Double Play

By Richard Comerford

What if Lee Harvey Oswald had been an agent tasked with infiltrating an assassination plot against JFK? What if he was successful, but a twin plot to murder Vice President Johnson had succeeded?

A spiralling conspiracy apparently succeeds, but two men soon know the truth – they just happen to be in prison.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sea Lion Press
• Release date: Oct 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386082163

Book preview

DOUBLE PLAY

By Richard Comerford

DOUBLE PLAY: A play in Baseball by which two players are put out. Also known as a Twin Killing.

What the eyes see and the ears hear, the mind believes.

– Harry Houdini

FOREWORD

This is a work of fiction, but many of the people depicted really did exist (and some still do), and some of the events happened, although not all exactly as I tell them. However, in that my starting point is long ago – 1960! – please bear with me while I set out briefly what really happened. I know memories fade, and a lot of you were not even born in 1960, 1963 and even 1968, so don’t think I am patronising you. I hope this brief Introduction will help you enjoy what follows.

Caryl Chessman was convicted in 1948 of a series of armed robberies and sex attacks carried out by the so-called Red Light Bandit in Los Angeles. Although not guilty of murder, he was sentenced to death for kidnapping two of the Bandit’s female victims and was executed in the San Quentin gas chamber on Monday, May 2nd, 1960. He had evaded the executioner for – at that time – a record twelve years. On that day, just before the fatal 10am deadline, his lawyers, Rosalie Asher and George Davis, prevailed on Judge Louis Goodman to grant yet another stay of execution. The Judge directed his secretary to call San Quentin, but she misdialled the number. By the time she got through to the prison the procedure had begun and could not be stopped. There was a strong possibility that, before another execution date would come around, Chessman’s death sentences could have been commuted to life imprisonment. Chessman was a best-selling author on Death Row, and did write the first four books attributed to him here.

President John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas on Friday, November 22nd, 1963. The official version was that he was shot from a high building, the Texas School Book Depository, by a disaffected Communist sympathiser and returned defector from the USSR, Lee Harvey Oswald. Oswald then fled and shot a police officer, J.D. Tippit, on the street, before taking refuge in a movie theatre, The Texas Theatre. After a struggle Dallas police arrested him, eighty minutes after the President was shot.

In his possession when he was arrested were two Selective Service cards. One was in the name of Lee Harvey Oswald; the other in the name of Alek James Hidell. Each carried a photograph of the same man.

A rifle was found on the sixth floor of the Book Depository soon after the assassination. Police originally identified it as a German 7.65 Mauser, and this was publicly announced several times by law enforcement officials and the media. Hours later the identification was changed to an Italian 6.5 Mannlicher-Carcano, which was linked to Oswald, as was the Smith & Wesson .38 revolver found on him when arrested.

Oswald was in police custody for two days, during which he strenuously denied both killings, several times on television.

On Sunday, November 24th, in the basement car park of Dallas Police Headquarters, defenceless while handcuffed between two large Dallas detectives, he was marched through a short corridor of newsmen and police officers into the glare of television lights and was shot by Dallas nightclub owner Jack Ruby. The single bullet mortally wounded him, and he died in Parkland Memorial Hospital some 48 hours after President Kennedy passed away there. His murder was captured on live TV.

Ruby was tried, convicted and sentenced to the electric chair. He won a retrial, but died in custody, of an aggressive form of cancer, in 1967. He went to his grave protesting that the truth of the assassination had not been revealed, that he had a story he desperately wanted to tell.

Within days of the three murders, new President Lyndon Johnson established a Commission under Chief Justice Earl Warren. Its aim, amidst fears of an international conspiracy, was to convince the public that Oswald had acted alone and was not part of a conspiracy. The Warren Report, issued in late 1964, so concluded. It found Ruby also had acted alone and that he and Oswald did not know each other.

Reports of multiple Oswalds being seen before the assassination, and of Oswald being known to Ruby, were dismissed for lack of credible evidence.

On June 4th, 1968, Senator Robert F. Kennedy won the California Primary election, which made him a near-certainty to secure the Democratic Party’s Presidential nomination. Minutes after midnight on June 5th he was shot in the pantry of The Ambassador Hotel, Los Angeles. He died 26 hours later. A young Palestinian, Sirhan Bishara Sirhan, was convicted of his murder and sentenced to the gas chamber. A moratorium on executions in 1972 resulted in commutation to life imprisonment. He still resides within the Californian prison system. He claims to have no recollection of the incident. There have been suggestions he may have been hypnotised.

Charles Manson was convicted of orchestrating the 1969 murders in Los Angeles of actress Sharon Tate and six others, including wealthy store-owners Leno and Rosemary LaBianca. These were branded the Tate-LaBianca murders and Manson and three female followers were sentenced to death in 1971. The same moratorium which spared Sirhan saved Manson and he, too, enjoyed California’s hospitality until his death, aged 83, on November 19th, 2017.

Some minor points.

J. Edgar Hoover did not retire, either voluntarily or otherwise, as Director of the FBI. On May 8th, 1964, President Johnson extended his tenure for life, and he died in office.

On September 5th, 1975, Lynette Fromme, a former acolyte of Charles Manson, made an assassination attempt, with a gun, on President Gerald Ford. She failed, and was imprisoned until 2009, when she was granted parole. Ford had succeeded Richard Nixon when Nixon resigned the Presidency in disgrace over Watergate in 1974; otherwise Nixon would have been President when Fromme made her play.

Fromme was known in the Manson Family as Squeaky.

Charles Manson did learn to play guitar from Alvin Creepy Karpis in prison, and he knew Dennis Wilson, the Beach Boys, and music producer Terry Melcher. He hoped Melcher would help to further his musical career. The Beach Boys even recorded one of Charlie’s songs (after a bit of tweaking by Dennis Wilson).

The reference to Lucas McCain is to the rifle-shooting character played by Chuck Connors in the TV series The Rifleman.

Tinker to Evers to Chance, referred to briefly early in the book, is a quote from a 1910 poem entitled Baseball’s Sad Lexicon which sings the praises of the Chicago Cubs’ shortstop (Joe Tinker), second baseman (Johnny Evers) and first baseman (Frank Chance), who formed a legendary and lethal double play combination between 1902 and 1912. The phrase became associated with high-quality teamwork or smooth efficiency generally, but this book’s title refers to what the three Cubs did best – taking out two opponents in one operation.

My reason for this brief summary is that I tried out bits of the book on family and friends, and the most common initial comment was they were not overly familiar with the real events and people I have used to provide a framework for my fiction (one male acquaintance, in his forties, told me he believed John Kennedy had been shot at his inauguration!).

Finally, your patience, please. There is one individual in here who has a number of identities, and what I call him at any one time depends upon with which character(s) he is interacting.

I hope you enjoy.

SAN QUENTIN PENITENTIARY

MONDAY MAY 2nd, 1960

The shrill scream of the telephone shattered the tense silence.

For a moment no-one moved; the witnesses, guards, the Warden – all looked to the black handset on the pale green wall. Only the man strapped to the metal chair, rendered deaf by the thick glass of the chamber’s windows, remained impassive.

The phone rang again, demanding attention.

Warden Fred Dickson reacted first. "For Chrissakes… Hold it! Get that phone!"

Executioner Max Brice removed his hand from the lever which was set to lower twelve cyanide pellets into a pail of hydrochloric acid beneath the chair.

The Associate Warden broke from his paralysis and seized the handset.

Gas Chamber!

Everyone watched as he listened intently, then held the handset out to the Warden.

Stay! he announced.

Get him outta there! shouted Dickson. He snatched the phone as guards spun the locking wheel to open the chamber. Warden! he snapped to the phone.

Warden, this is Celeste Hickey for Judge Louis Goodman. Please hold.

Judge Goodman came on the line as the tie-down team unclipped the stethoscope connection from the condemned man and began to free the restraining straps. The prisoner seemed dazed.

Warden, has the procedure been halted?

Yes, Judge.

I’m granting a stay. One hour.

Dickson sighed. Well, Judge, if it turns out to be just an hour, I don’t think Mr Chessman will thank you too much. I’ll wait to hear. He hung up and went to where the prisoner was being helped from the chamber. It’s an hour, Caryl.

Caryl Chessman fainted.

*

He came to on the mattress in the holding cell, the Ready Room, he had left – how long ago? The Warden sat outside the barred cell front. He offered a pack of cigarettes and a light.

How much of his last hour remained?

There’s fifty three minutes left, said Fred Dickson.

Chessman drew on the cigarette. His hands shook. I don’t wanna do that again. But…

Yeah, I know. What could Dickson say to a man who had lived in the shadow of the gas chamber for twelve years, and had been dragged back from death with seconds to spare?

They sat in silence. Behind the Warden a guard stood and stared at the steel wall and wished this horror would end.

Caryl Chessman lit fresh cigarettes from stubs, again and again. From years of practice, he tried to blank his mind.

He was Caryl Whittier Chessman, AKA The Red Light Bandit. He had been sentenced to multiple life, and two death, sentences for a spate of robberies, sexual crimes and kidnappings, all of which he strenuously denied. Tall, over six feet, at a few days shy of 39, he was muscular, with wavy black hair coming to a widows peak, combed back from a craggy face dominated by a large hooked nose, broken more than once. You would not want to offend him as he studied you with dark brown eyes beneath heavy brows.

Over a ninety-six hour period, in January 1948, a sexual predator and small time thief had prowled the Hollywood Hills, preying on courting couples parked after dark in lonely areas notorious for such trysts. His car was equipped with a crude imitation of a red police spotlight, which made it easy for him to approach his victims. Armed with a .45 automatic pistol, he would steal small amounts, then force the female of the couple into his car, a few feet away. Those few feet constituted kidnapping, and the sexual assaults were felonies, leaving the perpetrator liable to the death sentence.

Chessman, already well known to law enforcement, came to the attention of the LAPD for unconnected, illegal reasons. The more they saw of him, then more they liked him for the Red Light Bandit crimes.

Chessman cried ‘police brutality’ and ‘frame-up’. He pointed out he was not a sex fiend, and nickel-and- dime holdups had never been his style.

He had come to Death Row in 1948, a cocky, street-smart, jail-wise punk kid. He was very bright, with an IQ of 130, but he was too clever for his own good. Scorning legal representation, he had arrogantly defended himself against formidable Deputy District Attorney J. Miller Leavy, and had learned the hard way that he who represents himself has a fool for a client.

On June 25th, 1948, Judge Charles W. Fricke (nicknamed San Quentin Fricke for obvious reasons) sentenced him to death, twice.

He had decided then, as he settled into the Row, that he wanted to survive. He continued to protest his innocence loudly.

From being a thief and hoodlum, on the Row he had become a clever jailhouse lawyer and best-selling author as he scrapped to keep himself out of the gas chamber, the Green Room. His personal testaments, Cell 2455 Death Row, Trial By Ordeal and The Face Of Justice, in addition to a short novel, The Kid Was A Killer, all sold well. While 92 men and one woman made their awful final walk, he secured eight stays of execution over a period of twelve years, far longer than any other condemned prisoner in the United States. Indeed, after six years on Death Row he was setting a new record every day. His last stay had been granted on Friday, February 19th, 1960, for 60 days.

In all this time he refused to admit guilt for the Red Light Bandit crimes, knowing that such an admission was his only route to executive clemency. He demanded exoneration. Failing that, he was prepared to die.

With no further intervention from the courts a new date was set for 10.00am May 2nd, a Monday – a departure from the customary Friday execution days.

His luck had held… until, it seemed, now.

His case, assisted by publication of his books and a talent for self-publicity, had lately attracted international attention, focussing on the unacceptability of keeping a human being under sentence of death, for crimes not involving murder, for so long. High profile supporters included Eleanor Roosevelt, Albert Schweitzer, Aldous Huxley, Ray Bradbury and Marlon Brando. His notoriety as a victim of the State rivalled that of Sacco and Vanzetti and Julius and Ethel Rosenberg.

This was by far the closest he had ever come. It was not unknown for last minute legal manoeuvres to result in a terrible game of cat and mouse, with the condemned man’s fate undecided for minutes, even hours, past the death-time of 10am. Five years earlier Tiger Woman (or Bloody Babs) Barbara Graham had been walked from the Ready Room to the door of the chamber, only to be recalled by the telephone’s cry. After an excruciating wait, she had to take the walk again, but this time the phone remained obstinately mute.

Recalling that day in 1955 gave Chessman no encouragement. No hope.

This is It. Finally. Let’s get it over.

Even just before they kill me the bastards want to torture me some more.

Fuck ‘em.

He would do as he always intended. Take a final drag, walk slowly to the chamber, sit calmly and watch them strap him down and attach the stethoscope. He would thank the Warden and guards and say goodbye. They would not offer him a blindfold (Barbara Graham had asked for one, the only person to die sightless in the gas chamber). When the venetian blinds were opened he would study the faces of the official witnesses.

He had written in one of his books that he would die alone but watched…

At the gentle splash of the cyanide eggs hitting the acid he would inhale deeply, as he had practised.

Then… Oblivion.

You’ll never see Chessman scared.

Forty-five minutes fled by.

Somewhere nearby, in another room, a phone rang. Both men looked up. Dickson glanced at his watch yet again.

Eight minutes left.

The ringing stopped. A muffled voice. Silence.

Chessman’s mind screamed: No more, please. I can’t hold up through that again.

Louis S. Nelson, Associate Warden, entered the hallway outside the cell. Warden…

Say it now, Red, said Dickson. Caryl can take it.

Sixty days.

The agnostic Caryl Chessman sank onto the mattress, gathered himself, smiled. Maybe there is a God. He breathed deeply, then feigned counting on his fingers. Sixty days. Does that mean my next date will be on a Friday, where it should be?

Chess, you amaze me, said a relieved Warden Dickson. Don’t think about it. Let’s get you back upstairs to the Row.

I thought you’d never ask, Fred.

*

Later that day Chessman was visited by his lawyers, Rosalie Asher and George Davis, who had successfully pleaded for his life. They met in the Attorneys’ room, sat around a table which, like their chairs, was bolted to the floor. Caryl Chessman’s hands and ankles were manacled, his handcuffs attached to a chain around his waist. Two guards stood watch at a discreet distance.

You did it again, Guys. Thank you. Again.

George Davis did not look like a man celebrating a victory. His customary calm authority had been replaced by the haunted look of a man who had dodged a bullet…

…or just beaten the Executioner.

You okay, George? You look like I should look!

Rosalie Asher reached across the table to touch Chess’ arm. The guards stiffened, moved a step nearer.

Caryl, she said quietly, we weren’t going to tell you, but the papers have it… She saw the panic cross Chess’ face and smiled, No, don’t worry. There’s nothing wrong with the stay. It’s solid. Sixty days.

What will the papers have then?

Chess, said George Davis. you came closer than you think. When Judge Goodman finally got around to agreeing to a stay it was damn near ten o’clock. My watch could have been a few seconds out. So could his office clock, but it was so close…

Yeah, George, I understand. But it worked out.

It nearly didn’t, said Rosalie. We begged the Judge to call San Quentin from his own phone, but he told his secretary to get the Warden for him.

Sonofabitch, breathed Chess. That’s too fucking – sorry Rosalie – that’s too close.

George Davis blurted out, And she mis-dialled the number!

Chess leaned back. Suddenly he felt worse than he had for those endless, speeding minutes in the holding cell while a faceless Judge miles away decided if he should live or die. He stubbed out his cigarette, lit another.

Fuck! No ‘sorry Rosalie’ this time.

She managed not to panic, and got it right the second time, said Rosalie. And when the sixty day stay was called, George dialled the prison himself from the Judge’s desk.

How close were you, Chess? asked George.

Brice was about to drop the cyanide… Five seconds, maybe… Jeez!

Into the ensuing silence Rosalie Asher tried to introduce a note of levity: Caryl, we’re going to beat this thing this time. Quite apart from what it’s doing to you, I don’t think George can take any more!

*

On June 1st, Justice Homer R. Spence, who had repeatedly voted against clemency for Caryl Chessman, retired from the California Supreme Court and was replaced by Justice Maurice T. Dooling Jr, who was known to be sympathetic to Chessman.

Rosalie Asher and George Davis immediately petitioned the Supreme Court, hoping that Justice Dooling would reverse the previous 4-3 vote against Chessman.

He did.

The death sentences were commuted to life imprisonment without possibility of parole.

*

For once, the irresistible force that was Caryl Chessman was halted.

Rosalie Asher, his rock, prim and proper, small and birdlike, sat across from him and stared in amazement as the strongest person she had ever known crumpled and wept unashamedly.

The guards looked away, embarrassed.

Jesus! This is Caryl Chessman…!

"I can’t believe it… It’s really over?"

Yes, Caryl, it’s really over.

*

Chess moved gratefully into the general population, where he soon took up his legal advice work on behalf of other cons. He never stopped protesting his innocence of the Red Light crimes. He also added to his literary works, writing of his own experiences, and other crime- related matters.

First, while the horror still woke him most nights, gasping for air as the dream hydrocyanic gas burned his lungs, he wrote 5.2.60, an account of that awful Monday