The Inheritance: Poisoned Fruit of JFK's Assassination

The Inheritance: Poisoned Fruit of

JFK’s Assassination

Copyright ©2018 Christopher Fulton & Michelle Fulton. All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without express written permission.

This is a memoir; it is sourced from my memories, letters, and recollections. Dialogue is reconstructed, and some names and identifying features have been changed to provide anonymity. There is some informed, educated supposition about how actions affected historical events and meetings. The underlying story is based on actual happenings and historical personages.

Published by:

Trine Day LLC

PO Box 577

Walterville, OR 97489

1-800-556-2012

www.TrineDay.com

trineday@icloud.com

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018947033

Fulton, Christopher & Fulton, Michelle.

The Inheritance—1st ed.

p. cm.

Epub (ISBN-13) 978-1-63424-218-9

Kindle (ISBN-13) 978-1-63424-219-6

Print (ISBN-13) 978-1-63424-217-2

1. Kennedy, John F. -- (John Fitzgerald) -- 1917-1963 -- Assassination. 2. United States -- Politics and government -- History. 3. Kennedy, Robert F. -- 1925-1968. 4. Lincoln, Evelyn N. -- 1909-1995. 5. White, Robert L. -- 1949-2003. 6. Fulton, Christopher -- 1965- . 7. Conspiracies -- United States -- History. I. Title

First Edition

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Printed in the USA

Distribution to the Trade by:

Independent Publishers Group (IPG)

814 North Franklin Street

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312.337.0747

www.ipgbook.com

Publisher’s Foreword

No matter what the progress

Or what may yet be proved

The simple facts of life are such

They cannot be removed.

– Herman Hupfield,

As Time Goes By

Most welcome, bondage! for thou art away,

think, to liberty: yet am I better

Than one that’s sick o’ the gout; since he had rather

Groan so in perpetuity than be cured…

– William Shakespeare

Cymbeline, King of Britain

A Republic, if you can keep it.

– Ben Franklin

Personal testimony is something that TrineDay values highly.

I first heard about Chistopher Fulton from Robert Groden. Later I spoke with Christopher myself. We talked about the book business and the JFK assassination. I wisecracked that unless he was writing a book that said Lee did it, there wouldn’t be much press coverage. We didn’t talk much about his particular story. I asked if he had a manuscript. He said he was working on one. I told him that the Internet had roiled the publishing industry as much as anything, and there were now new ways to get a book to market that make self-publishing a viable option, mentioned other publishers that might be interested, and said to contact me once he had a manuscript.

Years later that happened, we talked some more, I asked him to send me his story. I received, sat down and read. Opened up Google, read, check, read, check. Wow! I was amazed that such an unknown narrative existed and appalled at the tortuous methods used by my government. Fulton’s story expanded and confirmed my understanding of the dynamics of the assassination, so I said, Yes, let’s do it, it needs to be done, for our country and . . . for our children and theirs.

The Inheritance: Poisoned Fruit JFK’s Assassination is a must-read for anyone concerned about the future . . . and the past, for that is where our fortunes lie. Only with a true understanding of our history can we move forward in a proper way.

Yes, some names have been changed, some dialogue recreated, and there is some conflation of characters and minor events, but the story is very real. The question being: What will become of it? What will we do?

There will be those who disparage, those who will throw cold water on Fulton’s tale, but then we have to deal, everday with those who say, Lee did it, and those who wonder why anyone even cares about a murder that happened over 50 years ago.

Few of us who were alive when it happened, can honestly not forget what happened that day . . . and what has changed. For some, it gnaws at our souls, lurks in our minds and can keep us up at night.

There is so much controversy and divisiveness within our polity today. I welcome opportunities for a new grasp of reality, giving us a much-needed foundation upon which to act.

I heartily applaud the outstanding courage, fortitude, and downright grit that the Fultons have shown and their hard-won contribution to our ongoing quest for truth, liberty, and justice.

Being almost threescore and ten, which I grant is no great feat, has taught me, generally through hindsight, a few things: Listen to what folks have to say. Do not sell yourself short. And remember, there are many among us who wish a better world, a brighter future . . . a more perfect union.

TrineDay is humbled to have the pleasure to present Christopher Fulton’s saga, The Inheritance: Poisoned Fruit JFK’s Assassination. Our hope is that it will help us understand our history, behold our destiny, heal our nation, and revive our republic!

Onwards to the Utmost of Futures!

Peace,

RA Kris Millegan

Publisher

TrineDay

August 31, 2018

Introduction

By Dick Russell

The main character of this book is not a human. It’s a timepiece: the gold Cartier watch worn by our 35 th President, John F. Kennedy – on the day of his assassination. His wife, Jacqueline, handed the watch to JFK that fateful morning of November 22, 1963. He was wearing it when the shots rang out in Dallas. It bore ballistics evidence. And it was no longer on his wrist when his body was flown to Washington, D.C., for the official autopsy.

For many Americans, including myself, time stood still that day. The moment of hearing the news engrained itself in the memory, subject to instant lifelong recall. Did you hear? Kennedy’s been shot! said the fellow student who informed me outside the high school cafeteria as everyone changed classes. The student wasn’t a friend, barely an acquaintance. But I still recall his name and will never forget his face.

If we could turn back the clock . . . and that is what The Inheritance does, in an anguished plea for truth to will out, written by a man whose own sacrifice to the time-honored cover-up is stranger than fiction. The bizarre story of how a successful building contractor—not yet born when JFK was gunned down—came to briefly inherit the watch is mind-boggling enough. What happened to Christopher Fulton subsequently is downright chilling.

The reason comes down to this: JFK’s watch was the single most compelling piece of evidence that Lee Harvey Oswald did not act alone, that someone else fired the fatal shot from the front, that a conspiracy existed—indeed that a coup d’etat may have taken place in Dallas. Forensics don’t lie—but they can be buried.

It was a fatal shot that echoed far beyond Dealey Plaza, from the little boy issuing the unforgettable farewell salute to his father at Arlington Cemetery to the grown man whose own demise may well have been linked to his desire to expose the wrenching truth. His name was John F. Kennedy, Jr. Time cannot heal all wounds when the bloodshed is ongoing.

The book you are about to read is written in novelist style and, if the chronicle weren’t so devastatingly real, one could hope it never happened. Did the time bomb detonate for Christopher Fulton because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time? In retrospect, maybe so. But in his naivete, how could he have known? Did he have to endure years of false imprisonment in order to emerge one day to relate this saga?

Many who might have shed light are dead: the first keepers of the watch, a nurse at Parkland Hospital and two Secret Service agents; JFK’s wife Jacqueline and brother Bobby; JFK’s private secretary, Evelyn Lincoln; the would-be museum-keeper, Robert White, to whom the fate-filled timepiece was bequeathed; the son, John Jr., who sought to wrest the watch from the jaws of eternity, to rewind and let it tell time.

Fulton alone has survived to reveal its story. In the process, his curious destiny unfolded; secrets were unveiled. A Russian official, a Secret Service man, later two different fellow prisoners who offered their inside knowledge of what had transpired as JFK sought to move the nation away from nuclear annihilation and toward peace.

As the President once said: We are not here to curse the darkness, but to light the candle that can guide us through that darkness to a safe and sane future.

I have long felt that this nation cannot truly move forward until the truth is faced about what really happened in Dallas. We saw our great leaders of the 1960s mowed down, men who would’ve helped us become an America vastly different than the bitterly divided and materially driven country we now inhabit. We have witnessed corruption replace compassion, Orwellian tweets supplant honesty.

The clock is running. Once upon a time . . . there was promise. Yet the legacy bequeathed here by Christopher Fulton recalls something else, the verse quoted by Robert Kennedy upon delivering the tragic news of Martin Luther King’s assassination in April 1968. The verse was from Aeschylus. It resonated deeply with Robert Kennedy, who himself would be slain two months later. And perhaps it may serve as a fitting introduction to what Fulton describes of his life and those times.

Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget

falls drop by drop upon the heart,

until, in our own despair,

against our will,

comes wisdom

through the awful grace of God.

Dick Russell is the author of thirteen books, including three on the Kennedy assassination.

To my mother,

who lost her life over the strain of these events,

and to Don Clark,

who finally convinced me on the 4th of July that this book

needed to be written.

***

I would also like to state my eternal gratitude for

President John F. Kennedy

and

Senator Robert F. Kennedy,

who sacrificed their lives for the betterment of the world.

Thank you.

***

I also dedicate this book to everyone who has served,

or is currently serving, in the Armed Forces of the United States.

Thank you for going above and beyond.

Acknowledgments

Special thanks to Nanny Mason, who put her life on hold and traveled from another country—multiple times—to care for us, our children, our dogs, and our home, so that we could finish this book.

Thank you to our agent, Joe Kolkowitz, who told us this book was important; he has supported us with his professional guidance from the very beginning.

Thank you, Kris Milligan of Trineday, a true patriot publisher who works to make a more-informed and better world for all of us.

Thank you, Pat Boylan and John Lett, who—published authors, themselves—devoted a substantial chunk of their time to edit our book.

Thank you, Dick Russell, for your advice regarding this book and for writing the Introduction.

Thank you to the good men and women of the intelligence community who encouraged us to write this book.

And thank you to all of our family members and dear friends, the truest measure of a great life.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Publisher’s Foreword

Introduction

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Prologue) Ask Not

November 22, 1963

1) What I Can Do For My Country

March 3, 1999

2) Inheriting Camelot

Mid-1995

3) Material Evidence

March 3, 1999

May 1995

December 31, 1995

January 1, 1996, 8:00 a.m.

4) The Approach

Early 1996

5) The Secrets of Events

January 1996

February 1996

Late February 1996

Mid-March 1996

June 1996

6) Under American Skies

July 1996

7) Newton’s Law

March 3, 1999

Early September 1996

8) Legacy

January 29, 1997

9) Divided By History

March 3, 1999

March 1997

10) Like A Game Of Chess

April 10, 1997

11) To Kill A Country

April 1997

March 3, 1999

12) For All Of U.S.

April 1997

13) Bonded By Blood

Early May 1997

14) Liberty Knell

March 3, 1999

Early May 1997

15) The Camelot Archives

Late July 1997

16) The Secrets Man

August 1997

November 22, 1963, 7:40 a.m.

August 1997

November 22, 1963

August 1997

November 22, 1963

August 1997

February 1967

March 16, 1968

March 25, 1968, San Fernando Valley State College

August 1997

17) Broken Promise

Late 1997

Late 1997

18) The Devil Cut In

Late 1997

19) Wings Of Wax

Late 1997

December 23, 1997

Early January 1998

20) A Matter Of National Security

January 10, 1998

January 22, 1998

February 4, 1998

February 6, 1998

February 12, 1998

March 3, 1998

21) Unamerican

March 8, 1998

March 9, 1998

July 1964

March 9, 1998

March 10, 1998

Friday the 13th, March, 1998

22) It’s Not The Fall, It’s The Stop

March 17, 1998

March 19, 1998

23) Letters To No One

March 20, 1998

24) Destiny or Destruction

March 21, 1998

March 22, 1998

25) Slipping The Snare

Late March 1998

26) Best Interests

March 28, 1998

27) Crossing The Threshold

Late March 1998

August 9, 1998

28) Red White and Bars

Prison Time

29) Knocking At The Door

Prison Time

30) Most Wanted

Prison Time

31) False Flag

Prison Time

32) Extradition

Prison Time

33) Diesel Therapy

Prison Time

34) The Gauntlet

Prison Time

35) Temporary Bodies

Prison Time

36) The Color Red

Prison Time

37) Life

Prison Time

38) Fighting The Green Lion

Prison Time

39) Wisdom

Prison Time

40) Holy Sin

February 1999

Two days later

Two days later

Prison Time

41) The Deal I Had To Make

February 1999

Prison Time

1997

1999

Prison Time

42) When All The Stars Have Fallen, There’s Nothing Left But Bars

March 3, 1999

March 6, 1999

43) Courage Rises With Danger

Prison Time

March 31, 1999

44) The Prophet’s Clock

April 19, 1999

45) The Wounds That Never Heal

Late June 1999

Prison Time

46) God Took A Holiday

Prison Time

47) Ameri-Can’t

Prison Time

48) The Most Dangerous Man

Prison Time

49) A Glint of Truth

Prison Time

50) The Keepers Of Secrets

Prison Time

51) Liberty And Justice For All

Prison Time

52) It’s Nothing Personal

Prison Time

53) Just Being Alive Is A Gift

Prison Time

54) One Hell of a Story

January 5, 2006

January 7, 2006

Prison Time

October 2006

55) Time Waits For No One

February 2007

56) You Can’t Go Home

March 2007

57) A New Future

Late March 2007

Documents & Photographs

Index

Contents

Landmarks

Prologue

Ask Not

November 22, 1963

Everyone’s efforts were useless; President John F. Kennedy was dead.

Mr. O.P. Wright, the head of Parkland Hospital’s security, was given a bullet; he placed it in his pocket. Soon after, he was given a gold wristwatch; he carefully wrapped it in his handkerchief.

The bullet was the foundation of the biggest lie in modern history, and the watch was secretly used to save us all from nuclear war . . .

– 1 –

What I Can Do For My Country

March 3, 1999

Today started out differently. I wasn’t forced onto government aircraft controlled by the United States marshals, I wasn’t stuck in cold holding cells for days, and my wrists and ankles weren’t chained to a lock box at my waist. No one had died today, and no one was trying to kill me. I was put in an unmarked car and I could see out the windows; I hadn’t seen outside in eight months. I was in the custody of IRS Agent Clara Mancini and FBI Special Agent Joe Callahan; they were driving me to the Federal Greenbelt Courthouse in Maryland. I had to go to the bathroom.

When we arrived I asked permission to relieve myself.

Absolutely not, spat Mancini contemptuously.

I’ll take him, Callahan said. He led me down the hall, and aggressively pushed me through the door of the men’s room. Stand still. In the privacy of the facility his demeanor changed; he spoke to me like I was a human being and unlocked my steel bracelets. Your files are stacked two feet tall on my desk. Why didn’t you just come in?

I rubbed my wrists; I was confused about his breach in protocol. Since my arrest, this was the first conversation with a government official that felt genuine, but I needed to know if he was trying to help me, or hurt me.

Callahan lowered his voice and spoke with more intensity. The attorney general is going to bury you. I know about your letter to the president; can you save yourself?

I don’t think . . .

A loud knock broke my response and Mancini’s aggravated voice came through the door. Hurry up.

Agent Callahan quickly snapped the cuffs back on my wrists and walked me out of the bathroom. I never got to go.

Both agents led me through a security door and down a hallway. Callahan turned to Mancini. You know we have to wrap this up before the Bush election.

Mancini gave him a distasteful look. Yup. She spoke abruptly to cut him off

As we arrived at the end of a long corridor, my lawyer, Stephen N. Salvin, stood waiting outside another secure door. Agent Mancini punched a code in the keypad and walked through. Agent Callahan left, and I remained in the custody of a federal marshal standing beside me.

Salvin had a strained look on his face. I can’t go in with you, he said, it’s a closed interrogation. You’ve waived your constitutional rights, but it’s the deal we had to make.

Deal was an interesting word to describe it.

Don’t hold anything back, Salvin instructed, the government wants answers. At this stage they don’t care whether you’re a terrorist, if you’ve killed a thousand people, or if you’ve dealt with atomic weapons; it’s all covered under your blanket immunity, in exchange for your cooperation.

My eyes locked on his. You know I’ve never done anything like that.

He nodded. Just remember, your family won’t be touched now.

My family . . . I started to collapse within myself. I couldn’t stay focused on what Salvin was saying; this was all too surreal. I knew I didn’t fully trust him, but I was forced to take his direction under threat of even more terrible consequence: I had no choice.

You’re facing fifty years, Salvin said. The Department of Justice’s recommendation will mean everything. Just try to forget how you feel. He scrutinized me.

I knew how I looked: sallow, sleep deprived, nauseated, a shell of my former self . . . and this was a good day.

He advised me to put the misery aside and answer their questions directly and calmly. "Everything will be taken down for the record. It’ll be classified, so we won’t have access to it. Just try to remember as much as you can and write it down as soon as you get a chance. I know it’s nearly impossible get anything to write with in the hellhole they’re keeping you in—that place is designed to break people—but it’s important you try. He looked at his watch. It’s time."

Too much was riding on this; my life was riding on this. I had to swallow my anxiety, my fear, but the question kept screaming in my brain: What the hell am I doing here? I took a deep breath and tried to appear composed, as the marshal escorted me through the door.

I was delivered into a small courtroom with a marble floor. The great seal of the United States hung above the proceeding. I walked through the center of the room to a podium. A federal judge and stenographer sat on my right, and a group of officials sat on the opposite side of the room. Their eyes followed me, emotionless. My cuffs were removed and Assistant District Attorney Stewart Barman ordered me to sit.

Barman addressed the room: This is a proffer session debrief for Mr. Christopher Fulton. He has agreed to this session of his own free will. He will answer all questions put to him under penalty of perjury. He has agreed to plead guilty to the charges against him and is facing up to fifty years of imprisonment. The Department of Justice will recommend a reduced sentence based on his cooperation. The government has granted Mr. Fulton and his immediate family blanket immunity for anything that is said here today, or any other information or actions that are known, or become known, that occurred prior to this proffer. The United States Government will not bring any further charges against Mr. Fulton or his family, or assist any foreign government in charging him or his family. He turned to me. Mr. Fulton, do you understand?

Yes. My mouth was dry, but I spoke clearly.

Please state your name and occupation for the record.

He was really asking, Who are you? . . . but I didn’t recognize myself anymore.

***

I grew up in Maryland, just outside the District. My mother was personable and smart, a stewardess, recommended by Howard Hughes to fly aboard the Lockheed Constellation shuttle between Washington and New York. Of the many important and interesting individuals she met, her favorite was Bobby Kennedy; they shared several long conversations together.

I learned from an early age about reputation and privilege, not from our family name or wealth, but from my mother’s remarkable way with people. When I was two years old, she arranged a private tour of the White House for me which included the upstairs rooms. I even met President Johnson. I can’t remember what he said to me, but I have a photograph to commemorate the occasion. From a very young age, I developed a great appreciation for history; my taste, desire, and love for it came from my mother’s influence.

My family roots grow deep in the soil of a proud American military heritage. I’m the descendant of William Vaughn Jr., who fought with distinction in the Revolutionary War, and General John C. Vaughn, who fought in the Civil War. Most of the men in my family tree served in the United States Navy. My parents assumed I would follow in those footsteps. When I turned eighteen, an Admiral wrote a letter of recommendation for my acceptance into the United States Naval Academy, in Annapolis; it was a great honor. I was on my way, and my family was sure my future was set, but I wanted something different; I wanted to do the kinds of things my father had done.

My father was the Vice President of Weldcrete, a company that supplied NASA with the exceedingly hard concrete used to withstand the intense heat and powerful exhaust from the Apollo rockets. As a boy, I collected patches from the missions that my father helped make possible.

Although I was one of the first men in my family not to serve in the Navy, I eventually became successful in the commercial construction industry. It took years of struggle, hard work, and personal sacrifice, but I reached my goal and fulfilled my dream: I became an independent general contractor. I would always be proud of that, but the real thread of passion throughout my life, my love of history—particularly American history—never left me.

***

In this cold courtroom, I was about to be questioned by U.S. Assistant District Attorney Stewart Barman, witnessed by representatives of the secret agencies intended to keep our nation safe, and the military I would have been a part of . . . My childhood was an unattainable memory, and my future was about to be stolen.

Mr. Fulton, please state your name, the prosecutor said again.

Yes, I said, as I pulled myself back into the present, my name is Christopher Fulton; I’m an independent general contractor.

Mr. Fulton, when did you first meet Mr. Robert L. White?

1994.

You were living in Maryland at that time, and Robert White was the friend of a friend?

Yes.

When did you become aware of Robert’s relationship with Evelyn Lincoln, President Kennedy’s personal secretary?

1996.

You’re saying he kept that information from you for two years?

Yes, I responded. The panel looked doubtful, so I continued, He had a deal with Mrs. Lincoln, to keep the information she shared with him secret until after her passing.

Mr. White only shared information with you after Mrs. Lincoln died?

Yes, that’s correct.

Why?

– 2 –

Inheriting Camelot

Mid-1995

The judge sat behind the bench in her traditional black robes. Mr. Robert L. White, do you understand why you are here today?

Robert nodded respectfully. Yes, ma’am.

The handful of people present looked on in silent anticipation. Robert didn’t recognize any of them. He was concerned someone else would try to lay claim to his inheritance. His palms were clammy, he was nervous; this ruling could change his life.

The judge continued, The matter before me is the evaluation of the wills of Evelyn Lincoln and Harold Lincoln. Harold Lincoln passed shortly after his wife. Maryland state law requires me to review his will; however, due to special circumstances I will review both wills to ensure the legality of their contents, to determine whether or not Mr. White shall inherit under their stipulated terms. At Evelyn Lincoln’s instruction, copies of both wills were sent to the John F. Kennedy Library. Nothing has been filed in contention by the library in this matter. Let’s proceed.

A calm voice came from the back of the courtroom. May I approach the bench?

Robert craned his neck as everyone in the courtroom turned to see who spoke. A silver-haired woman stood in the aisle; she was in her eighties and impeccably dressed.

Do you have something to add to this proceeding? the judge asked.

I do, Your Honor. My name is Angela Novello; I was Robert F. Kennedy’s personal secretary. She spoke with an air of competence that was well suited to her previous work. The room hushed.

Please approach the bench, Mrs. Novello.

Novello, with all eyes on her, walked towards the front of the courtroom. Standing before the judge, she removed an envelope from her purse, and placed it on the desk. This is for you, she said quietly.

The judge examined the envelope. There was a handwritten note on the front: This letter is only to be opened upon my death. It was signed: Evelyn N. Lincoln, secretary to the late President John F. Kennedy. The back of the envelope was secured with wax and stamped with the seal of the office of the President of the United States. The judge placed her hand over the microphone. What is this about?

Just above a whisper, Novello responded. This letter was given to me in case Mrs. Lincoln’s will was contested, or required to go through any court process. I was instructed to give it to the presiding judge for their eyes only.

The judge put on her reading glasses and weighed the gravity of breaking the seal. She understood the presidential seal was used for the private correspondence between the President and the U.S. Senate, but this was a unique situation. She broke it, and carefully opened the envelope. The letter inside was typed on White House stationary. She read in silence:

To whom it may concern,

As the private personal secretary of President John F. Kennedy, I, Evelyn N. Lincoln, was trusted with matters of the highest national concern. The intent of my will is to accomplish the best interests and directives given to me by the president’s brother, the late Robert F. Kennedy.

Following President Kennedy’s assassination, the citizens of our great country were left deserving information which they could not receive. In 1965, I took careful instruction from Robert Kennedy in regards to gathered and non-relinquished evidence in his custody, in relation to the assassination of President Kennedy. As instructed, I kept Robert Kennedy’s intentions secret to ensure the safety of the remaining Kennedy family.

In 1992, I bestowed upon Mr. Robert L. White, of Catonsville, Maryland, by way of gift, an important artifact worn by President Kennedy the day he was assassinated. I received this item with instructions from Robert Kennedy. I gifted it to Mr. White to ensure its transfer and safekeeping. A sealed letter, such as the one presented to you today, is included in my estate and must now accompany that artifact as a matter of law. That letter details the special circumstances of that item.

Upon his inheritance, Mr. White’s plan is to open a museum dedicated to President Kennedy. It would lie outside the jurisdiction of the National Archives and Records Administration and the John F. Kennedy Library. It is my hope he will be successful in that endeavor; however, the opening of his museum is not preclusion to his inheritance.

It is my intent that the materials saved by me, as President Kennedy’s secretary, and passed to Mr. White, shall not fall under the control of the CIA, the FBI, the NSA, the Pentagon, the National Archives and Records Administration, the John F. Kennedy Library, the White House, or any other branch of government or agency.

If my will is contested, or ruled upon in any way that results in Mr. White’s failure to receive as per my wishes, I have made arrangements, as directed by Robert F. Kennedy, for copies of all sensitive information in my keeping, related to the national security interests of the United States, to be published by a foreign press.

My final wishes are for this letter to become a permanent part of the record of my last will and testament, and be placed under seal.

Evelyn N. Lincoln

Personal secretary to the late President John F. Kennedy

The judge put down the letter, removed her glasses, and looked at Mr. White. A heavy burden had been placed upon her: based on her ruling, security interests of the United States could be exposed. We will take a recess while I review the wills in chambers; court will adjourn for two hours. She hammered down her gavel.

Everyone in the room was intrigued by the mysterious letter that prompted the recess. Robert rose from his seat to speak with Mrs. Novello but his wife, Jacquelyn, put a restraining hand on his arm. Now’s not the time, she said. Robert felt uneasy; he would have to wait even longer to find out if the items bequeathed to him, which once belonged to President John F. Kennedy, would legally be his at the end of the day.

Precisely two hours later, Mr. White and his wife sat nervously in the courtroom when the bailiff said, All rise. The judge entered from chambers, and took her seat on the bench. Wasting no time she stated, In the matter before me today, as aforementioned, I find the last will and testaments of Evelyn Lincoln and Harold Lincoln to be legal and sound. I find that Mr. Robert White will inherit according to the Lincoln’s wishes. Again her gavel struck the sound block; to Robert the sound was like music.

***

FBI Special Agent Joe Callahan left the will hearing immediately, and drove to FBI’s headquarters in downtown Washington D.C. After writing his report, he walked to the office of Director Louis J. Freeh.

My report, sir, Callahan said, as he placed it on the director’s desk.

Anything out of the ordinary? Freeh asked, while looking at the report.

Yes, sir. I believe our Russian counterpart was there, and Robert Kennedy’s secretary approached the bench. She gave a letter to the judge.

Freeh looked up sharply. And?

The content of the letter was not read aloud. White inherited.

Freeh made a guttural acknowledgment before saying, Now this is a concern for national security. I’ll have a judge approve a wiretap for White’s residence; I want you to monitor it.

Yes, sir.

***

President Bill Clinton sat at his desk in the Oval Office reading over the CIA’s morning brief. Something unusual in the report caught his attention:

A large amount of non-reviewed and non-classified materials, belonging to former President John F. Kennedy, formally secured by his secretary, Evelyn Lincoln, has been willed to a private citizen following Lincoln’s death on May 11 of this year. These materials were transferred to Robert L. White of Catonsville, Maryland, by judicial order. At this time, the extent of materials in Mr. White’s possession is unknown, as are his intentions, although he has been an avid self-promoter in the press. There are strong indications that the materials contain information regarding the policy of the United States with Cuba, and evidence in the assassination of President Kennedy. These materials require above top secret classifications; they were originally withheld from that process by Robert F. Kennedy. This transfer is a national security concern. The code name assigned to this matter is: The Evelyn Lincoln Project.

President Clinton telephoned former Presidents Bush, Reagan, Carter, and Ford to notify them. Former President G.H.W. Bush told President Clinton that the best course of action was to order the Assassination Records Review Board to meet immediately with the FBI, the Department of Justice, and the National Archives, to discuss the security concern and arrive at a course of action. They would report directly back to President Clinton who, in turn, would keep his predecessors informed.

– 3 –

Material Evidence

March 3, 1999

The courtroom was cold and unforgiving. Robert kept everything secret until Evelyn Lincoln’s passing, because that’s what she instructed him to do.

Barman asked his next question with sudden intensity. Do you work for, or have you ever worked for, the Canadian Security Intelligence Service?

No.

Why did you meet with one of their former agents?

I met him by chance.

What did he tell you?

That I had something the CIA and Mob had been looking for.

Did he tell you why they wanted it?

No.

Attorney General Janet Reno had personally requested that Stewart Barman conduct Fulton’s interrogation; she wanted this handled. He was good at his job, trained to keep the pressure on and keep the enemy very motivated to answer his questions.

Your wife’s name is Shauna Fulton and she resides in Vancouver, Canada?

My pulse quickened. Yes. Any questions about my family made me very uneasy.

Your wife first met Robert White in New York in 1998? Barman pressed.

I knew I had to respond to any questions posed to me. My family’s protection shackled me to the government’s resolve, and Barman knew it. That’s correct, I answered.

We know you have only spoken with your wife twice since your arrest. What role did she play . . . re-phrase . . . what was your wife’s part in the development of the assassination evidence?

I looked straight at Barman, whose job it was to tear me into small pieces of my former self.

Nothing . . . she has nothing to do with this.

May 1995

Iwas living in British Columbia, Canada, indefinitely, working to modernize the downtown core of Vancouver by building new skyscrapers. The work was exhausting, sometimes a twenty-four-hour-a-day headache, but it was a beautiful city, and my hard work was about to become worth it. I had met a girl; I had met the girl.

Shauna had appeared in my life while I was walking my rescue dogs: Leo, a white and brown husky; Kelley, a black and brown English shepherd; Tao, a chocolate Dalmatian; and Bear, a 130-pound black lab. I was throwing a ball down the beach for them at Ambleside Dog Park, when a wide throw sent the ball flying into the water. I thought my dogs would splash in after it; instead, they just stood at the water’s edge and stared at the ball, then stared back at me. Don’t look at me, I said, that’s your job.

I’ll get it, an unfamiliar voice rang out. I turned to see an attractive young woman, with a warm smile, jump up from the bench behind me, and hurry onto the sand.

I protested, You don’t have to do that.

But I want to, she said.

No, really, wait a minute, I said, trying to untie my laces and get my shoes off quickly.

But I want to! she exclaimed again, already in the shallows.

It wasn’t how I was raised; I should have been the one in the water. But I stood there, anchored in that moment. The water lapped the bottom of her skirt as she stretched out her arm to retrieve the ball.

Here you go, she called back, and threw it towards the shore, to the great excitement of my dogs. They clambered over each other to get to their beloved toy. I looked at her and smiled, and in return she gave me a smile I would never forget.

Suddenly she lost her footing on the slippery rocks and splashed into the chilly waters. She completely submerged before bouncing up with a look of surprise on her face. Her clothes clung coldly to her skin. My mouth dropped open in horror. I quickly waded towards her, but she burst out laughing. It gave me the warmest feeling, like I had known her since we were kids, and had always secretly been in love with her.

My dogs watched as we both made our way back to shore. Bear seemed to have a grin on his face, a clear communication that the pairing was alright by him. Once on the rocky beach, Leo, Tao, Kelly, and Bear all ran to her. Without a thought of being soaking wet, she crouched down to pet each of them and return their kisses. Traitors, I said, enjoying the moment. I couldn’t blame them; she had my undivided attention, too. You must be cold. I moved to put my jacket around her shoulders.

Not at all, she smiled, The sun is shining; I’ll dry. My name’s Shauna. She looked directly into my eyes as she held out her hand.

Right then and there I knew: she was the one.

December 31, 1995

Shauna and I were invited to attend a private New Year’s Eve party aboard a charter yacht in Coal Harbor. It was hosted by Mehran Mikhailov, a Russian businessman for whom I was building a tower in the city. When we arrived at eight p.m., the alcohol was freely flowing, prompting much merriment in the partygoers. Shauna and I didn’t partake; neither of us was particularly fond of the effects. But the lights and festoons glittered; they reflected elegantly in the gently rippling water, and the band was talented and energetic, heightening our enjoyment of the evening.

There must have been two hundred people there; some we knew, most we didn’t. Early in the evening, the rise and fall of chatter drew us to a particular group of people that seemed more intensely concentrated than the rest. At its center stood a charismatic man I didn’t recognize. As we moved closer, parts of his story reached us over the throng.

I fought . . . Falklands . . . with the British . . . some time ago now . . . Souvenir. At that, he pulled up his shirt to reveal an array of small round scars that marked his torso. We joined the crowd to hear the rest of his narrative: I was shot six times; I woke up in a body bag. A few women gasped, and a man shook his head in disbelief. As he finished his account, he lowered his shirt, and turned away from the crowd that was eating out of his hand. Before he walked away I stopped him. We just caught the end of your story; it was fascinating! My name is Christopher and this is my girlfriend, Shauna.

Cable Wade, he said.

Somebody must have had great aim to hit you six times and allow you to live, I remarked, in awe of his survival.

Cable laughed. Yes, I agree.

We talked for a while; he was interesting . . . different. He asked what I did for work. When I asked him the same, he said he was out of it for the time being. Then I inquired if he had any New Year’s resolutions.

Yes, a very important one. He half smiled, before taking a swig of his drink. Next year, I’ll be switching from Whisky to Gin.

Shauna laughed out loud.

What about you? he asked, his glass still hovering at his lips.

Nothing so serious as yours . . . I wasn’t going to share my plans of marriage with Shauna standing right beside me. Changing tack, I asked him about the unusually large watch he was wearing.

"This is an Omega Marine Chronometer. When I bought it in 1976, it was the most accurate timepiece in the world. Jacques Cousteau has one

. . . What do you wear?"

I don’t wear one, but I recently acquired President Kennedy’s wristwatch . . .

Really? What make is it?

I thought Cable would have been more surprised by my statement, but he remained un-readably cool.

It’s a gold Cartier.

With his initials on the back?

Did he guess that? That’s right.

Cable emptied his glass, before saying, It was very nice to meet you, Christopher, Shauna. Have a happy new year. With that he walked away.

His departure seemed abrupt, but we had other people to meet so I didn’t think much of it.

The rest of the evening had an enjoyable progression until the countdown to midnight: 3, 2, 1 . . . Shauna and I kissed as noisemakers sounded and people cheered.

Shortly after the stroke of midnight we were making our way off the yacht when Cable approached, from seemingly nowhere, and stopped us in our tracks. I’d like to speak with you tomorrow, he said, in a tone rather unsuited to the surrounding high spirits. I assumed he wanted to discuss a potential job opportunity. It seemed odd he would be so eager on a holiday, but perhaps he had reevaluated his New Year’s resolution. I’m sure we can work that out, I said, and handed him my card.

January 1, 1996, 8:00 a.m.

My doorbell rang. Sleepy and bleary eyed, I made my way to the front door. Who on earth would call so early on New Year’s Day ? I opened the door and was taken aback to see Cable Wade and a tall, slender woman with subtly greying hair. Cable was notably more somber and sober than the night before.

I was obviously missing something; the card I had given him only provided my name and phone number and now, just a few hours later, he was standing on my doorstep with a strange woman. I didn’t know how I should feel . . . I was just confused. How did you know where I live? It burst out of my tongue-tied mouth before I even said hello.

I haven’t been totally honest with you . . . Cable stood his ground on my doorstep and kept direct eye contact with me. I have something important to discuss with you; can we come in?

I found the change in his character intriguing. His stance and speech were authoritative but not threatening; I felt compelled to trust him. Yes, I said, and fully opened the door.

Cable thanked me as he and the enigmatic woman made their way inside. We settled in the living room. This is Sasha Luken, he said.

I reached out my hand. Sasha’s long, delicate fingers just barely touched mine in something I would be hard-pressed to call a handshake.

What did you mean when you said you weren’t honest with me? I asked.

I used to work for CSIS, the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. He handed me his military ID and his security credentials. When you told me you had acquired President Kennedy’s Cartier watch, I immediately called my former CIA counterpart in San Francisco. After some discussion, we came to the conclusion that you are in possession of something very important, something the CIA, and the Mafia, have been trying to locate for the past thirty-three years. . . What do you know about the watch?

I was caught off guard. Not much, just that it was given to JFK by his wife as an anniversary gift and he wore it as a senator.

Who did you get it from?

"A friend . . . What is this about?

Do you have the watch here?

My instinctual reaction was to become defensive, but I wanted to know where this was going. If I did?

Would you consider letting us see it? I thought I sensed urgency in his request.

I contemplated for a moment; I wouldn’t find out what this was all about if I didn’t follow through. Yes, it’s here, I said. Give me a moment.

I kept the watch in a box in the safe in my bedroom. After retrieving it, I placed the open box on the coffee table.

Cable looked at me. May I pick it up?

Yes.

He put on a pair of reading glasses, fished a magnifier from his breast pocket, and carefully picked up the watch. He inspected it slowly and carefully, front and back. When he was finished, he placed the magnifier and his glasses on the table and handed the watch to Sasha. He observed her intently as she held it in her hand and closed her eyes. Cable politely gestured for me to remain silent. We both sat still and hushed, as if in prayer, waiting for Sasha. After a brief moment, she jolted in her seat. She opened her eyes and hurriedly replaced the watch in its original position on the table. She nodded to Cable.

Christopher, I’m sorry, he