Category: Essays

October 13th, 2009

Evan Freed Affidavit

1. I, Evan Phillip Freed, declare as follows:

I am an attorney at law, duly licensed to practice in this State.

During the Presidential Campaign of 1968, I was a full time college student at California State University, and was also working part-time as a photographer for Copley News Service and the Culver City Star News.  In that capacity, I was assigned to travel with and cover the Robert Kennedy Presidential campaign.

I traveled on Senator Kennedy’s plane, along with other members of the news media, through California and Oregon.  I spent time speaking to Senator Kennedy and his wife, and had no difficulty gaining excellent camera advantage to document the events taking place.

On the evening of the 1968 California primary, I was present at the Ambassador Hotel in a room directly adjacent to Senator Kennedy’s.  We had been awaiting election results.  Eventually the Senator and his staff left to go downstairs to the Embassy Room to deliver a victory speech.  I accompanied the Senator on the elevator, and entered an area of the Embassy Room set aside for press photographers.

During the Senator’s speech, a scuffle broke out where I was standing among several news photographers, and I was hit in the face with a large newsreel camera.  My camera was also broken in the scuffle, and I decided to go to a quiet area to attempt repairs.  I immediately went into the Embassy Room pantry area, arriving there about 5 minutes prior to the end of the Senator’s speech.

Nothing in the pantry area seemed unusual, however, I do recall the following.  Two men who looked very similar in appearance and clothing were moving about the pantry area.  One man was wearing lighter clothing than the other, and he was holding a drink glass in his hand.  The 2nd man was standing near the south wall of the pantry, directly across from a large metal serving table.  The men never stood together, however, they appeared to be looking at each other from time-to-time.  I did not pay particular attention to the 2nd man, although I do recall thinking that he was the other man’s brother.  I assumed that they were in the pantry to avoid the large crowd in the Embassy Room.

At one point, the man with the drink asked me how long the Senator’s speech would last, and I told him I did not know.  He also asked hotel kitchen employees in the pantry where he could get some ice for his drink, and they directed him to an ice machine next to the door leading into the Embassy Room.  The man with the drink was Sirhan Sirhan.

When the Senator entered the pantry, he was followed by a crowd of reporters and guests.  I was standing at the entrance to the pantry, and walked along the Senator’s right side until he paused near the metal serving table inside the pantry.  There appeared to be some confusion at that time with some persons telling the Senator to go back up the freight elevator, and others telling him to go into an adjacent room (I believe the California Room) where the press were waiting.  I assumed he would go to meet the press, and I took a few steps in front of him.  I was facing the Senator’s right side at that time, about 4 feet away.  It was at this time that shooting began.

I saw the 2nd man (wearing the darker clothing) who had been in the pantry with Sirhan during the speech pointing a gun in an upward angle at the Senator.  Based on the sound I heard, I believe the first shot came from this man’s gun.  In the background, about 6-8 feet from me, I could see Sirhan firing a revolver held in his right hand in the direction of the Senator.  People in the crowd were screaming and grabbing Sirhan, and I remember they were holding his arm as he was shooting.  I cannot say how many shots were fired by Sirhan or by the second gunman.

As the crowd rushed towards Sirhan, they passed by the 2nd gunman.  He was backing away, towards the east end of the pantry.  I was shoved by the surge of the crowd back against the south wall of the pantry, where I was alone next to another door that exited into the Embassy Room.

At that time, I observed the 2nd gunman running in my direction.  He was not holding a gun at that time.  Another man was running behind him in the same direction yelling at me, “Stop that guy, stop him.”  There was no one else other than the 2nd gunman that he could have been yelling at.  This took place just as I was opening the door to the Embassy Room to get some help.

As the 2nd gunman came to the door, the man pursuing him yelled to me again, “Get him, get it!”  As the 2nd gunman passed through the door, the man pursuing him tried to grab him but failed.  Both men ran into the Embassy Room.  The 2nd gunman ran directly out the east doors of the Embassy Room.  The man running after him almost fell as he came through the pantry doors, and he continued running in the same direction as the second gunman.  I never saw either of these men again.

I went back into the pantry, and soon realized I could be of little help.  I tried preventing people from entering the room, and hotel staff soon took over that task.  I then went back upstairs to the Senator’s room, speaking briefly with Milton Berle, one of the few people who had stayed behind when the Senator had gone downstairs.

I place a couple of phone calls from the room to my family to advise them that I was not injured in the shooting.  I assumed they had been watching the events on live television.  I then returned to the pantry, where I gave my name, address and phone number to an LAPD officer who had arrived at the scene.  I then left the Ambassador Hotel, eventually going home.

It was not until several weeks later that I was contacted by LAPD to give a statement.  My recollection is that over a month went by until I was asked to come to Parker Center to speak to detectives investigating the case.  I met with several LAPD detectives, and told them what I have stated above.  They asked me to look through photographs taken in the Embassy Room the night of the shooting, and to point myself out.  After doing this, I was asked whether or not the man pursuing the 2nd gunman could have been yelling, “Get an ambulance” or “Get a doctor.”  I told them that was not correct, but they insisted I had been incorrect in what I heard.  Although I have a description of the man who pursued the 2nd gunman, I was never asked to look for him in photos, or otherwise produce a drawing of him.  I made it very clear that the 2nd gunman look very much like Sirhan, except that his clothing was darker in color and coordinated.

At the end of my interview, the detectives asked me to send them all my photographs I had taken of the Senator.  They said they wanted to try to locate Sirhan in the crowds.  They promised to return the negatives to me, however, they never did, insisting they had been mixed up with all the others.

I was eventually contacted by the FBI, who interviewed me at my home.  They asked me specific questions, mainly about Sirhan.  They seemed to be avoiding asking me questions about the 2nd gunman, although I told them the same things I have stated above.

Other than a news crew sent to my home by Baxter Ward (Channel 9 News) several years later, I have never spoken to the press about these events.  I have never desired publicity in this matter, and I have no opinion as to who fired the shot or shots that killed Senator Kennedy.  My purpose in making these statements now is to help insure that a fair investigation is conducted in this case.

I declare under penalty of perjury that the foregoing is true and correct.  Executed this 13th day of May, 1992, at Los Angeles, California.



October 11th, 2009

Sirhan Trial Testimony

Q.                  Now then do you remember asking anybody where you could get coffee?

Sirhan         I don’t remember – I could have – but I don’t remember, although I found some coffee, sir.

Q.                  When you say you found some coffee was there something that you saw?

Sirhan         Yes, sir, there was a big urn (gesturing).

Q.                  You are indicating about three and a half feet in width?

Sirhan         Yes, sir, it was a very big one.

Q.                  What color was it?

Sirhan         It was shiny.  I don’t know what color it was.

Q.                  Like silver?

Sirhan         Yes, sir, probably.

Q.                  Were there coffee cups around it?

Sirhan         There were piles and piles of saucer cups and saucers.

Q.                  No mirrors?

Sirhan         There were no mirrors there.

Q.                  Did you see any people there?

Sirhan         I don’t remember, sir.  I was so glad to have found the coffee that that was the only thing on my mind, sir.

Q.                  Did somebody pour you a cup of coffee?

Sirhan         No, as I was pouring my own coffee some girl came up and said that she wanted some coffee too, and I like my coffee with cream and sugar, lots of cream, and that’s exactly the way she liked it.

Q.                  Did that surprise you?

Sirhan         Well, I thought I was the only one that liked too much cream in his coffee.  So I gave her the cup that I had meant for myself and poured myself another cup.

Q.                  Was that girl alone or was there someone with her?

Sirhan         I don’t remember exactly, sir.

Q.                  Do you have any idea approximately how old she was?

Sirhan         About my age.

Q.                  A good looking girl?

Sirhan         Beautiful.

Q.                  Did you engage her in conversation?

Sirhan         As long as the coffee was being served I told her how I would like to drink some coffee too.

Q.                  How much coffee did you have, if you recall?

Sirhan         I don’t remember, sir, how much.

Q.                  What happened next?

Sirhan         I don’t remember.

Q.                  What was the next thing you did?

Sirhan         The next thing I remember, sir, I was being choked.

Q.                  Do you remember anything between the time you had the coffee, anything?

Sirhan         No, sir.  No, I don’t remember.

Q.                  Now, you have heard the testimony in here of at least a dozen witnesses I suppose?

Sirhan         Yes.

Q.                  That you were standing in the pantry?

Sirhan         That is what I later learned in this court, sir.

Q.                  Well, you learned it before that?

Sirhan         Yes, I did, Mr. Parsons, that is.

Q.                  That you walked up to Senator Kennedy and put a gun toward his head, possibly within an inch or two and you pulled the trigger and he eventually died?

Sirhan         Yes.  I was told this.

Q.                  Now, you believe it is true?

Sirhan         Obviously, sir.

Q.                  Now after you were choked, you remember being choked?

Sirhan         I was choked, yes, quite severely.

Q.                  Do you remember the people who were choking you?

Sirhan         No, I don’t even know.

Q.                  As you were being choked it hurt you?

Sirhan         I don’t know who was doing the choking but he was doing a good job at it.

Q.                  What do you next remember?

Sirhan         I remember getting to the car, the police car, and one of the policemen pulling my hair and jerking my head backwards and putting a light for a long time in my eyes.

Q.                  Let me ask you this.  Did you know in the early morning hours, that is after midnight of the 4th and the early morning hours of the 5th of June, that you had shot Senator Robert Kennedy?

Sirhan         No, sir, I did not.

Q.                  When was the first time that you remembered that you were accused of shooting Senator Robert Kennedy?

Sirhan         When this Mr. Jordan, and this is the only man that I remember, because of his name, Jordan; that he took me to his courtroom and I was in front of a lady Judge.  I remember that.  I couldn’t believe it, sir.

Q.                  Now, let me ask you this, Sirhan.  You have told this jury that when you came to the Ambassador Hotel that night you didn’t come there with any intention of shooting Kennedy, is that right?

Sirhan         That is correct, sir.

Q.                  You don’t remember shooting him?

Sirhan         I don’t remember shooting him.

October 10th, 2009

Sirhan Blog

Sirhan Sirhan

I went to a play in West Hollywood with my friend Rachel Menowitz.  She is a nice Jewish girl who hates Jesus but at least I don’t have to dumb down my vocabulary when on a date.  We have an unspoken détente.  She doesn’t insist I wear one of those Beanie and Cecil hats and I don’t try to convert her to Christianity.

The play was a one-man show called “The Awful Grace of God:  A Portrait of Robert Kennedy.”  I was mesmerized.  The actor, Jack Holmes, was so talented.  The writing, directing, lighting and sound was outstanding.  I was stunned walking out of the theater.  One thing was clear.  R.F.K’s story had not been told.  I’m not talking about his life which was covered brilliantly by the theater production.  I’m talking about his death.  His assassination.  I was aware of Mkultra and its significance with Sirhan and that Richard Helms used it to murder Robert Kennedy.  But I didn’t have the specifics.  My expertise was the JFK assassination not Robert Kennedy’s murder.  A short while later I ventured down to the Los Angeles Public Library.  I found a 1,500 page LAPD Summary Report of the Robert Kennedy assassination in the Rare Books section.  I wrote down my own summaries of their summaries.  I also ran into fellow researcher and author Jim Di Eugenio at the library.  I expressed pleasant surprise that the library had two copies of my book, JFK vs. CIA and told him about the hard copy of the LAPD Summary Report in Rare Books.

Next I traveled up to Sacramento and visited the California State Archives.  The Archives has considerable amount of RFK Assassination material.  I read the trial transcript, another version of the LAPD Summary Report this time with names included, made the poor staff wheel out all 1,500 remaining photographs of the case and viewed what film the Archives had.  Most important, I listened to several taped interviews LAPD recorded.  What sold me was the 4:00 a.m. Vince Di Pierro interview of June 5, 1968.  The tape is crystal clear.  The detectives at Rampart Station begin with, “So what can you tell us about this?”  Keeping in  mind it is only four hours after the shooting Vince begins his tale.  A part-time waiter and full time college student, Vince received a telephone call from his father, an assistant Maitre d’ at the hotel, to come down and meet Robert Kennedy.  Vince arrived after 11:00 p.m. and was put to work.  He started out guarding a door that leads from the pantry to the Embassy Room.  After Kennedy finished his victory speech Vince escorted RFK back through the double doors returning to the pantry.

Vince told the detectives of seeing a man further down the pantry standing on a tray stacker with a beautiful girl behind him.  She was sort of holding the man on the tray rack and the two were smiling at each other.  Vince said they had the same sick smile.  The girl was well built, 21, shoulder length brown hair and was wearing a white dress with black polka dots.  The man was Sirhan Sirhan.  The girl in the polka dot dress said something to Sirhan and he turned to look at Kennedy entering the pantry.  At this time Vince also turned toward Kennedy watching as he shook hands with the kitchen help.  Suddenly, the man Vince saw standing on the tray rack was now in front of Kennedy pointing a gun and firing at the Senator.  The detectives asked Vince if the girl had moved with the suspect and Vince said no, the girl had remained at the tray stacker.  So the polka dot dress girl that LAPD in their Summary Report tried so hard to dismiss as non-existent really exists.  What else exists?  I was hooked and not a bit happy.  Doing the research that is entailed isn’t so much like James Bond although it has its moments, but rather like George Smiley from “Smiley’s People.”  Meticulous.  Every sentence and every word evaluated and analyzed.  Dozens of notebooks to be filled.  Lists of suspects to be compiled.  Twenty seven microfilm reels to be read.  I dreaded it.  One obsession per lifetime should be enough.  Now two.

But it was the only way.  Robert Kennedy was expecting me to do the work.  Roll up my sleeves.  Get to work.  I could almost hear his voice.  Sirhan needed me to do it as well.  Forty years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit.  I knew by comparing the autopsy report with the LAPD witness interview reports that Sirhan did not kill Bobby Kennedy.  Sirhan was always in front of and several feet away from Kennedy according to the eye witnesses.  On the other hand, the autopsy had a gun pointed behind Senator Kennedy’s right ear and being fired from one inch away.  Two other shots with the barrel of the gun pressed against Kennedy’s back coat were also reported.  Not Sirhan’s doing.  But if not Sirhan, who?  How?  The answers would be in those twenty seven micro film reels.

Returning to L.A. I began to study in earnest.  Becoming a fixture at the Central Library I started plowing through the material.  Arrest reports, broadcasts and teletypes, evidence files, investigators’ notes, tape summaries, case prep, 4,700 interview reports.  This was going to take a while.  In the meantime I started sending evidence material to Sirhan which proved he was innocent.  Sabrina Johnson who handles media questions for Corcoran State Prison where Sirhan is incarcerated, called and left me a message.  My correspondence would be given to Sirhan.  Great, I thought.  Although Sirhan is not allowed to write or have contact with anyone other than immediate family or his lawyer at least he would be able to receive my packets and come to realize his innocence.  I also realized the CIA would be reading everything I sent him and could follow my investigation in real time.  They would know what I was figuring out while I was figuring it out.  CIA wants to know if I’m clever enough to figure out how they did it and want this knowledge before I turn it into another book.  I surprised them with JFK vs CIA and they’re going to make sure there isn’t a second surprise.  We’ll see.

As I poured through the LAPD documents I was continually reminded of the agony that Sirhan’s mother went through.  What pain.  What horror.  You’re at work and someone notifies you that your son is in custody suspected of having shot Robert Kennedy.  Shock.  Disbelief.  Then the trial.  Next, the years of visiting your son in prison.  The anguish.  I needed to speak to Mary Sirhan.  I knew she would be quite elderly if alive but if she was still living I wanted to look in her eyes and tell her, “Your son did not kill Robert Kennedy.”

With this in mind I drove out to Pasadena.  Locating the Sirhan residence I drove by the house.  It looked lonely.  So this is where it all happened.  Sirhan used to walk out that door.  It was only a few blocks to his job at John Weidner’s health food store.  Mr. Weidner had given the job to Sirhan as a favor to Mary Sirhan whom he knew from church.  I had this address as well and drove over to what had been Organic Pasadena.  Another business now occupied the space and being a weekend it was empty.  I put my hands to the window peering in trying to picture Sirhan bustling about filling orders as Weidner barked his gruff, insensitive commands.  The two did not get along and after one final argument Sirhan quit on the spot demanding a final pay check.  The cops were called and a female employee speaking in Sirhan’s defense to the Pasadena Police then quit on the spot as well.  What a girl!  Whatever happened to her?

I got in my car and drove back over to the lonely house.  Was Mary Sirhan still alive?  Was the family still there?  What about the pink and white 1957 De Soto Sirhan used to drive.  I parked across the street and noticed a man and a teenage boy getting into a vehicle parked in the driveway behind the house.  I gingerly walked up to the car not wanting to get shot and asked the man sitting in the driver’s seat with the window rolled down if this was the Sirhan residence.  The man, looking over his left shoulder, asked, “Are you Calder?”  I said, “Yeah.”  “Just a minute,” he said parking the car down the driveway closer to the street.  Getting out of the car he walked towards me, shook my hand and said, “I’m Munir, Sirhan’s brother.  Sirhan said to work with you and give you anything you want.  This never happens.  He seems to be very impressed with you.”

For the next three hours we stood on the lawn and porch talking, me asking questions, Munir answering.  “What about the purchase of the gun?  Any strange telephone calls to trigger Sirhan?  Any girlfriends of Sirhan?”  Munir seemed a little stunned by my recall of minutia of the case.  He smiled when I asked about the pink and white De Soto while glancing back at the garage.  “That car was always breaking down.  Sirhan was always fixing it.  We sold it.”  I could tell this was going to be the start of a beautiful relationship.

October 9th, 2009

Michael Ironside

“She must be beautiful,” he said.  I looked up at the voice at the other end of the bar.  “You’re mixing your drinks,” he explained.  He was right.  She was beautiful.  The type of beauty you have to use all of your concentration not to stare at.  She was Eurasian, this mixed with that.  Whatever she was it came out magically.  We met a few days before and agreed to later meet at Dan Tana’s.  “You’re Michael Ironcloud,” I ventured.  “Ironside,” he corrected, “and it’s Scot not Indian.”  I had seen him in a low budget film a year before at the World Theater way down on Hollywood Boulevard.  Back then you could see three films for a handful of change as long as you could stand the niggers shouting back at the screen.  I thought, what is this talented actor doing in this piece of crap and I now told the actor in person my observation.  He smiled, picked up his drink and moved to the bar stool next to mine.  “I wrote a forty page biography for that character,” he said.  This is an actor technique.  Write a bio on your character and it may translate on the screen in a better performance.  After the film was released a top Hollywood agent called him in Canada inviting him to Hollywood and guaranteeing him work.  Nice.  I live in L.A. and can’t get in to see any agent.  It does appear you have to be asked to the dance.

The next few hours are a blur as the two of us spent the afternoon getting plastered.  I remember thinking I was glad Princess stood me up.  Guys talk differently when it’s just us as opposed to when there is a honey in our midst.  I remember we drew up a list of the women we most wanted to have sex with.  He laughed when he saw the name topping my list.  Vanity.  He knew her up in Canada.  Little did I know as my life sped by I would be fortunate to run into my dream girl on three separate occasions.

October 8th, 2009

Paul Schrade

I got a call from Marian Teeter.  She is the mother of Lawrence Teeter, Sirhan’s long time attorney.  Apparently Munir Sirhan, the brother of Sirhan Sirhan, called her checking me out.  Fortunately Marian had recently inquired of a local librarian if there were any JFK assassination books she could recommend.  The librarian recommended my book, JFK vs CIA.  Thank God somebody is recommending it.  Marian was effusively laudatory about my book and it was gratifying to know what I was trying to communicate to the reader actually connected.  Interestingly the last two months I had been tracking down Lawrence Teeter visiting law office addresses I found on the Internet.  It wasn’t until meeting Munir that I learned Larry had passed away.  Marian Teeter was quite pleased I was researching the case reading the complete LAPD investigation files.  She welcomed me aboard, gave me an update on the case as well as Paul Schrade’s phone number and told me to give him a call.  This was a break.  Paul Schrade was one person I wanted to interview.  He was the union man standing behind RFK when Sirhan fired his weapon.  Paul was hit in the forehead and went down knocked unconscious.

I knew from the autopsy of Kennedy that an unidentified gunman standing behind the senator fired point blank into the back of Kennedy’s head with two more shots entering the senator’s back.  But knowing this and proving it are two different things.  I need to identify or at least prove that such a gunman exists.

Since Paul was directly behind the senator coming into the pantry perhaps he saw someone slip between himself and Kennedy just before all hell broke loose.

I was also suspicious of one Jerry Bruno, the advance man.  Someone had set Kennedy up by bringing him into the kill zone.  Sirhan is waiting for Kennedy in the pantry as well as the mysterious girl in the polka dot dress.  The LAPD documents also inadvertently identify a support team backing up Sirhan as well as the actual gunman who shot Kennedy in the back of the head.  This group are not waiting in the pantry by accident.  Ten minutes before as Kennedy entered the pantry on his way to give his victory speech the pantry was empty except for a few kitchen workers.  This tidy group of traitors were ushered in while Kennedy was on stage.  What arose my suspicion is when coming to Jerry Bruno’s LAPD investigation interview report all that it says is “no interview.”  No interview!  How could that possibly be.  The Los Angeles Police Department interviewed 4,700 individuals but was not interested in interviewing the one person most responsible for Kennedy’s movements at the hotel that night.  Bullshit!  I checked the JFK Presidential Library for Jerry Bruno documents.  Apparently every little thing Jerry Bruno did for the Kennedy brothers as the advance man is in the files except for one glaring omission.  April, May and June of 1968 are missing from the Jerry Bruno papers.  These are the very months covering the Robert Kennedy campaign for the Presidency.  Where are the records?  Why are they missing?  Did some agency read them and realize they implicated Jerry Bruno in Kennedy’s murder and had them removed?  I spoke to a librarian at the JFK Presidential Library and he had no answer why April, May and June of 1968 were missing from the Bruno papers.  Now I was doubly suspicious.  Also, Jerry Bruno was President Kennedy’s advance man and responsible for the trip to Dallas including planning the motorcade route.  Could Jerry Bruno have set up the murders of both Kennedy brothers?  A month after my inquiry I went back into the JFK Library web site.  Now a notice was up saying all of the Jerry Bruno papers were off limits.  My suspicion of Bruno’s involvement was tripled.  Anyone getting nervous at Langley?  It’s just beginning brother.

I have a photo of Jerry Bruno and want Paul to ID the photo and ask him if he saw Bruno at the hotel that night and most important – when.  According to Jerry Bruno’s own account in his book, “The Advance Man,” he was on a 10:00 p.m. flight out of LAX heading back east.  RFK was shot shortly after midnight.  I’m betting Jerry Bruno never made that flight.  I’m betting Jerry Bruno remained at the hotel making sure Kennedy was directed back through the pantry and to his death.  I need at least two eye witnesses to verify Jerry Bruno’s presence at the hotel close to midnight.  Maybe Paul can tell me.  I called Paul and made an appointment.

As I drove up into the Hollywood Hills winding along Mulholland I felt like a plebian visiting a Roman senator at his palatial estate.  Maybe I should ask Paul if he can get me into the union.  I’d like to live in the Hollywood Hills in a forest surrounded by white people.  Sign me up.  As soon as I parked in the driveway up a short hill I thought about putting the car in reverse and parking on the street.  I have a ’96 Hyundai Accent and although I’m not ashamed of the car I drive I am a little ashamed of having so little so late in life.  Isn’t not having anything a sign of lack of character?  As an ex girlfriend used to periodically remind me, “You don’t have anything.”  I guess not.  Yet how is getting rich by screwing every person you ever met character.  I got out of the car.  Better to be thought of as poor than crazy and poor.

Handsome, tall Paul Schrade greeted me at the door.  Welcoming me into his home we went over to the kitchen table.  Remodeling was going on and Mr. Schrade made me feel at home.  I gave him a copy of my book, JFK vs CIA and told him I was reading the complete LAPD investigation files of the Robert Kennedy assassination.  He identified the photo of Jerry Bruno and I asked him if he remembered seeing Bruno at the hotel that night.  He wasn’t sure.

In another photo Paul pointed himself out on stage as Kennedy was giving his victory speech and living his final minutes.  Paul didn’t exit out the back door of the stage with Kennedy, stepping down instead to his left and meeting up with RFK as they both approached the double doors leading into the pantry.  So he couldn’t tell me who met Kennedy backstage in the passageway after the speech.  It is here Kennedy’s fate is sealed.  Someone Kennedy trusted informed him of the change in plans agreed to twenty minutes earlier in the Fifth Floor suite and redirected him toward his death.  I need to identify who met Kennedy backstage.

As they entered the pantry Paul noticed the several television cables that had been laid on the floor in order to cover the evening’s events.  He told me he felt a shock and thought it was from stepping on the cables.  He fell to the ground unconscious.  In reality, Paul had been struck in the forehead by a bullet and knocked to the floor.  The fact that Paul is 6’ 4” and Sirhan 5’ 2: makes me wonder if Sirhan was actually trying to hit Senator Kennedy.  In order to hit Paul in the forehead Sirhan would have had to aim quite above RFK’s head even taking consideration distance.

I asked Paul if he saw anyone slip between himself and Kennedy anytime after emerging into the pantry.  He said no.  He was directly behind the senator pointedly staring at the back of his jacket so as not to lose him in the crowd.  There was no one between him and Senator Kennedy.  If accurate then the gunman slipped behind the senator as Paul was falling unconscious.

I thanked Paul for graciously having me into his home and giving me his time.  It’s not every day that one gets to meet someone who is a part of history.  Details were now being filled in by Paul Schrade and Munir Sirhan in a way second hand analysis can never do.  Yet I still don’t have my second shooter nor do I have the traitor responsible for setting Kennedy’s trap.  Perhaps the answers lay in a careful reading of the microfilm reels of the LAPD investigation files of the Robert Kennedy assassination.

October 7th, 2009

Veronica Hart

On my way to L.A. after starring in a community theater production of “Lovers and Other Strangers” in South Lake Tahoe, I decided on a stop over in Las Vegas.  Why not spend the summer months in Vegas and see what mischief I could get into before taking Hollywood by storm.  I was 22, good looking, ambitious, talented with a sense of entitlement.  I was the perfect budding actor.  In the Las Vegas newspaper I saw an advertisement for a “Brecht” play at the University.  Sitting in the small theater I watched the play thinking I could do better.  When it ended I thought, so that’s “Brecht.”  Overrated.  As the theater audience lined up to leave I noticed a quite lovely girl, well built, standing fascinatingly alone.  A quiet boldness separate from her beauty made her special.  I had to speak to her or forever regret my cowardice.  I don’t remember what I said to her but we ended up at a restaurant.  Her name was Jane Hamilton and what an aristocratic sounding name I thought.  While dining I noticed a painting of a bare breasted young woman on the wall next to our table.  It looked very much like the girl I was sitting with.  Dare I ask?  I didn’t.  If she said the painting was of her I’d spend the rest of the evening staring at the breasts in the painting and then back at her sitting across from me.  Not cool.  She’s the one who picked the restaurant and the table so I had to play cool in whatever kind of game she was testing me.

We ended back at my apartment and she said she wanted me to remember her so she wouldn’t screw me but instead do something special so I would remember her.  She did and I remember.

As the years passed I kept expecting to run into Jane in Hollywood.  Hollywood is after all a small town and as a Dramatic Arts Major she would be leaving for L.A. after graduation.  Certainly I would meet her at a party or an actor’s workshop or in a play or at an audition.  I never did.

It was only recently that I learned famed porn actress Veronica Hart was aka Jane Hamilton.  I guess she did make it to Hollywood.  And I have to find out now?

October 6th, 2009

Frank Burns, Jr.

Frank Burns, Jr. was a friend of Robert Kennedy and was on stage when Kennedy gave his victory speech.  Mr. Burns was also standing next to Kennedy in the pantry when the senator was shot.  I had some questions for him.  When I called to arrange an interview he was most reluctant.  Everything he has to say has been said and is in the record.  I told him I was actually interested in showing him a few photos and then leave.  All I needed was ten minutes.  He said I could have five.  I already have what Frank Burns, Jr. said on the record.  What I need is off the record.  Did he see Jerry Bruno, the advance man, in the audience or in the wings during the victory speech?  Who is the person on stage that said, “This way senator” and redirected Kennedy toward the rear door of the stage separating RFK from his security people?

The official story is staff in the fifth floor suites with Kennedy decided after giving his speech Kennedy would leave the stage to his right and go down a stairwell to the Ambassador Room and address the overflow of supporters.  Afterwards, it was off to a private party at “The Factory,” a nightclub co-owned by Pierre Salinger.  Fred Dutton takes credit for changing the plan while Kennedy was speaking and instead have Kennedy taken back through the pantry.  I don’t think so.

Certainly the original plan set sometime before election night by CIA was to place the assassination team in the pantry while Kennedy was giving his anticipated victory speech and bring Kennedy to them.  We know this because on election night when Kennedy entered the pantry Sirhan, the mysterious polka dot dress girl, the second gunman and actual assassin as well as a CIA support team are waiting for him.  The polka dot dress girl is the trigger to put Sirhan under deep mkultra/amnesia, poor Sirhan will be firing at RFK as a diversion and take the rap, the professional assassin will pop Kennedy in the back of the head at point blank range and the CIA support team will provide security for the shooter and hustle him out of the pantry.  This brilliant plan to murder Kennedy is thwarted when Kennedy staffers not part of the conspiracy decide on their own plan.  The new plan means Kennedy will miss entirely the waiting assassination team.  The improvised plan at the last moment almost saved his life.  But one cool head on the floor of the Embassy Room prevailed.  My thinking is that one of the advance men, Jerry Bruno if he’s there, an underling if he’s not, learned during the speech of the new plan and ordered Fred Dutton to disregard it and take Kennedy immediately back through the pantry.  My educated guess is Jerry Bruno was the CIA’s inside man and perhaps others on the advance team as well.  Traitors.

But I have no proof.  It’s just theory.  Theory and a dollar will get me a cup of coffee.

There is also the problem of blond boy.  When reviewing the 1500 remaining photographs of the LAPD investigation at the California State Archives in Sacramento, I paid attention to anomalies.  What doesn’t fit?  Just prior to Kennedy’s entrance blond boy is seen standing on stage.  What draws attention to blond boy is the dark sunglasses.  This would be fine if it were Hawaii on the beach, in the afternoon.  But the time is midnight and it’s indoors.  The only reason for sunglasses is if you don’t want to be recognized.  Even if someone takes your photograph if your eyes can’t be seen you can always say, “It wasn’t me.”  In another photograph as Kennedy is approaching the lectern, blond boy is seen frantically elbowing his way off the stage.  Everyone else is trying to get on the stage and be close to Kennedy.  Only blond boy is making a bee line off the stage.  What’s the matter, camera shy?  Blond boy is a good looking young man about 26, physically fit, wearing a turtleneck sweater and jacket.  Then in motion picture film taken by a camera crew on stage with Kennedy blond boy magically re-appears on stage as Kennedy is being led to the rear door of the stage.  He is over Kennedy’s shoulder and seems to be stalking him with each step.  It’s as though blond boy’s job is to make sure Kennedy does not go off to his right but instead follows direction and leave through the back exit door off the stage.  In yet another film I’ve studied as RFK exits the rear door of the stage, blond boy stops at the door, turns around facing the Embassy Room crowd, hangs his head down and slowly walks off to his right.  Yeah, blond boy knows what is about to happen.

But, can Frank Burns, Jr. help me with any of this?  As I’m driving down La Brea in Hollywood to my appointment with Mr. Burns I thought of all the times I’ve driven this street never knowing Frank Burns, Jr. lives off of it.  Of course I never heard of Frank Burns, Jr. until this past year but you get the point.  How many secrets lay hidden in houses scattered all over Los Angeles.  I also thought why me?  Why the hell can’t I just get a job selling insurance and enjoy my life like everyone else.  Have a mortgage, a couple of kids, an occasional affair.  Damn.  This is dangerous.

I arrived at Mr. Burns house and parked a few doors down.  This way I can hide my Hyundai Accent.  No need for anyone to know I’m a broke mofo.  As a female friend commented to one of her friends and I wasn’t suppose to hear, “He doesn’t have a pot to piss in.”

In L.A. any man after a certain age who doesn’t have a house, a BMW, real estate, a quarter million dollars in the market, is seen as being defective.  Something didn’t click in at the appropriate time.  A diseased gene perhaps.  A loser gene that compels letting every good break that comes your way slip through your fingers.  Whatever.

Mr. Burns identified the photograph of Jerry Bruno.  He saw him that night but doesn’t remember when.  I showed him the photos of the blond boy.  He studied them and then let me know why he was a lawyer his entire professional life.  Detail.  Mr. Burns pointed out blond boy was wearing the pass/ID on his coat that gained one admittance to the Embassy Room.  I had missed that.  Mr. Burns related to me that after the speech Kennedy left the stage going the wrong way as agreed upon upstairs.  Burns had to almost run to catch up with him and did so in the pantry.  He was waiting for a pause in a conversation Kennedy was having with someone and was going to tell him, “Look pal, you’re going the wrong way.  We’re suppose to be going the opposite direction.”  At that moment he felt a blast close to his face.  He saw a gun pointing at Kennedy and he grabbed the waist of the gunman.  It was Sirhan.  Burns said they danced around for what seemed a long time and eventually Sirhan was pushed against a metal table.

From the LAPD interviews I knew that Karl Uecker, an assistant maitre d’, was leading Kennedy through the pantry and grabbed Sirhan’s gun arm after the second shot pushing it away from pointing at Kennedy, the gun continuing to discharge.  Edward Minassian, a few feet in front of Karl, charged smashing into Sirhan.  Now I had information that Frank Burns, Jr. also had a hold of Sirhan.  I asked Mr. Burns if he noticed anyone standing behind Kennedy just prior to or during the shooting.  “An elephant could have been standing behind Bob and I wouldn’t have noticed.  My concentration was on Sirhan.”

We re-enacted the shooting with Burns having me play the part of Robert Kennedy.  He stood a couple of feet to the right of me and we went over the shooting in detail.  Now I had a terrific feel for how the shooting went down.  Six months before I spent two days filming a bit part in a movie at the Ambassador Hotel.  On the second day of filming I arrived well before my call time and used the time to find the Embassy Room and pantry.  Security had seen me filming the day before so I had carte blanche to look around as far as my nerve would take me.

The carpet of the Embassy Room was dank and musty.  I followed RFK’s route to the large double doors leading to the pantry.  So these are the famous double doors I’ve read so much about.  A chain locked the doors so I had to go around.  I found the Coconut Grove nightclub and knew the kitchen must be behind it.  The nightclub was “dressed” for the movie and as I passed through I imagined Clark Gable and Errol Flynn sitting at the tables on a night out on the town.  I entered the kitchen and then the pantry.  How small.  Big enough to change history though.  I first went to the double doors and peeked through the chain into the Embassy Room where I had just been.  I turned and walked a few steps to where Kennedy stood when he was shot.  I was trying to set measurements in my mind.  I looked forward to where Sirhan was on the tray stacker just past the machine on the right.  The ice machine was still there after all this time giving me an excellent reference point.  Sirhan had only been ten to fifteen feet in front of Kennedy.  One of the three metal tables in front and to the left of Kennedy also remained.  I placed the many witnesses whose LAPD reports I’ve read so I could see what they saw that night.  Two things became clear.  One, several of the witnesses could have taken a step or two in and touched the second gunman firing at Kennedy from behind.  And two, all of them had to have seen the second gunman shoot Kennedy.

Hotel employees Martin Patrusky, Juan Romero and Jesus Perez lined up to Kennedy’s left had a perfect view of the shooter.  They are only a few feet from Kennedy and hence the shooter with nothing blocking their view.  Boris Yaro, Valerie Shulte, Thane Caesar and Richard Lubic are behind and slightly to the right of the senator and also would have seen the man behind Kennedy shooting.  Evan Freed standing slightly forward and to Kennedy’s right did see the second shooter and said so in his affidavit.  If anyone had been hard to see it would have been Sirhan.  At 5’ 2” the view of Sirhan would have been blocked by Karl Uecker and Frank Burns, Jr.  But these witnesses all had an unimpeded view of the second gunman.

After finishing the re-enactment Mr. Burns walked toward me his eyes blazing.  “Sirhan did not kill Bob,” he said.  Elaborating he told me the autopsy placed a gun one inch from behind Kennedy’s head while Sirhan never got closer than a foot or two and was in front of Bob.  “When I testified at the trial no one, not the prosecutor or the defense, asked me about distance.”

As I left Mr. Burns to his painful memories I went away admiring his courage.  To tell the truth puts him at great risk of CIA retribution.  “Sirhan did not kill Bob.”  Coming from a man who was standing next to Kennedy when he was shot makes him a target.  And a hero.

October 5th, 2009

Chuck Norris

I’m on stage with Chuck Norris doing an improvisation.  Estelle Harman, our acting coach, likes to throw different personalities together and watch the fireworks.  Chuck is accusing me of stealing his wallet and insists I show him the wallet in my pocket.  I hand him my wallet and he looks in it and says, “It isn’t mine – there’s no money in it.”  Great.  Now every actress/model in class knows I’m broke.  We continue with the improv and as the two of us reach a boiling point Estelle calls, “Cut.”  Saved from an ass whipping by Chuck Norris.  As we got to know each other I learned his story.  I knew he was a karate champion because I had seen his “Chuck Norris Karate Studios” around town.  He told me he was not very good at sports growing up but in the Air Force while in Korea he started taking karate classes.  It was through sheer will power he became a karate champion.

One night while riding up in a hotel elevator he encountered Bruce Lee.  They knew each other by reputation.  Getting out on the same floor they showed each other their respective techniques.  One thing led to another and as I remember Chuck told me the two of them spent the early hours of the morning in the hallway sparring.  When Bruce Lee became famous after “Enter the Dragon” he needed a worthy adversary for his next film, “Return of the Dragon,” and asked Chuck to play his nemesis.  This was Chuck’s introduction to acting.  When Bruce Lee died Chuck felt there was a vacuum he could fill hence he was in acting class.

One day he called and asked me to join him.  He was screening a movie he had made for some investors and would pick me up at my apartment in Hollywood.  I jumped into his Cadillac Seville and we sped off to the screening room he had rented.  The film was called “Breaker Breaker” and Chuck played a karate kicking truck driver.  Every time he would do a karate scene I would hear the investors go ooh and ahh.  In one scene Chuck jumps up and kicks in the windshield of a truck striking the bad guy.  The investors went nuts.  The film ended and the money men left with Chuck thanking each one for coming.  After they left he told me he made the film for $50,000 with the director doubling as the cameraman.  Investors didn’t believe him when he told them he made the film for $50,000 so he started telling potential investors the film was made for $500,000.  That seemed to put everyone at ease.

Chuck was the only person in Hollywood to ever make a phone call on my behalf and get me an audition.  Years later I called over to the house in Palos Verdes and asked him to read a Texas Ranger script I could recommend, written by a friend, Hal Harris.  He liked the script but because he had recently done a film about a Texas Ranger he would have to pass.  This was and is Chuck Norris – All American.

October 4th, 2009

Vince di Pierro











Q Let’s start off with your name first of all, okay?


A. Okay, Vincent Di Pierro.

Q. How do you spell the last name?

A. D-I capital P-i-e-r-r-o.

Q. Do you have a middle name, Vincent?

A. Thomas.

Q. Thomas, okay, what’s the address where you live?

A. 1635 South Beverly Glen.

Q. Beverly Glen?

A. Right.

Q. And this is in what city?

A. Los Angeles.

Q. All right, was the girl with him?

A. It looked as though, yes.

Q. What makes you say that?

A. Well, she was following him.

Q. Where did she follow him from?

A. From – she was standing behind the tray stand because she was up next to him on – behind, and she was holding on to the other end of the tray table and she – like – it looked like as if she was almost holding him.

Q. Did you see him get off the tray stand?

A. Yes, I did.

Q. And then he walked towards the Senator?

A. Yes.

Q. This girl, —

A. She stayed there.

Q. At the tray stand?

A. Right.  I glanced over once in a while.  She was good looking so I looked at her.

Q. What is it in your mind that makes you think they were together, the fact that they were standing together?

A. No, no, he turned when he was on the tray stand once and he had the same stupid smile on, you know, and then he kind of turned and said something.  I don’t know what he said.


Q. You did see him speak to her?

A. He turned as though he did say something, whether he said anything –

Q. Did she move her mouth like she was speaking to him?

A. No, she just smiled.

Q. But in other words, he was looking towards, say, the Senator?

A. Yes.  He was holding on up here and there was another pole behind him, where she was holding on and he turned like this, as though to say something, and whether his lips moved or not I couldn’t see that.

Q. And it was after he turned and she smiled?

A. She smiled.

Q. And would it seem to you that she smiled at something that had been said?

A. Yeah, or –

Q. Or that she was smiling because the Senator was walking towards her?

A. No, when she first entered she looked as though she was sick also.

Q. All right, this girl, what nationality would you say she was?  Any idea at all?’

A. No, all I know is she was white.

Q. She was white; Caucasian?

A. Yes, a Caucasian girl.

Q. What is the youngest this girl could be?

A. 21, 20 or 21.

Q. At least 20 or 21?

A. Yes.

Q. Would you have no question about serving her a drink in a bar?

A. Oh no, no.

Q. She was definitely of age?

A. Yes.

Q. What is the oldest you think she was?

A. I don’t know, about 24.

Q. All right, how tall was this girl?

A. I really couldn’t determine because I only saw her in the dining room.  I never seen, see her standing on the ground.

Q. In relation to the fellow who was standing on the tray thing that we discussed, that was four inches above the ground, where was her head in relation to his body; were they about the same height at that time or –

A. You could say approximately.

Q. Well, when they turned to talk to her –

A. They were almost eye level.

Q. They were almost eye level at that time?

A. But, you see, with the tray stand you would never know how it’s balanced.  I don’t know whether one end was higher because the way it is now, it’s central, it’s not equalized.

Q. So, you couldn’t really –

A. You can’t really judge, no.

Q. How about her build, could you see it?

A. Oh yeah.

Q. “Oh yeah,” what does that mean?

A. Very shapely.

Q. She wasn’t skinny, she wasn’t fat?

A. No.

Q. What was this girl wearing?

A. She had a white dress with – it looked like either black or dark violet polka dots on it and kind of a bively (phonetic) like collar.

Q. A what kind of collar?

A. A thing that goes around like that.  I don’t know what they call it.


Q. Pretty greasy looking?

A. You could go out – you couldn’t go to the Coconut Grove with it, you know, but it was a nice dress to dress up in, a nice dress.


Q. How about this girl’s hair, what color was it?

A. Brown I would say, a brunette.

Q. Your hair is brown?

A. Yes.

Q. Lighter or darker than yours?

A. A little darker than mine.

Q. Was it long or short or what?

A. I would say about to here, not much longer.

Q. Just above the shoulders?

A. Just above the shoulders kind of –


Q. To her neck?

A. Yes, about the neck, maybe just a little longer, I don’t know.


Q. Was it straight or curly?

A. One side was a little puffed up a little.

Q. Did you see anyone else with this girl, that you recall?

A. Not that I recall.  Those were the only two people I saw on the tray stand.

October 3rd, 2009

Frank Merritt

Mr. Merritt was a security guard at the Ambassador Hotel on June 5, 1968.  He was assigned to the main doors of the Embassy Room when a woman ran out of the serving pantry and yelled, “My God, we need a doctor.  Kennedy’s been killed.” Merritt stated that he drew his gun and ran into the pantry in time to see two men struggling with Sirhan.  He phoned the police and for an ambulance.  He stated that when he first entered the pantry, he observed two men and a woman walking away from him and out of the kitchen.  They seemed to be smiling.  He added that the woman was wearing a polka dot dress.

October 2nd, 2009

Charlton Heston

I auditioned for a play in West Hollywood at Thad Taylor’s Globe Theater.  Mr. Taylor built the theater to resemble the famous Globe Theatre in London to house his beloved Shakespeare productions.  I previously saw a production of Cyrano de Bergerac with DeVeren Bookwalter as Cyrano at the Globe.  He was terrific though the greatest portrayal of Cyrano I ever saw was Peter Donat’s Cyrano with the American Conservatory Theatre in San Francisco.  Mr. Donat has spoiled me for anyone else to ever do that role.  Incredibly, the critics love Jose Ferrer as Cyrano in the film version but I just don’t get it.  Ferrer’s portrayal is wooden, humorless, sexless.  There is a line near the end of the play that haunts me.  Paraphrasing Cyrano, “I have failed at everything, even my own death.”  A fitting epitaph for my own tombstone.

The director cast me giving me two bit parts.  My first role calls to run on stage, kneel, and inform the king the queen is dead.  My second role is one of two assassins sent to dispatch the king at the end of the play.  One night the buzz backstage was Charleton Heston was in the audience.  The energy of the actors electrified as each one of us determined to give the performance of a lifetime.  I peaked through the curtains looking out at the audience.  Jesus!  Or should I say Moses.  Charleton Heston was sitting in the front row.  Mind you, this was an equity waiver theater seating a limited number of patrons with the audience close to the stage.  Now I had another worry.  As the assassin I come towards the king and swing my sword barely missing his head as he ducks under the sword.  If struck by the sword the actor will be injured and bleed all over the stage so the trick is to come close enough to look real but not so close as to shut down production.  Now my added worry, don’t hit Charleton Heston with the sword.  Don’t hit Charleton Heston with the sword I kept repeating to myself as the curtain rose on this night’s performance.

When my first scene came I rushed onto the stage to inform the king his wife had died.  I milked it for all its worth.  Kneeling in torment, I could hardly say the words.  The king kept looking at me as if to say, “Come on kid, spit it out.”  Finally I said my line.  I doubt if Shakespeare wrote the scene to include such a long pause but Shakespeare wasn’t in the audience that night, Charleton Heston was.

When the play was over I was surprised to see Charleton Heston backstage.  He made it a point to shake each actor’s hand, mine included.  As the actors changed out of their costumes and into their street clothes and departed the theater, I glanced over my shoulder on the way out and saw Charleton Heston sitting with the actor who played the king.  Together, alone, they were discussing the psychology of Richard II and how to play him.  Years later when Michael Moore sprung his unfair trap on Mr. Heston who was suffering from dementia, I wished Michael Moore could have stood next to me that night witnessing two actors, one rich and famous, the other not, sharing equal billing on the stage of life.

October 1st, 2009


I’m at a record store on Hollywood Blvd.  I see a poster of some new group, Vanity 6.  Never heard of them.  But it’s the girl in the middle of the photo that draws my attention.  Young, beautiful, mulatto, long hair, dressed in a man’s suit, staring right back at you, challenging you to say something.  “Who dat?” I wondered.  Within a month I heard a song on the radio about a “Nasty Girl.”  It was Vanity 6.  As time goes by I learn that Prince is set to film “Purple Rain” but Vanity won’t be in it.  They had a falling out and Prince banished her from his realm.  I thought too bad because what a way to launch her film career.  Shortly afterwards in the Century City Shopping Center, at the top of one of the escalators leading down to the parking level, I met Vanity.  The beautiful girl full of energy and fun was with a female friend as I said to her, “You look like Vanity.”  She said, “I am Vanity.”  As the three of us continued down the escalator I told her she should kiss and make up with Prince in order to do the film and after filming then break up with the little guy.  She thanked me for my advice and as I got to the level where my car was parked I parted company with the divine Miss V.

Much time passed and as I was walking down Avenue of the Stars a white Jaguar pulls over to the side.  The driver motions me to come over.  She asked me if I knew where 20th Century Fox was.  It was Vanity.  I reminded her we met once before at the Century City Shopping Center and I told her she should make up with Prince and do “Purple Rain.”  She remembered the conversation and told me at the time she thought I was a manager.  I gave her directions to Fox which was only a few blocks away and wished her luck on her audition.  I noticed that she was drunk.  Not exactly the state you want to be in when trying to make an impression on casting directors or producers.  I had previously seen her perform on “Soul Train” singing and acting out a song about a gorilla and knew she was drunk during the performance.  I silently wished her luck a second time.

The years flew by.  I watched as Vanity crashed and burned.  My heart went out to her.  This didn’t have to happen.  One Saturday I got a call from my buddy Karsten Kastelan, the German Simon Templar.  Karsten was staying in the guest house of Rosemary Belden, an ex-pat in Studio City.  He was having a barbeque later that day and invited me over.  As late afternoon approached I drove over the hill into the Valley.  I found Rosemary’s house and went in the side entrance as instructed.  As I emerged into the backyard a voice called out to me, “Mike, come here.”  Charles Norton, a director friend standing just inside Karsten’s guest house with a phone in his hand waved me over.  If you have every seen the “Gilligan’s Island” episode with the crazed chimpanzee running amok, he directed that episode, a classic Gilligan’s.  “This is Vanity.  Give her directions to the house.”  I took the phone and asked her where she was coming from.  Long pause.  Okay.  “Do you know where Laurel Canyon and Ventura meet?” I asked.  “Yes,” she said.  I then gave her more exact directions to the house.

As daylight turned to dusk I periodically walked out to the front of the house to meet and guide Vanity to the festivities.  On the second time I turned away from the street just as a car pulled up.  Vanity hopped out and the car sped away.  I motioned for her to follow me and we walked through the side entrance emerging into the backyard.  She was still beautiful.  Great figure.  Full of energy and adventure as on the first day I met her.  I led Vanity to Charles so she would be with someone she knew.  I left to wake up Karsten.  It was his party but he was dead drunk in his bed in a comatose state.  I pushed on him and yelled at him to get up.  Without opening his eyes he said he just needed a little bit of sleep.  Brilliant boy wonder and acerbic film critic, handsome as Thor, didn’t he understand he was supposed to get drunk at the party not before.  When I returned outside Vanity of course was the center of attention surrounded by her court of male admirers.  As everyone started to sit down at a table I moved next to her with Charles on the other side.  One of her new slaves offered to get her a plate of barbeque.  Charles offered her a glass of wine which she accepted.  I was surprised.  I had read that years of drinking and drugs damaged her kidneys and now my dream girl was on dialysis.  It sure didn’t affect her looks.  Still beautiful as ever.  Still Vanity.  Charles mentioned to her that I had met her previously.  She turned to me inquisitively.  I related the stories of Century City Shopping Center and giving her directions on Avenue of the Stars.  She said she didn’t remember.  Great.  Now in front of Charles and anyone else who was listening I was either a liar or insane.  I joked to save myself, “Or so I say.”  Vanity repeated it, “Or so he says.”  We both started laughing.  As the night went on we talked about her life and career.  “I don’t know if I’m Vanity or Denise Matthews,” she said quietly.  Interesting.

Finally, Karsten makes his appearance.  Cleaned up and still half crocked he sat down next to Vanity.  I introduced them to each other.  He was pleasantly surprised to meet the famous and equally beautiful Vanity.  They got along famously, his boyish European charm winning her over.  She smiled at him knowing he was smashed to the gills but still able to carry on an intelligent conversation.  It takes one to know one I guess.  A week later when I asked Karsten how he enjoyed flirting with Vanity he was shocked.  He had no memory of meeting her or of any of the events that night.  He said he started drinking earlier in the day and never stopped.  I informed him he was very charming and Vanity kept smiling at him.  The poster boy for Hitler youth was grateful to hear that.

September 20th, 2009


I’m rolling into Dallas.  Having written JFK vs CIA I’m finally visiting the scene of the crime.  Seeing the Texas School Book Depository looming large in the distance is thrilling.  Too bad the murder of a president is the source of this excitement.  There is a parking lot above Elm Street overlooking Dealey Plaza and I park my car.  I take the tour of the 6th Floor Museum glancing at the “Sniper’s Nest” but what interests me more is where the rifle was found.  Walking the length of the floor I realize that was quite a walk for the person who actually fired from the sniper’s nest.  Anxious to do the real tour I walked out of the building and into Dealey Plaza.  There is the tower that Lee Bowers was a top when the shooting occurred.  As the railroad switchman he had a commanding view of the Plaza.  I could see the vehicles he spoke of with out of state license plates slowly moving in front of the tower shortly before the president’s motorcade arrived.  One vehicle had a Goldwater bumper sticker and Mr. Bowers saw a driver speaking into a radio microphone.  He also spoke of two men on top of the grassy knoll twenty minutes before the shooting watching as it made its way down Main Street.  Asked by the Warren Commission if the two men were at the same location when the shots were fired he answered, no.  The younger man in the plaid shirt was in the bushes and the older man in the suit was standing alone next to the bushes.  He implied the man in the bushes was firing at the president.  Lee Bowers died a couple of years after his testimony in a one car traffic accident.  My own speculation is the man in the suit may be Jack Ruby.  A man named James Files claims to be the shooter and when asked what he was wearing that day he said, “a plaid shirt.”  Interesting.

Of course I went behind the fence atop the grassy knoll.  My assumption was this is where the fatal shot came from.  I was incorrect.  Looking from the fence to where the president’s vehicle was when JFK was hit with the head shot, the angle is all wrong.  A shot coming from the fence at that time would have hit the president in the side of the head knocking him left directly into Jackie.  This is not what occurs.  I have a copy of the Zapruder film.  Running the film in slow motion the president facing forward is hit in the head with the head snapping back followed by his body lifted out of the seat and driven backwards.  The momentum backwards doesn’t stop until he collides with the back seat.  He then bounces off the back seat landing on the floor of the vehicle.  The last shot clearly came from the front and not the right side.  I made a mental note to come back at midnight and stand on this spot when traffic was intermittent and determine where the shot had to come from.  The answer pointed to the overpass but how could spectators miss men firing from their position?

I left the fence area and crossed Elm Street to a park area that was to the left of the president as he was approaching the overpass.  I want to see Jean Hill’s view as the president was being shot.  Jean Hill, a school teacher, was in Dealey Plaza waving at the president as he approached her location.  Wearing a red coat she is noticeable in film of the assassination.  Standing to the left of the president’s vehicle just as he was struck by the fatal bullet, Miss Hill told the Warren Commission the shot came from across the street.  She crossed the street and ran up the hill in pursuit of the shooter.  At a fence on top of the hill next to the overpass, she was halted by a tall, thin man in a suit who identified himself as a secret service agent.  There were no secret service agents on foot in Dealey Plaza.  She also identified Jack Ruby moving rapidly along the ridge line at the top of the hill.

As I was visualizing what Jean Hill saw that day a man tapped me on the shoulder.  He asked if I would help with some photos and measurements he was taking.  His name is James Fetzer and I knew him by reputation as an outstanding assassination researcher.  We started talking.  He has a theory the fatal shot came from the left front near the overpass.  At least we both understood the shot didn’t come from the fence to Kennedy’s right.  After positioning me and taking several photos James needed to buy more film.  I accompanied him to a nearby store. As we were walking I mentioned I sure would like to visit Jack Ruby’s Club.  As I said this he pointed out we were walking passed where Jack’s club used to be.  Eerie.  Walking passed the Adolphus Hotel James mentioned this was the communications center for the assassination.  This concurred with my own thinking.  James bought his film and on the way back down to Dealey Plaza I asked if he knew about the Clint Murchinson pre assassination celebration party.  He did.  Madeline Brown, LBJ’s mistress who was at the party, told him in detail the facts of the party and who attended.  James added J. Edgar Hoover also flew in for the event.  I asked him his evidence.  He told me. I’ll let you ask James about his source as as I don’t want to be responsible for any more deaths.

Leaving James to Dealey Plaza I had another location to scout.  Ruth Paine’s house was in Irving, a suburb of Dallas.  Lee Oswald’s wife and children were staying at the Paine residence while Lee rented a room in another home in Dallas.  Parking across the street I could almost visualize Lee playing with his children on the front lawn as described by Ruth Paine the evening before the assassination.  I was sorely tempted to knock on the door and ask to walk around the house and garage.  I didn’t.  I’m on this side of crazy which keeps me functioning in everyday life but another inch or two…

I drove a couple of blocks over to a gas station.  Sitting there I realized this was where Lee sold his rifle shortly before the assassination.  Robert Taylor, a mechanic at the station, had bought Lee’s rifle and this was the reason CIA had to use the back up “mail order” rifle to frame Lee.  His own rifle was missing on the big day.  I sat in my car soaking up the history.  The real history.  Slowly I moved on to my next location.

I left for the Oak Cliff section of Dallas and parked in front of the house where Lee rented a room.  Earlene Roberts, the housekeeper, told the Warren Commission at 1.00 p.m. Lee burst through the front door.  Shortly after a police car parked in front of the home and honked a couple of times.  The patrol car pulled away and then Lee exited the house.  Was that officer Tippit outside waiting for Lee?  Why?  In any event officer Tippit had fifteen minutes to live.  It was Tippit’s murder that brought the search for the president’s assassin to the Oak Cliff section of Dallas.

Earlene Roberts would be dead in a couple of years herself.  Likewise William Whalley, the cab driver who drove Oswald to his rooming house.  Likewise Lee Bowers, the railroad man who saw two suspects atop the grassy knoll.  Be careful what you tell the Warren Commission.  Someone is listening.

Around midnight I returned to Dealey Plaza.  Standing in the middle of Elm Street on the spot where Kennedy was slain, I simulated JFK’s backward head snap and pointed in the direction from where the shot must have come.  Everything added up to the overpass.  Yet how does a shot come from the overpass without anyone seeing it?  I’ll return when it’s daylight and go over the suspect area thoroughly.

I walked up the grassy knoll to the parking lot above Elm Street and someone called to me.  He had been watching me the whole time as I did my charade.  How embarrassing.  But he seemed to know why and understood.  He was one of us.  We talked for awhile and he invited me to his car as it was plenty cold out.  We sat warming up to the heater and talked of the assassination.  I told him my book was just published and my theory of CIA assassination with Richard Helms the Architect.  He asked me why they did it and I crammed a seminar into his brain.  He had no particular theory but thought Johnson was involved.  He was the owner of the gun that Jack Ruby used to shoot Oswald and told me it was on loan at the Conspiracy Museum a few blocks away.  Each anniversary he made a pilgrimage to Dallas to remember.  We spoke for a couple of hours and he invited me to stay until dawn as was his thing but I needed some sleep before the day began as it was November 22.  And I had more things to accomplish before I left Dallas.

November 22.  I’m standing on the overpass.  Walking its length I can’t visualize anyone firing from it without being seen.  I look over at the box cars sitting on the train tracks behind me.  Possible – but impractical.  You would have to shoot over people’s heads.  I don’t think so.  I began to leave the overpass headed toward the parking lot above the grassy knoll.  I froze.  A fence that begins just to the right of where Abraham Zapruder was filming extends the length of the top of the hill and connects to the overpass.  The last few feet of the wooden fence is up against the cement overpass.  I look toward the street.  The angle is about right for the last shot.  I look down.  I’m standing on a large drain directly behind the fence.  It’s  about three to four feet in length but its depth is four feet.  If someone was to lift the screen up and another person step down into the drain they would lose four feet in height.  I knelt on one knee and looked through a missing plank in the fence.  Yeah, that’s better.  Someone standing in the drain pointing a rifle out the bottom of the fence and not the top would be aiming approximately the same level that the President was sitting in his elevated seat.  Take your shot, hand the rifle to a confederate who breaks it down and walks to a nearby car locking it in the trunk, two other men helping you out of the drain, another man putting the lid back into place, all very feasible.  Looking up to the overpass would anyone see me?  No!  It was a blind spot.  The curvature of the overpass bends downward at this point.  I can’t see anyone on the overpass from here which means no one on the overpass can see me.  In addition, having Dallas police officers keeping citizens on the overpass proper no one would have seen shots fired from this location.  This is how they did it.

The crowds are starting to gather below in the Plaza.  Television crews interviewing people.  I cross the street to the park opposite the grassy knoll as various people are being interviewed and giving their take on the murder.  I noticed a woman standing alone.  Suddenly everyone noticed her at once and started whispering, “That’s Jean Hill.”  She is standing in the spot she stood so many years ago and is wearing a red coat.  I wonder if it’s the coat she was wearing that day.  The camera crew interviewed her briefly and afterward I had my chance.  I told her I read her Warren Commission testimony but could she clarify for me where she saw Jack Ruby running after the shots.  She pointed to a ridge line atop the grassy knoll and elaborated on the sighting.  I told her Tom Tilson, a Dallas police officer, also saw Jack running backing her story and he testified to the House Select Committee on Assassinations.  She said she was glad somebody backed her up because nobody did at the time.  She asked me who the two men were standing together about fifteen feet away.  I told her, “That’s Josiah Thompson, the author of ‘Six Seconds in Dallas’ and Gaeton Fonzi of the House Select Committee on Assassinations.”  She said she would like to meet them.  I approached the gentlemen and said, “Jean Hill would like to meet you.”  The smug expression on their faces turned to that of children seeing Santa Claus and they quickly followed me over.  I made the introductions and the three of them started joking and conversing like old friends.  Amazing.

12.30 p.m. was approaching and I crossed over to the grassy knoll area to participate in the moment of silence that is a tradition.  The time came and all fell silent.  A powerful silence of patriots remembering and regretting this great act of treason.  A man began speaking into a microphone.  Mark Lane, author, lawyer and assassination researcher began his words.  His book, “Rush to Judgment,” sent me on my quest for truth and justice.  While my clothes washed at a laundromat in Santa Monica, California, I sat in my car and opened a used copy of his classic book.  I didn’t leave the car and laundromat until I finished the entire book. I was hooked.  Mark Lane spoke of heroes, not just JFK but ordinary citizens like Lee Bowers murdered by CIA for speaking the truth.  Eloquently, he called the citizens to take back their country.

Now reading high school history text books, because of political correctness and multiculturalism, the JFK assassination is relegated to two paragraphs.  I know different.  I know the truth.  Today CIA and the economic elite are imbedded with the military and financial institutions even more than when they took the life of a President.  Who will cry for us when the American dream is over?  I’m not giving up.  They have to get me the same way they got Kennedy.  I’m waiting.

September 19th, 2009

When does one stop loving?

When does one stop loving someone?  A year?  Five years?  A lifetime?  The half smile she flashes when slightly amused.  Her laugh at an unexpected joke.  “Don’t look at me.”  The Velvet Turtle.  Red Onion first time seeing her.  Chasing her into a dress shop the second.  “You look like someone I saw at the Red Onion a few months ago.  I wanted to get her number but she vanished,” I said.  “I go to the Red Onion,” she volunteered.  “It was the night Irene Cara was there,” I added.  “I was there the night Irene Cara was there,” she responded.  Curse of an excellent memory.  Her voice, my God her voice.  Of course she wanted to ride the modern roller coaster, I the old fashioned wooden one.  Note to self.  If overweight never wear Hawaiian shirts.  “Am I the fattest boyfriend you ever had?”  At a book store she picked up a giant, red, Webster dictionary.  I wasn’t going to let her be smarter than me.  I bought one too.  She laughed.  We could read each other’s thoughts.  Early breakfast at that café in the Beverly Wilshire Hotel.  Eggs benedict.  Who the fuck eats eggs benedict.  Tasted awful, not enough food, left me broke for a week.  Worth it.  It pleased her.  “Don’t look at me,” I commanded.  She was too beautiful to look at.  “Don’t look at me,” she said softly back.  Was I attractive to her as well?  I wonder.  So feminine.  So very feminine.  Everyone clapped as she walked across the floor to hand in our winning raffle ticket at the employee Christmas party.  Everyone hated me.  I couldn’t get it.  They clapped loud and sincerely.  They loved her.  How could they not.  The grace, beauty and intelligence wrapped in that elegant, long, winter coat – they knew.  How proud I was of her that night.  Of me with her.  Of us.  When does one stop loving someone?  Never.

September 18th, 2009

Movie Night

Michael:  Let’s go see this film.

Ruth:   Who is naked?

Michael:  How should I know?

Ruth:   Does it have sub-titles?

Michael:  No, why?  Can’t you read?

Ruth:   Are the actors still alive?

Michael:  Yes.  It stars Billy Bob Thornton, a really good actor.

Ruth:   Who else is in it?

Michael:  I’m sure other actors.  It’s not a monologue.

Ruth:   I’ll ask you one more time.  Who is the girl?

Michael:  halle berry.

Ruth:   WHO?

Michael:  Halle Berry!

September 17th, 2009

Senator Gloria Romero

September 13, 2007

Senator Gloria Romero

149 S. Mednick Avenue, Suite 203

East Los Angeles, CA  90022

Dear Senator Romero:

It was a pleasure meeting you at the rally on the steps of City Hall in Los Angeles a few weeks ago.  You asked me to find out what specifically were Sirhan’s complaints at Corcoran Prison.  He has since communicated them to me.

In the aftermath of the 9/11 attack on the Twin Towers, his situation at Corcoran rapidly deteriorated.  A prison guard accused Sirhan of being a “terrorist.”  This was followed by a series of wild accusations that prison authorities accused him of but upon investigation exonerated him.  But as a result of these confrontations, Sirhan feels the guards in particular are prejudiced against him.  With the first accusation he was placed in an isolated cell 24/7 and is still in this living situation.  He would like to be placed in a less restrictive environment.  Yet he also feels his life is in danger and not just from other inmates.  He is afraid to receive visitors because the corridor he must walk to reach the visitors area makes him vulnerable to attack and one inmate was killed in this corridor.

Sirhan says the prison psychiatrists are falsely and purposely writing bad reports to keep him from making parole.  At his last parole hearing there was a misunderstanding/problem that resulted in Sirhan having to wait five years for the next parole hearing and he feels this is unfair.

The bottom line though is he fears for his life at Corcoran and requests a transfer to the prison in Lancaster.  There is a special needs unit there he feels would be appropriate for him.

Off the record it does appear Sirhan was framed for the RFK murder.  I’ve enclosed for your perusal an affidavit from Even Freed, an eyewitness to the assassination.  This affidavit was written in 1992 after Mr. Freed had become an attorney working for the City of Los Angeles.  He tells of seeing a second gunman firing at Kennedy at the same time Sirhan was firing from the front.  It’s this second gunman who fired the fatal shot to the back of the head of Mr. Kennedy.

Thank you for your attention.


September 15th, 2009

Tyra Banks

“You know Tyra Banks?” I asked.  Someone in the office had tipped me.  “I’m her aunt,” Gloria smugly replied.  You must be from the dark side of the family, I thought but for once thankfully kept my mouth shut.  Now I was embarrassed and not a little shamed.  Surely sitting just a few desks from mine Gloria’s heard my rants about male Negroes not being able to walk out of the house without committing a felony.  Damn.  And I be liking my Tyra.  Gloria never said much at work but noticed everything.  Know everything and say nothing.  A good policy if working for the county.  Wish I had learned it.  Might have saved me a lot of grief.  Maybe made a little mo money.

One night after work I saw a copy of Jet Magazine in a liquor store.  My girl was on the cover.  I picked it up read it and dropped it off on Gloria’s desk the next day when she was elsewhere.  A week passed before she found out I was the one who left it on her desk.

One day Gloria stopped by and this time dropped a note on my desk.  “Ty is going to be in L.A. at the Beverly Center for a book signing.  Go meet her,” she commanded.  On the note was the date and time and place.  “I’m not standing in line with a thousand screaming thirteen-year-old girls just to meet Tyra Banks,” I ungratefully said.  “Oh be a man and just go meet her,” she chastised me.

My whole life has been one long humiliation so what’s one more I thought.  On the big day I was in line at the Beverly Center with the other thirteen year olds.  Tyra shows up with a giant Negro bodyguard/chauffeur escorting her and the line quickly dissipated as Tyra began signing her new book.  I’m next in line to get my copy signed when black Goliath gently puts his hand on my left shoulder.  I get it.  It’s non verbal guy talk that only guys can understand.  That touch is him telling me don’t be stupid and do anything crazy.  While he was checking me out as a potential security threat I was checking out the scene for the same reason.  I’ve always been security conscious wherever I’m at.  Maybe it’s the latent cop in me or my study of the JFK assassination and its aftermath but I can’t go anywhere without doing my own mental security check.  I noticed black Tarzan in front of Tyra but she was exposed from the rear.  Any freak could appear from behind her and it takes only a moment for lives to be changed forever.  I don’t like it.  At least the bookstore could provide an employee to just hang out behind and near her during the book signing.  Later I would assure Gloria that security for Tyra was fine and she looked relieved.

Tyra in person is so shy.  The whole model persona must be a separate personality she has to adopt.  The professional Tyra.  I prefer shy Tyra.  So feminine.  Makes you want to protect her.  She asked me who the book was for.  I asked her to make it out to Chelsea, my niece.  Tyra took considerable time to think of something thoughtful to write.  I took the book back and started to walk away.  After a couple of steps I realized my rudeness and turned and said, “Thank you.”  She smiled.  I almost bowed and added, “Your cuteness” but caught myself.  Sometimes I need to keep my mouth shut and other times let it fly.  I should have let it fly this time but feared a slap down from Gloria later.

The next day Gloria asked me how it went and what specifically did I say and how did Tyra respond and I told her.  Gloria asked me what my address was and I gave it to her.  A short time later I received an 8’ 10” head shot of Tyra and she had written, Mike Calder – Best Wishes, Tyra Banks.  Right back at you doll.

September 13th, 2009

Keith Hernandez

Went out to Dodger Stadium to watch the game.  More of a pilgrimage that I purposely had been putting off.  Inside the stadium I heard my name called and recognized the voice.  John Hernandez, my little league and youth league baseball coach and father of Keith Hernandez, first baseman for the St. Louis Cardinals, was standing and waving at me.  He insisted I sit with him and Gary, Keith’s brother.  Mr. Hernandez walked me toward first base to meet Keith.  Stadium security came forward to wave us off but Mr. Hernandez explained he was Keith’s father.  Keith came over and asked what I was up to.  I told him I was pursuing an acting career.  I suggested he do some acting in the off season, at least commercials, but he smiled and said he would stick to baseball.  “Watch the game, relax – have a beer.”  Fuck you, Keith, I thought.  Don’t patronize me.  I was twice as good as you.  I held my tongue.

Joining Gary (Tanglefoot) we sat down waiting for the game to start and talked about old times.  I told Gary and Mr. Hernandez how beautiful I thought Mrs. Hernandez was while growing up.  Mr. Hernandez smiled.  A Texas beauty with a slight Southern accent she always treated me well.  Mr. Hernandez was a Spaniard and quite handsome.  Strong, broad shouldered and left handed as are his sons and myself, we lefties stuck together.  He was a terrific ballplayer in his day as the star of Mission High School in San Francisco.  In the minor leagues he was beaned by a pitch injuring his vision at least enough to chase him out of professional baseball.  One day at the house Keith broke out his dad’s scrapbook.  A modest man only by going through his scrapbook would you know he was a legend in San Francisco High School baseball history.  His 640 batting average was going to be tough to beat.

“You know you were better than Keith,” Mr. Hernandez began going back in time.  He told me a story I was unaware of.  During the three weekends of little league tryouts Mr. Hernandez noticed how talented I was and determined to draft me on his team.  During the batting section of the tryouts he was pitching and in order to make me look bad to the other coaches he threw extra hard to me, including curves, etc.  I was nine.  One night my mother received a call from Carl Vallero, the manager of the little league team that Mr. Hernandez was the coach for, and told my mom I had made the team.  She was shocked.  I hadn’t told anyone I was trying out for little league.  Each week I read the Pacific Tribune, our hometown newspaper, as well as the San Francisco Chronicle sports section checking on the Giants performance.  I read about the tryouts coming up and since I had been playing at least since I was seven I tried out.

Mr. Hernandez didn’t just teach us boys about baseball but also set an example of how men are supposed to be.  As a twelve year old center field sensation my arrogance was as high as my talent great.  I must have said something to offend Mr. Hernandez because our manager, Mr. Vallero, came to me during practice and told me to go and apologize to Mr. Hernandez who was walking alone in the outfield with his head held down, hands clasped behind his back.  Meeting him in the outfield I walked alongside and apologized for whatever it was I had said.  His face lit up and his hands fell free to his side.  “Remember Mike,” he stated, “the people you meet on the way up are the same people you will meet on the way back down.”

In these growing up years I would watch Mr. Hernandez giving tips to rival ballplayers on other teams and was resentful.  Why was he helping the enemy, I thought.  Paying attention like young Macedonian warriors we learned before you could become a good ballplayer you had to master fear of the baseball.  To demonstrate he would walk ten to fifteen paces and then challenge the kids to throw the baseball hard at him.  He would catch it – barehanded.  Lesson learned.

“Always look fastball.  If it breaks into a curve you can adjust.  If you’re looking curve a fastball will blow by you.  Go for line drives.  If in a slump – hit up the middle.  Popping up frequently – hit the top half of the ball.”

In his garage Mr. Hernandez rigged a tennis ball inside a sock tied to a string that was swinging from the rafter.  By tossing the ball away from you at one angle, it would come back towards you as an outside corner pitch.  Toss at a second angle and it would come back down the middle.  Another angle and you had your inside corner pitch to work on.  Great batting practice all by yourself for as long as you want.

Playing for Terra Nova High School in Pacifica I was already on the varsity as a sophomore.  I noticed the Frosh-Soph baseball coach was not playing Keith at first base.  Buddy Papadakis was at first base and tall, lanky and left handed he looked the model of a first baseman.  But Keith was a natural first baseman and had been groomed for that position since little league.  One day during practice I went to coach Miller and told him Keith was the better first baseman and should be playing at that position.  Coach Miller just shrugged his shoulders.

After Keith’s freshman year Mr. Hernandez sold his home in Pacifica and moved over the hill down the peninsula.  Keith spend his last three years as the star quarterback and outstanding first baseman for Capuchino High School in San Bruno.  I always wondered if this was the real reason Mr. Hernandez moved.  He couldn’t allow coach Miller to block Keith’s destiny.

I accepted a full ride baseball scholarship to UC Berkeley and during my freshman year Keith, a senior in high school, came out to watch us practice.  We sat down and talked.  He had a decision to make.  Go to Berkeley on a full ride baseball scholarship or enter the minor leagues.  He chose the minor leagues and fate was sealed.  Good choices bring good things.  Poor choices result in living the rest of your life in Podunk.  How well I know.

September 12th, 2009

The Dog Whisperer

I hate my friend Rachel’s car.  It’s a Mercedes Jeep something.   You hop into it like you’re climbing into a stagecoach.  The seats are uncomfortable, you can’t see out the back window and must use a camera to see anything behind you.  Each time I enter it I remind Rachel we’re not traveling through the Sahara just the mean streets and highways of L.A.  But it’s a Mercedes and expensive and cool so you’re suppose to be impressed.  The only good thing about taking this monster anywhere is she isn’t making me climb into her Astin Martin.  Don’t even get me started on that one.  Oh what the rich find to waste their money on.  I’ve never quite understood why Jews buy Mercedes Benzes.  It’s as though they’re saying, “Yeah you almost killed us off but we not only survived but are rich again and now own you schmucks.”

Well my best friend Jim Emery called up and invited me to a house warming.  He and his wife Sheila bought a new home and just moved in.  Sheila is the creator and one of the producers of “The Dog Whisperer,” the hit television show on the National Geographic Channel.  Now they are enjoying the fruits of her labor.  Jim gives me an address in Norwalk.  “Where the hell is Norwalk,” I asked and thought why would anyone move there on purpose.  Now my best friend is living in this hinterland.  I bet he’s not going to be getting many visitors.

Apparently Norwalk is one of those outside civilization cities that surround L.A.  Either you live in Hollywood, West L.A., Santa Monica or if poor the San Fernando Valley.  Anywhere else is nowhere.  Yet the reality is Los Angeles is surrounded by a dozen smaller cities that we know exist only because of the signs on the freeway as we zip down to Orange County or San Diego.  Cities with names like Commerce, City of Industry, Santa Fe Springs and, alas, Norwalk.

Rachel puts the address in the beast’s navigation system.  Using the navigation system we barely find Norwalk and never did find my friend’s house.  I had to use a cell phone and ask for directions.  See what I mean about these strange, invisible cities outside civilization.

Jim was happy to see me because I rarely go to social functions.  Not my cup of tea.  Loner with a capital L.  The party is out back and all of Sheila’s friends and family are present.  I don’t loosen up until actor Bill Rose shows up accompanied by movie and television director and friend Charles Norton.  Now I have real people to talk to.  If show business people are real.  Maybe I have it backwards.  It’s just that show biz people are more interesting, more charming, more witty, more attractive, more more.

Rachel is tired and goes into the living room to rest on the couch.  I hope that’s the reason and not because she caught me dancing oh so slowly with a young nubile thing after I’ve told her a thousand times I don’t dance.  I had to get a few more feels in but eventually went looking for her and found her stretched out on the couch in deep conversation with The Dog Whisperer, Cesar Millan.  Later she told me her husband hired Cesar to help them with their crazed German Shepherd Bonnie.

The best part of the evening was watching Millan interact with his attractive wife.  They’ve been married for years but the look in his eyes and respect and affection for his wife I haven’t seen in any male over the age of seventeen.  It was really nice to see that fame and money hasn’t made him crazy – yet.  I’m glad someone is having a happy ending.

September 11th, 2009

Sharon Stone

Called to do background work on a television show I arrived at Manhattan Beach Studios at 3:00 p.m.  An afternoon call time means we’ll be shooting throughout the evening.  I was told by casting to bring a suit and I would be filming a courtroom scene.

After changing into my suit in a bathroom which we’re not suppose to do, I walked over to the holding room for background talent as we prefer to be called.  I noticed a very attractive blonde sitting in a chair in front of the security guard’s desk.  I took note how much she looked like Sharon Stone and as I passed her I realized, “That is Sharon Stone.”  She was on the phone speaking seriously and as the holding room was behind the security desk I couldn’t help overhearing the conversation. She insisted on speaking to the doctor claiming to be family.  The doctor came on the line and gave her the bad news.  Miss Stone then called the family member with the diagnosis.  She immediately began convincing this person they can beat whatever the affliction was and to start visualizing its destruction.

The conversation was becoming too personal and I removed myself from the room walking outside and crossing over to another stage.  I found craft services and helped myself to a cup of coffee.  Slowly I walked back hoping Miss Stone had finished her conversation.  As I got to the stage where we would be filming, Miss Stone lay prone on the top step crying her soul out in torment.  Why was no one helping her?  Disgusted, I put the coffee on the step and reached down to help her to her feet.  As our eyes met all the pain in the world came pouring out.  Just then her two female assistants grabbed Miss Stone, helping her up and bringing her to an empty room where she could grieve in private.  I entered the holding area and waited to be called to the set, thinking that would be the last we would be seeing of Miss Stone for the night.

Forty five minutes later we were called to the set and each background actor was placed throughout the courtroom.  Within minutes Sharon Stone arrived on the set.  I was shocked.  Her hair and makeup was perfect and her attitude was such that if you didn’t know you would never have guessed at the tragedy that had just befallen her.  She had put the bad news in a box and was ready to work.  A professional.  For the next six hours she filmed her scenes never missing a line, always in the moment, never complaining.  A female extra, overweight, had been standing for hours and was plainly exhausted.  Miss Stone noticed and commiserated with her.

I’ve always been impressed with Miss Stone’s beauty and sheer talent but that night I walked away impressed with her character.  Sharon Stone – last of the great broads.

September 10th, 2009

Pat Boone

One Sunday morning I was driving down Sherman Way in the Valley passing “Church on the Way” when I noticed a drop dead gorgeous blonde Viking queen walking toward the entrance.  Too young for me I thought, but isn’t everyone.  I made a U turn and drove into the Church parking lot.  She was beautiful and a Church girl.  An impossible combination to ignore and in this last decade in L.A. with the illegal alien invasion, finding a Caucasian girl is like stumbling across a long thought extinct species.  I entered the Church and began walking up and down the aisles looking for the Caucasian.  The preacher said something and the congregation started breaking into groups holding hands.  I kept searching.  A man pointed at me and beckoned me to join his group.  It was Pat Boone, the singer.  Holding hands in a circle each person took turns asking all of us to pray for divine intervention.  One man told of a family member with a terminal illness and asked us to pray for the family member.  The next man had a similar story and then the next.  Now my turn.  I looked up at Mr. Boone.  He nodded.  Bowing my head I asked God to help me find the blonde girl I had seen walking into the Church.  A cold silence was palpable.  After an uncomfortably long pause Mr. Boone spoke taking me off the hook.  “Lord, I don’t know if it’s your will that Mike meet the blonde girl…”

I went back two successive Sundays to try and meet the beautiful Church girl but it was complicated by the Church having two Sunday morning services and there were a whole lot of people.  I never did see her again.

What a fool I am.  No wonder I don’t have anything.

September 9th, 2009

Sun Valley Middle School

“You fat bitch.”  The middle school student was addressing his female PE coach who was taking attendance.  I was so angry I was tempted to pick the student up and toss him twenty yards to teach him some manners.  As a substitute teacher I was taking role of my own class which was seated next to hers.  There are 700,000 students in the Los Angeles Unified School District.  Only ten percent are Caucasian.  Seventy percent are Hispanic with most of these students being Mexican.  A direct result of the massive invasion of Mexican nationals pouring across our border illegally and settling in Los Angeles.

As class ended and the students were filing into the locker room, I entered the PE office with the female coach following close behind.  She locked the door, went to her desk, put her head down and started weeping.  For five minutes she cried and only when the bell rang signaling the start of the next class did she stop.  Lifting her head with tears streaming down her face she said, “I can’t stand the disrespect any longer.  I’m quitting teaching.”

I knew the statistics.  One third of all new teachers in LAUSD quit within three years.  Fifty percent resign within five years.  All because of student behavior.  Non white students behavior.  I asked how long she had been teaching.  She said, “Three years.”  Right on target, I thought.  She mentioned she had an interview next week at a middle school in Santa Clarita.  Santa Clarita is teacher code for “White Students” as Santa Clarita is a mostly Anglo suburb north of Los Angeles.  If she is offered the job she may stay in teaching but if not she’s quitting.

I was back at the school the following month.  In the faculty cafeteria I ran into the teacher.  She was positively beaming.  “I got the job in Santa Clarita.”  She told me she had to spend the day observing at the school where she interviewed.  While the regular teacher was taking attendance, “It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.”  I knew she was referring to the incident I had witnessed.  Because of LAUSD legal contractual restrictions she had to stay until the end of the school year before being granted parole.

I was happy for her.  Someone had escaped Devil’s Island.

September 8th, 2009

High School Confidential

A friend of mine, a high school English teacher with the Los Angeles Unified School District, asked me to substitute teach for her.  Teachers are given a one hour student free prep period each day and I took the time to read the student essays on the bulletin board.  These are the outstanding examples of the students work and the teacher had written “Excellent” and “Outstanding” across the top of their essays.  The writing was on a seventh grade level.  Granted, the school is ninety percent Mexican but these kids have been through elementary, middle school and now high school.

I called my friend that night and asked why she was lauding such mediocre work.  She said, “Michael, if I was to give the students the grades they actually earned I would be failing most of my students in all of my classes.  If I failed most of my students in all of my classes the principal would ask why all these students are failing.  He would then accuse me of being a bad teacher.  I’m not a bad teacher.  These are bad students.”

The truth is we don’t need better teachers.  We need better students.  The LAUSD is adamant about closing the so called “achievement gap” between the races.  There is no achievement gap.  There is however an “IQ gap” which in turn regulates academic achievement, conscientiousness and behavior.  Everyone knows this but it is the word that cannot be spoken.  IQ.

The implications of a majority non white semi illiterate population in the not too distant future is frightening.  We’re doomed.  Shop class anyone?

September 7th, 2009

Coast to Coast

I spoke to producer Tom Danheiser on the phone and he asked me why he had never heard of me.  I told him I was content that citizens who absolutely must know the truth about the JFK assassination find my book and although I’m a terrific researcher and writer I’m not much of a salesman.  He enthusiastically told me to drop off my book and new RFK material at the radio station and I did so.  Never heard from him again.

Several months later I saw that George Noury, the host of Coast to Coast AM, was to make an appearance at the Conscious Life Expo at the Hilton near LAX.  I determined to meet him and hand him my book.  George arrived at the “meet and greet” as he calls it and addressed the crowd.  He really is quick on his feet and I enjoyed his witticisms as he played with the audience.  Afterward anyone wanting to meet him stood in line and I took my place.  I handed him a copy of my book and told him I was in contact with Sirhan Sirhan.  I suggested I be interviewed on his show as I had many new revelations about the RFK murder.  I saw producer Tom standing nearby getting a little nervous as it dawned on him who I was.  I added a friend of mine, Shane O’Sullivan of Great Britain, has a documentary and book coming out on the RFK assassination and they should interview him as well.  I could tell by their furtive glances they were aware of Shane and his projects.  I thanked Mr. Noury for his time and departed.

Nothing.  Never heard from George or Tom or anyone from Coast to Coast.  Mind you this is a radio program that interviews citizens who are in contact with extra-terrestrials including the dreaded Reptilian Species.  Anything but the truth, huh, George!  Nothing about Richard Helms organizing both Kennedy brothers murders and then handing CIA over to David Rockefeller and his economic elite thugs.  “Time Travelers” yes but nothing about three buildings in NYC collapsing when only two were struck by airplanes.  Plenty of ghost stories though.  Keep up the good work George.

September 6th, 2009

Cathy O’Brien

Rachel and I agreed to meet in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theater in Hollywood.  The Hollywood-Highland complex has abundant parking and Rachel coming from West L.A. and myself, the Valley, it’s a convenient compromise place to meet.  I haven’t told her what the surprise is because I’m disinclined to let my adversaries know any future time and place I might be.  There are reasons why I haven’t ended up like Lee Bowers and other Warren Commission witnesses.  Walking down Hollywood Blvd. in between dodging Superman, Batman, Marilyn Monroe and other celebrity look-alike street performers, I informed Rachel we were going to a lecture by Cathy O’Brien.  Cathy O’Brien claims to be a CIA mind control sex slave (MKULTRA) who escaped after she was no longer of use to CIA.  I had lent my copy of her book, “Transformation in America,” to Rachel and Rachel seemed fascinated.  I mentioned the lecture was being held in a Church and Rachel, being Jewish, I didn’t know if this was going to be a problem.  I asked her if she was going to burn up upon entering the Church.  “You mean like the witch in ‘The Wizard of Oz?’  No.”

We turned left on Highland and the Church about a block away warned evil in all its gothic splendor.  Each few steps I could feel Rachel’s apprehension increasing.  “This isn’t an intervention is it?” she said, partly in jest partly not.  I laughed.  The thought of Rachel being kidnapped by strangers and held for hours being told over and over of Jesus’s love and goodness caused me some mirth.  “No,” I assured her. Besides, if Rachel became a Jew for Jesus who would chastise me for giving money to the homeless or make me pick up change that has fallen from my pocket.  Oh well.  I guess there are reasons why she has money and I don’t.  Not this time, Rachel.  No intervention.

Upon paying our admittance fee and entering the Church, two tables filled with books greeted us.  Rachel and I, being able to read though we live in Los Angeles, gravitate toward books so we looked them over.  One table has Cathy O’Brien’s books, etc., and the other featured a book titled, “CIA Doctors,” which grabbed my attention.  The program had just started so we hurried into the Church proper and sat down in one of the back pews.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Rachel taking in the interior of the Church – the impossibly high ceiling, medieval architecture, the large white cross behind the speakers’ platform.  You half expected Thomas Moore or, more appropriate, Jonathan Edwards to come out and scare the hell out of you with one of his fire and brimstone sermons.  Rachel seemed surprised and impressed.  Is that a little bit of awe I see in her eyes?  I realized this was her first time in a Church.  Yes, Rachel.  This is how the Goyim worship their Christ and God. I wondered what the inside of a Synagogue looked like.  Probably a table in the center with an open deck of cards.  “Anyone feel like being taken?  I mean playing a game of cards.”

Another speaker came on and addressed the crowd.  I know her.  Christine Blosdale.  Christine is a producer at the local Pacifica Public Radio Station.  I met her when trying to get on the show to talk about the RFK murder.  I didn’t get on the program but did give her a copy of my book, “JFK vs CIA.”  I excused myself telling Rachel I wanted to look over the books in the lobby but there was another reason.  A stunning young blonde, maybe twenty, was seated in a chair taking proceeds from book and merchandise sales.  I noticed her when entering the Church.  Dripping in beauty, irresistible, with a degree of beauty that leaves men speechless.  I had to have another glance before I died.  Picking up “CIA Doctors” I listened with my big ears to the conversation she was having with a man.  She too was a CIA mind control slave and when she realized what was happening she escaped, contacted Cathy O’Brien and then started working for her.  She could have told me she was from the planet “Dorf” and I would have believed her.  The “Presidential Model,” I could see it.  No man, politician or businessman, priest or cop could resist such beauty coming at him.  Let a few words from her mouth drop in your ears and you are through no matter how strong.  No matter how pure.  Game over.  CIA really knows what it is doing.  But this is not thirty years ago.  The game is still being played.  Obama is in deep shit, I thought.

I re-enter the Church proper and Roseanne Barr is speaking.  I wonder what the actress has to do with MKULTRA or if CIA tried to bring her under control as well.  Good luck with that.  She sure is enthusiastic about Cathy O’Brien and holding the government accountable.  Next came a presentation by Colin Ross, M.D., and author of “CIA Doctors.”  I paid strict attention.  One or more of these doctors programmed Sirhan.

After Cathy gave her speech Rachel and I headed for the lobby and tables.  I wanted to speak to Colin Ross but he was taking his sweet time getting to his table to sign books.  I told Rachel I wanted to say hi to Christine and went back inside to scout her out.  Rachel followed.  She never seems surprised by the people I know.  As Christine came up the aisle I stopped her.  I could tell she recognized the face but couldn’t put together the when or where.

“Mike Calder – JFK vs CIA,” I said, helping her.  She broke into a big grin.  “Oh yeah!  Your book is in my bathroom.”  Nice to know my book is used for distraction by guests in their time of need.

“I’d like to meet Dr. Ross.  Would you introduce us?”

“Sure,” she said.  “Hang out near the book table and I’ll go find him.”

Rachel and I headed back to the lobby with Rachel standing in line to meet Cathy O’Brien and I at Dr. Ross’s table.  I watched as Rachel evaluated Cathy as though she was figuring out a puzzle.  Is Cathy O’Brien real or not?  What tit bit can Rachel pick up that will help her make that determination?  Finally, Colin Ross shows up and begins signing books with Christine next to him.  I wait my turn.  He goes to sign my copy and I wave him off.  “In September I flew to New York and was debriefed by William Pepper, Sirhan Sirhan’s new attorney.  I know he is looking for someone qualified to interview Sirhan in prison.”  Dr. Ross either didn’t hear me or it didn’t register.  Annoyed, I repeated speaking slower and giving the brief version.  “I’m in contact with Sirhan Sirhan.”  Dr. Ross jumped to his feet.  “Sirhan’s new lawyer is looking for someone qualified in dissociative disorders, hypnotism and mind control to interview Sirhan in prison.  Do you know anyone who would be interested?”  Dr. Ross said, “I’m interested.”  I told him I would let Sirhan’s legal team know and if interested they would be in contact.  “Christine knows me,” I added and Christine started telling him about my book, etc.

Rachel and I left, headed back to Highland and Hollywood.  I walked her to valet parking and waited until her Mercedes was brought around.  She hopped in as I waved goodbye, then I proceeded down the escalator where the peons park their cars.  Finding my fading 96 Hyundai accent and checking that I had the ten dollar parking fee, I made my escape heading back to North Hollywood, home of would-be actors and half the population of Michoacan, Mexico.