The Patsy

Dallas, Texas

November 22-24, 1963

My name is Lee Oswald, not Lee Harvey Oswald. It seems that the newspapers like to add middle names: John Wilkes Booth, James Earl Ray, and Thomas Arthur Vallee. Who? More on Vallee in a minute. In the Marines, they called me Osvaldovich, because of my Marxist leanings, while others called me Ozzie, after the TV show, but my family and friends call me Lee.

I’m going to tell you a short story, not the whole story but the whole truth, at least that which can be corroborated. I liked President Kennedy. I even tipped-off the FBI about ‘Plan A’, the Chicago assassination plot to kill the president. Oh, you didn’t hear about that one?

On November 1, 1963, in Chicago, the Secret Service detained and questioned two members of a four-man sniper team suspected of planning to assassinate President Kennedy during his visit to Chicago the following day. Two of the team members escaped and one was released after questioning. The fourth team member, Thomas Arthur Vallee, a mentally damaged ex-Marine, worked in a building overlooking Kennedy’s motorcade route.

On the day Kennedy was supposed to be in Chicago, November 2, 1963, South Vietnam President Diem and his brother Ngo were assassinated by a Vietnamese Army/CIA backed coup, sanctioned by President Kennedy. Kennedy approved the coup but not the assassination. White House Press Secretary Pierre Salinger announced President Kennedy’s trip to Chicago had been canceled, thanks to my tip. While the two suspected snipers were questioned at the Chicago Secret Service headquarters, only potential assassin scapegoat Thomas Arthur Vallee was arrested. The other two alleged snipers remained at large in Chicago. Only Vallee was ever identified publicly.

Had ‘Plan A’ succeeded, the press would have spun the story that Kennedy got what he deserved for sanctioning the Diem coup and assassination; I would probably still be alive but unknown and forgotten, while Thomas Arthur Vallee would be forever remembered as the ‘Lone-Nut Assassin’.

Thomas Vallee and I were both former Marines. We both served at Marine bases in Japan that hosted the U–2 spy plane: me at Atsugi, Vallee at Camp Otsu. We were both involved in training anti–Castro Cubans: me in New Orleans, Vallee in New York. We both had then recently started working at premises that overlooked the routes of presidential parades: me at the Texas School Book Depository on Elm Street in Dallas, Vallee at IPP Litho–Plate building on West Jackson Boulevard in Chicago.

Does any of this sound familiar or coincidental?

Here’s the truth about what happened the moment our president was assassinated and the truth about what happened to me.

At 12:30 p.m., CST, I was in the 2nd-floor lunch room taking my lunch break. Two colored boys, Junior and Harold, were also there with me but we were not sitting together.

At 12:30 p.m., the same time I was having my lunch break, President John F. Kennedy was shot.

Also at 12:30 p.m., police officer Marion Baker, riding his motorcycle in the motorcade, heard the shots coming from the upper floor of the Texas School Book Depository (TSBD), dismounted, and headed to the TSBD where he believed the shots originated.

At 12:31 p.m., police officer Marion Baker accidentally bumped into building superintendent Roy Truly at the TSBD entrance and together they headed across the floor to the elevators. The elevators were stuck on an upper floor, so they took the stairs.

At 12:32 p.m., police officer Baker and Roy Truly reached the second floor and saw me in the lunch room. Junior and Harold had just left. Officer Baker, with his revolver drawn, called to me, “Come here.” I walked towards him. Officer Baker turned to Truly and asked, “Do you know this man, and does he work for you?” “That’s okay. He works here, that’s Lee Oswald,” answered Truly.

At 12:34 p.m., as I was leaving the building, a young man identifying himself as a Secret Service agent, asked me where the nearest pay phone was. I pointed the phone out to the agent then left the building. I went outside and stood around for five minutes with foreman Bill Shelly, and after hearing what had occurred, meaning the president had been shot, I knew I had to leave.

At 12:40 p.m., I left the book depository wearing a long-sleeve brown shirt, walked east on Elm Street and saw a city bus stopped in traffic as I was approaching Griffin St. I think I am being followed. I walked to the bus and began pounding on the door. The driver, later identified as Cecil McWatters, opened the door and allowed me, and a blond woman, to board the bus. I think the blond woman is a tail.

By 12:44 p.m., the bus was soon stalled in traffic and I got up from my seat, obtained a bus transfer, and left the bus via the front door. The blond woman left the bus at the same time via the rear door. I walked three blocks south on Lamar St. toward the Greyhound Bus station and got into William Whaley’s taxi. Whaley later said of me, “He wasn’t in any hurry. He wasn’t nervous or anything. He was wearing a dark brown button-up shirt, over a white t-shirt.”

At 12:54 p.m., I get out of the cab at Beckley and Neely Street, one block from my rooming house. No one seemed to be following me. I lost the tail.

At 1:00 p.m., I walked to my rooming house at 1026 Beckley Street. The housekeeper, Earlene Roberts, saw me come in and go to my room. She and I both heard a car horn toot and she said later that she looked out the window and saw Dallas police patrol car number 10.

At 1:05 p.m., I walked out of my rooming house and went to the bus stop. A police car pulled up and the officer slid over and opened the passenger door for me to get in. I am vaguely familiar with the officer from the Carousel Club and the coffee shop so I get in. Then, according to a pre-arranged plan, I’m driven to the Texas Theatre. The police officer, whose name I later found out was J. D. Tippit was sent to drive me because I don’t drive. I suspected my handlers arranged this.

1:07 p.m., Instead of driving directly to the Texas Theatre we pull over at 10th. and Patton. Two men get out of a gray car, approached our car, say something to Tippit and motioned for me to get out. Now the hair on the back of my neck stood up and I suspected trouble. I opened the door to get out but instead of going towards the two men I ran and dove into some bushes. I heard a gunshot and felt a round go over my head. I ran like hell between the houses into a backyard, over a fence, and onto the next street. I heard more shots but they didn’t seem to be coming in my direction. I later found out that Tippit was shot four times in the chest and stomach and a ‘coup de grace’ point-blank shot to the head. It had been said later that I was the prime target. The killing of Jefferson Davis Tippit was an unfortunate accident. He just got in the way. They pinned the killing on me to help motivate the Dallas police to kill me in the Texas Theatre, which would have in effect disposed of me, the scapegoat, before I could protest being framed.

1:13 p.m., I run as fast as I can to the theater about five blocks away. I hear police sirens in the distance. I enter the theater, take a seat and try to make contact with my cutout, a contact who I was told would be at the theater and would give me further instructions. You didn’t think I was trying to pretend I was not involved in this whole mess, did you?

At 1:17 p.m., I purchase popcorn from the concession clerk, and then returned to the lower level and take a seat next to a pregnant woman. Within a few minutes, we both get up from our seats. It was uncomfortable as she was not the cutout. I then walked again into the concession area and then back into the lower level and took a seat next to a fellow (later identified as Jack Davis) in the first row on the right side. Davis remembered that I was sitting next to him, in the nearly empty theater, as the opening credits to the movie began. After sitting next to Davis for a few minutes, I got up and walked past empty seats to the small aisle on the right side of the theater and into the concession area. Davis watched me as I again re-entered the theater and took a seat next to a man on the back row, directly across the aisle from Davis. Within a few minutes, I got up and once again returned to the concession area. I returned a few minutes later and took a seat across the aisle from Mr. Davis, next to another guy, and then moved to another seat in the fourth row. It appeared to Davis, as he later testified, that I was looking for someone, perhaps a contact.

At 1:45 p.m., I’m arrested at the Texas Theatre. How that happened went something like this. About 30 minutes earlier, Mrs. Julia Postal, selling tickets at the box office of the Texas Theatre, heard police sirens and then saw a man, she later identified as me, duck into the outer lobby space of the theater near the ticket office. Attracted by the sound of the sirens, Mrs. Postal stepped out of the box office and walked to the curb. Shortly thereafter, Johnny Brewer, who had come from the nearby shoe store, asked Mrs. Postal whether the fellow that had ducked in had bought a ticket. She said, “No; by golly, he didn’t.” Brewer told Mrs. Postal that he had seen the man ducking into his place of business and that he had followed him to the theater. She sent Brewer into the theater to find me and check the exits, told him about the assassination news on the radio, and said, “I don’t know if this is the man they want…but he is running from them for some reason.” She then called the police.

The police found me, watching a movie.

I was sitting alone in the rear of the main floor of the theater near the right center aisle. Brewer pointed me out, but the police searched two other theater patrons first. Then a policeman, later identified as M.N. McDonald, reached me and told me to get on my feet. Fearing these officers would also try and kill me I rose from my seat, bringing up both hands. As McDonald started to search my waist for a gun ... I struck him between the eyes with my left fist; and with my right hand, I drew a gun from my waist. McDonald struck back with his right hand and grabbed the gun with his left hand. We both fell into the seats. Three other officers, moving toward the scuffle, grabbed me from the front, rear and side. McDonald fell into the seat with his left hand on the gun, he later claimed he felt something graze across his hand and heard what sounded like the snap of the hammer. (I found out later that the gun I was given didn’t work. It had a bent firing pin.) McDonald felt the pistol scratch his cheek as he wrenched it away from me. A detective, who was standing beside McDonald, seized the gun. I was handcuffed, and led from the theater, and was, according to McDonald, “cursing a little bit and hollering police brutality.” They said I rambled. I think I did. “Well, it’s all over now. . . I don’t know why you are treating me like this. The only thing I have done is carry a pistol into a movie. . . I don’t see why you handcuffed me. . .Why should I hide my face? I haven’t done anything to be ashamed of. . . I want a lawyer. . . I am not resisting arrest . . . I didn’t kill anybody. . . I haven’t shot anybody . . . I protest this police brutality. . . I fought back there, but I know I wasn’t supposed to be carrying a gun . . .What is this all about?”

From 2:00 - 2:15 p.m., I’m driven to the police department. In the car, I’m questioned, and I ramble a bit more. “What is this all about? I know my rights. . . A police officer has been killed? I hear they burn for murder. Well, they say it just takes a second to die . . . All I did was carry a gun . . .Why are you treating me this way? … I am not being handled right . . . I demand my rights.”

At 2:15 p.m., I’m taken into the police department.

At 2:25 - 4:04 p.m., interrogation begins in the office of Captain Will Fritz. “My name is Lee Oswald; I work at the Texas School Book Depository Building.”

“Have you ever been in Mexico City?”

“I was never in Mexico City. I have been in Tijuana, though.” I’m asked dozens of questions and I fire back answers. “I never owned a rifle myself, but I was present in the Texas School Book Depository Building. I have been employed there since Oct. 15. My usual place of work is on the first floor. However, I frequently use the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh floors to get books. Because of all the confusion, I figured there would be no work performed that afternoon, so I decided to go home. I changed my clothing and went to a movie. I carried a pistol with me to the movie because I felt like it, for no other reason . . . and no I didn’t shoot President Kennedy or Tippit.”

From 4:45 - 6:30 p.m., the second interrogation began in Captain Fritz’s office. “When I left the Texas School Book Depository, I went to my room, where I changed my trousers, got a pistol, and went to a picture show. You know how boys do when they have a gun, they carry it. The only package I brought to work was my lunch. I got the pistol in Fort Worth several months ago . . . but I refuse to tell you where the pistol was purchased. I never ordered any guns . . . I am not a malcontent. Nothing irritated me about the president. Everybody will know who I am now.”

6:30 p.m., I appear in a lineup for witnesses Cecil J. McWatters, Sam Guinyard, and Ted Callaway. I have no idea who they are. On the way, reporters yell questions at me.

I answered back to reporters in the hall.

“… giving me a hearing without legal representation or anything.”

“Did you shoot the president?”

“I didn’t shoot anyone. No, sir.”

7:10 p.m., I’m arraigned for the murder of Officer J. D. Tippit of the Dallas Police Department.

7:55 P.M., In the hallway I responded to more questions from reporters.

“I’m asking for legal representation, but these police officers have not allowed me to have any. I don’t know what this is about.”

“Did you kill the president?”

“No, sir, I did not.”

“Did you shoot the president? Were you there?”

“I work in that building.”

“Were you in the building at the time?”

“Naturally, if I work in the building. Yes, sir.”

“Did you shoot the president?”

“No. They are taking me in because I lived in the Soviet Union. I’m just a patsy.”

8:55 p.m., A paraffin test is conducted in Captain Fritz’s office.

“I will not sign the fingerprint card until I talk to my attorney. . .What are you trying to prove with this paraffin test, that I fired a gun? You are wasting your time. I don’t know anything about what you are accusing me of.” A paraffin test is applied to my hands and right cheek. While they said my hands reacted positively my cheek did not. I told them that it was probably from all the ink from the books I pack.

At 12:10 a.m. Saturday, November 23, I appear in a lineup for a press conference. As I am being led to the lineup, reporters ask me about the earlier arraignment.

“Well, I was a questioned by a judge, however, I, ah, protested at that time that I was not allowed legal representation. So, during that, very short and sweet hearing, ah, I really don’t know what the situation is about. Nobody has told me anything, but I am accused of murdering a policeman. I know nothing more than that, and I do request someone to come forward to give me legal assistance.”

“Did you kill the president?”

“No. I have not been charged with that. In fact, nobody has said that to me yet. The first thing I heard about it was when the newspaper reporters in the hall asked me that question.”

“You have been charged.”

“Sir?”

“You have been charged.”

This was the moment I knew I was done for. My expression tells it all. I’m in shock and turn to leave. I’ve had it. As I am escorted away a reporter asked me a final question.

“What happened to your eye?”

“A policeman hit me.”

From 10:30 a.m. until 1:10 p.m., I am back for more interrogation in Captain Will Fritz’s office. “I never owned a rifle . . . I didn’t shoot John Kennedy . . . I didn’t even know Governor John Connally had been shot. I don’t own a rifle . . . I don’t own a rifle at all, but I did have a small rifle some years in the past.”

From 1:10 - 1:30 p.m., my mother, Marguerite, and my wife, Marina, along with my daughter, are allowed in to visit. “It’s a mistake. I’m not guilty,” I tell them.

At 1:35 a.m., I’m arraigned for the murder of President John F. Kennedy.

From 3:30 - 3:40 p.m., my brother Robert is allowed in to see me. “I don’t know what is going on. I just don’t know what they are talking about,” I tell him.

From 5:30 - 5:35 p.m., I’m visited by H. Louis Nichols, President of the Dallas Bar Association. “Well, I really don’t know what this is all about, but I have been kept incarcerated and kept incommunicado.”

6:00 - 6:30 p.m., I’m again interrogated in Captain Fritz’s office. “I have no receipts for the purchase of any gun, and I have never ordered any guns. I do not own a rifle, never possessed a rifle.”

Around 10:15 p.m., I try to make a phone call to my cut-out John Hurt in Raleigh, but I’m told there was no answer.

9:30 - 11:15 a.m., Sunday, November 24, I am back in Fritz’s office. Fritz asked me what happened after the assassination and he and the other detectives just keep firing questions at me. I told them, “After all the commotion, a police officer stopped me, and my superintendent of the place stepped up and told the officer that I am one of the employees in the building. A Secret Service agent came rushing into the School Book Depository Building and asked me, ‘Where is your telephone?’ He showed me some kind of credential and identified himself. ‘Right there,’” I answered, pointing to the phone … If you ask me about the shooting of Tippit … I don’t know what you are talking about … The only thing I am here for is because I popped a policeman in the nose in the theater on Jefferson Avenue, which I readily admit I did because I was protecting myself … I learned about the job vacancy at the Texas School Book Depository from people in Mrs. Paine’s neighborhood … I never ordered a rifle under the name of Hidell, Oswald, or any other name … I didn’t own any rifle. I have not practiced or shot with a rifle. I subscribe to two publications from Russia, one being a hometown paper published in Minsk, where I met and married my wife … I don’t recall anything about an A. J. Hidell being on the post office card. I presume you have reference to a map I had in my room with some Xs on it. I have no automobile. I have no means of conveyance. I have to walk to where I am going most of the time. I was seeking a job, and I would put these markings on this map, so I could plan my itinerary around with less walking. Each one of these Xs represented a place where I went and interviewed for a job, you can check each one of them out if you want to…but I told you I haven’t shot a rifle since the Marines, possibly a small bore, maybe a .22, but not anything larger since I have left the Marine Corps … I never received a package sent to me through the mailbox in Dallas, box number 2915, under the name of Alek Hidell, absolutely not … I did not kill President Kennedy or Officer Tippit. If you want me to cop out to hitting or plead guilty to hitting a cop in the mouth when I was arrested, yeah, I plead guilty to that. But I do deny shooting both the president and Tippit.

At 11:10 a.m., it was time for the preparation for my transfer to the county jail. I asked for a shirt from clothing that was brought to the office to wear over my T-shirt. “I don’t want a hat; I will just take one of those sweaters, the black one.”

At 11:15 a.m., Inspector Thomas J. Kelley of the Secret Service, has a conversation with me. Kelley approached me, out of the hearing of others, except perhaps Captain Fritz’s men, and said that as a Secret Service agent, he was anxious to talk with me as soon as I secured counsel because I was charged with the assassination of the president but had denied it. I said, “I will be glad to discuss this proposition with my attorney, and that after I talk with one, we could either discuss it with him or discuss it with my attorney, if the attorney thinks it is a wise thing to do, but at the present time I have nothing more to say to you.”

“I put the handcuffs on him,” Leavelle said.

“In the process of doing that, I more in jest kind of said, Lee if anybody shoots at you, I hope they’re as good a shot as you are, meaning, of course, that they’d hit him and not me. He kind of laughed and he said, oh, you’re being melodramatic, or something to that effect. Nobody’s going to shoot at me.”

At 11:21 a.m., while walking to the armored car that was to take me to the county jail, we came around the corner and were surrounded by reporters and TV crews. A man rushed towards me. I recognize him and thought to myself, Ruby? What are you….

I was shot once in the stomach. It was very painful but I could have easily survived. However, I laid there on the floor for 30 minutes and was given no bandages or oxygen, and no medical personnel attended to me. Leavelle did remove my handcuffs. When the ambulance finally arrived, I was placed on a stretcher and put in the back. The ambulance medical assistant in the front seat, beside the driver, was not asked to attend to me on the way to the hospital. Leavelle, Graves, and Detective Charles Dhority rode in the back with me, but neither made any attempt to stop the bleeding, or help me in any way. It’s as though they wanted me to die.

I was pronounced dead at Parkland Hospital at 1:07 p.m. local time.