy into his secret and deprive him of his uniqueness. In a world where most everything is known about you, there is yet to be a methodology developed to read your mind. Although the United States government has some prosecutors who claim they are able to read your mind.

The car was silent.

The invasion of Cuba failed because our President went back on his word to the Cuban exiles. At the last minute, Kennedy withheld his promise to provide air cover to the boots on the beach, and many lives were lost. In Addition, our own leadership here at the CIA didn't examine basic assumptions. They got so caught up in soldering and this caused them to accept the perception of others. This provided a way out, we let the Cubans provide too much tactical leadership and this contributed to poor communication. The CIA saw the writing on the wall and threw in the towel. They knew it was going to fail when Kennedy withheld the air support... support they had given their word on... so they did nothing to avoid capitulation. The CIA went on furlough.

There was pressure from the Cuban families who had lost loved ones on the beaches to mount a second invasion using exiles and mercenaries, as well as volunteers from other island countries. But this was quickly abandoned when no one could figure out what would happen to them once they hit the beach.

You'll remember that was when we were locked in the barracks with the exiled leaders. They all had relatives among the dead, and here our own troops were holding them in armed guard...keeping them from leaving Opa-Locka.

What could I tell these men? That our President turned to jelly...that we fucked them. I felt like Jack-The-Ripper, I wanted to sugar coat the failure...make it memorable or a memorial. The dead marking the tragedy as the waves rolled their bodies, to and fro, like a porch swing. What must they have thought of the most powerful country in the world rolling over as though we sought to escalate the fable that was Castro?

The men sat in stoic silence remembering... and regret.

He continued without interruption from the others. The Freedom from Castro movement must re-emerge. The operations down in the Keys are nothing more than nats on a cow’s ass.

"We must create an event to re-focus on the Cuban problem. We create an event that shocks the world; our Congress and our citizens and rekindles the Cuban refugees’ confidence in the word of the United States. Which, we will follow through-on this time because JFK wants to settle the