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When They Kill a President, by Roger Craig PART 4

After a few weeks back on my important job of keeping the
shopping carts in line I found that at a dollar and sixty cents an
hour I had too much month left at the end of the money. We were
behind on our rent and, oh well, back to the want ads.
We found a couple who were looking for someone to live in and
care for their elderly mother, rent free. After all this time
there was something free? Getting settled did not take very long-
-with just a few clothes. This worked out fairly well. I worked
twelve hours a day and Molly did all of the washing, ironing,
cooking and cleaning--in addition to caring for Terry, Deanna and
Roger Jr. (who had been staying previously with his grandmother).
Did I say free?
In the meantime Penn had returned from San Francisco and during
a visit to our house he told me he could get me a job in Midlothian
working at an oil refinery and that the pay was $500.00 per month.
I hated to give up the prestige of my present position but money
was money. I gave my employer notice and on April 15, 1968 I
started work at the refinery. This was not crude oil but used
motor oil--we re-re-processed it. The work was new to me and I had
never re-refined used motor oil before. I found that I was a
little soft. I had to dump three thousand pounds (50 fifty-pound
bags) of clay into hot oil every morning and pump it back into the
still which cooked it. This whipped me into shape quite
rapidly. I was not concerned with the physical work involved for I
knew that I had a chance to support my family and that was what
The work went smoothly until the second Thursday of May, 1968
when, while trying to start an engine at the plant, I slipped and
broke my arm--"good ole lady luck." I had my arm set and missed
one day of work. On Monday morning I returned to work, knowing I
could not live on workmen's compensation, which was about $40.00
per week. I painfully continued to work with the arm in a cast for
the next six weeks.
During this six week period my boss had offered to let me move
into a house he owned in Midlothian so that I would be closer to
work. I took him up on the offer because I was driving sixty miles
each day to work and back and Molly was worried about me driving
and working with the broken arm and--again I was being followed.
During this time a Dallas Sheriff's car stopped me and asked
where I was going. I had known this deputy for several years and
there was no reason for his behavior. Molly's health was getting
worse. She had serious stomach disorders and the strain of past
events had not helped--so we moved. Now we were in Midlothian and
I was driving four miles to work and back.
During the time I was still driving back and forth from Dallas
to Midlothian--or the job--I noticed that I was being followed by a
blue and white pick-up, occupied by a white male. One day, after
being followed by this truck for several days, as the truck was
approaching the driver stuck a revolver out the window and was
about to fire, when another car pulled up behind me and he withdrew
the pistol.
My hours were never the same two days in a row but this man
seemed to know the precise hour I would leave work. Penn Jones and
I tried to set a trap for this man but, apparently, he knew it and
got away. I never saw him after that.
It was six weeks since I had broken my arm and this was the day
I was to have the cast taken off. I felt good as it had been quite
a burden. On that morning I reported for work and started
preparing the pumps and tanks for cooking the oil when lady luck
smiled down on me once again. I started to light the furnace and
it blew up, burning my face and a good deal of hair and my arms.
This was around the first of July, 1968. After the doctor treated
me, he advised me that I would have to wear the cast another two
weeks because he was afraid that I would get an infection in the
burned area if the cast were removed. I do not want to leave the
impression that my conflict with the Dallas establishment was the
direct cause of these accidents. However, had the door not been
closed to me in Dallas, I would not have had to turn to work with
which I was not familiar.
In August of 1968 (while living in Midlothian) I received a
visit in the middle of the night from a man in his fifties who said
he was out of gas. I was already in bed and Molly was catching up
on some of my court records when this man came to the door. Molly
told him I was in bed with a sprained ankle and would not be able
to help him. She directed him to the neighbors down the road. He
went straight to his car, which was parked beside our house, got
in, started it right up and drove off! Apparently, he was not out
of gas but wanted us to know we could be found. This was about the
time Penn was printing some pretty hot editorials in his paper with
information I had supplied. I guess someone didn't like it.
I made some friends in Midlothian and was getting along fairly
well. I had a job, a place to live and was able to purchase a used
The City Council was taking applications for a city judge.
After talking it over with Penn Jones and some of my other friends,
I went before the council for an interview, and, I must say, it was
somewhat of a surprise when they appointed me. The future was
beginning to show some promise. I continued the work at the
refinery and pursued my new duties at city hall.
On August 5, 1968, Bill Seward, the only other employee at the
refinery, was discussing a better way to process the oil with Dale
Foshee, the owner. They were going to try something new in an
attempt to obtain a better quality of oil. Dale purchased a new
type of clay which would absorb more waste from the used oil as it
cooked. Neither of these men told me that this new clay contained
a substantial amount of some sort of acid. This meant that when I
dumped it (the clay) into the hot oil tank, as I did every morning,
and did not wear any sort of breathing devise, I inhaled a great
deal of the dust from this new product.
Shortly after I started cooking the oil I noticed I was having
trouble breathing. I did not pay much attention to it and
finished the day's work. That night the acid really got to me and
I found myself passing out. I tried lying my head right in the
window to get enough air--but still could not. Penn Jones came to
the house and he and Molly rushed me to the hospital in Mansfield,
Texas, about ten miles from Midlothian. I stayed under an oxygen
tent for two days. On the fourth day I felt much better and was
released from the hospital.
I had learned, about a week before going to the hospital, that
the Justice of the Peace in Midlothian was resigning and I was
persuaded by friends to seek that position. I had talked with the
county commissioners before I went to the hospital and they made
their final decision on the day I came home from the hospital. I
was sworn in as Justice of the Peace on August 8, 1968. I would be
an appointee until the November election. Now I was working at
the refinery, holding the position of City Judge and also Justice
of the Peace. The city paid me $50.00 a month and the Justice of
the Peace position brought in about $50.00 a month. I was not
getting rich but look at it this way, I was the entire
establishment in Midlothian!
The business for the city was very routine and went rather
smoothly. However, the Justice Court was another matter. I was
having to correspond with the surrounding counties and they were
all cooperative, with one exception (you guessed it), Dallas
County. Some warrants, citations and subpoenas were sent to the
Dallas County Sheriff for service. Needless to say, they were
returned "unable to locate"!
So the door was still closed to me in Dallas--even in matters of
the law which these officials were sworn to uphold. Now, also
Decker knew where I was and it was not long before my creditors,
with whom I had been trying to make arrangements to pay a little to
each month, had obtained judgments against me in the Dallas courts
and I had been served with the papers. Now there was no hope of
clearing my credit without paying everyone in full, which was
impossible (I'll bet his glass was really shining). The next few
weeks I managed to avoid my contact with the Good People of Dallas,
hoping that they would forget about me--a fat chance!
In October 1968, my oldest son (Roger, Jr.) wasn't doing well in
school and he decided to run away from home. I was, of course,
very concerned about him--he was only fourteen years old. I
contacted the "Dallas Morning News" to see if they would print his
picture. I might have just as well invaded Russia. My name was
immediately connected with Jim Garrison and before I could say stop
the press, my name and connection with Jim was all over the
newspaper, UPI, radio and television. I was getting calls from all
over the country.
A couple of days later we received a call from the sheriff in
Texarkana, Arkansas. He had Roger Jr.. We went to Arkansas and
retrieved him as quietly as possible. He had been working for one
day on a ranch.
On October the seventh I reported to work at the refinery at
which time my boss handed me a check marked, FINAL. He told me he
was cutting down on production due to a slowdown in business and he
wouldn't need me anymore. Now where have I heard that before?
Being Justice of the Peace, I wasn't without influence in
Midlothian. I soon secured a job at a gas station changing truck
tires. Not much prestige but a lot of hours and I quickly
commanded the respect of every tire tool in the place.
A few days later, my former employer came to me and said that I
would have to move out of his house because he wanted to use if for
a week retreat to get away from Dallas.
By this time I was beginning to suspect the periodic publicity I
had been receiving through the years, might have had something to
do with my trouble finding jobs and housing. I guess I am a little
slow--especially when this former employer hired someone to take my
place at the refinery. He let him move into the house where I
lived--as I found out sometime later. So now I had to work 12
hours a day and try to find a place to move my family. The
election was coming up. This would not have been important except
for the fact that being Justice of the Peace served as a deterrent
from harassment by certain people, whose names I need not mention.
It was November and I still had been unable to find a house to
rent. Midlothian was a very small town and there were just no
houses to rent. Anyway, the election was over and I had won by
twenty votes. No doubt, twenty people who did not read the paper
or watch television. I continued working at the gas station and
living in my former employer's house. The election had done at
least one thing for me. Dale still wanted me to move but was not
pressing as hard. The days which followed were hard--we had rain
and some sleet and working in this was beginning to affect my
health. Molly was ill and Deanna, who had suffered from chronic
bronchitis since birth, was not doing any better than we were.
December was on us before I knew it and Mr. Roberts, the owner,
decided to retire from the gas station. This meant, of course,
that I was back on the street.

* * * * * *


Our President is lying up there cold beneath his flame
He is calling out for vengeance and to do so in his name.
To keep the peace forever and erase our nation's shame
His dream goes marching on.

This time there were no jobs to be found. However, business in
the Justice Court was somewhat improved due to the opening of a sub
station in Midlothian by the Highway Patrol. I could not pay the
rent or meet the bills but the increase was enough to buy
groceries. I had resigned as City Judge so that there would be no
conflict of interest between the two positions (City and County
It was at this time that I was notified by District Attorney,
Jim Garrison, that he would need me in the upcoming Clay Shaw trial
--another wrench in the machinery. The night after I was notified
of this I received a telephone call and the voice asked if I was
going to go to New Orleans. When I answered, "yes", he just said,
"get a one-way ticket" and then hung up. I brushed this off as
just another crank. I'd had those calls before. However, the next
day I received another call. This time it was a different voice.
This one asked if I were going to New Orleans and when I said,
"yes", all he said was, "Remember you have a family" and hung up.
I must admit this worried me. After that I would get up during the
night and check the family and house--not a very pleasant way to
During this turmoil I at last had a prospect of getting back
into that illusive pastime called "employment"--it was again Penn
Jones to the rescue--and I say this with the greatest respect and
admiration! Penn had been corresponding with a friend of his in
Boulder, Colorado, regarding helping me find employment out of
Texas, which seemed the only thing left. The friend suggested to
Penn that I make a trip to Boulder to check into some leads so the
Jones family made the arrangements and I was off to Boulder. This
was in January 1969.
I arrived in Boulder and was met by members of the Students for
a Democratic Society, whose names I will not mention. (J. Edgar
Hoover should not have his work made so easy.) They took me from
the airport and arranged for my lodging. The next three days I
filled out applications at various places, including the Boulder
Police Department and Sheriff's Office because those were the
positions I was most qualified for and I believed I could be a cop
and still have compassion for my fellow men. If they would not
accept me that way, I could always quit--after all, I was an expert
at being out of work.
After I had exhausted all possibilities, I thanked the people
who had been so kind to me and returned to Midlothian, Texas to
wait. I had been home about one week when I received word from the
Boulder Sheriff's Department that there would be an opening soon
and if I wanted the job, it was mine. Satisfied that the out of
Texas bit was going to pay off, the Penn Jones, bless them,
financed the trip back to Boulder. This time the family went with
me. We drove straight through from Midlothian to Boulder. The
second day in Boulder we found an apartment or two we might be
able to afford until I started getting regular pay checks. I felt
good about having a chance at a new start as I went to see Under
Sheriff Cunningham.
When I arrived at the Sheriff's Department, Cunningham took me
to his office, asked me to sit down and closed the door. It was
then that I began to get that feeling I'd had so many times before
when I was about to get the purple shaft. Sure enough, I had
managed to lose a job before I even started. Mr. Cunningham began
to ask me about my background with the Dallas Sheriff's Department
(which he already knew from my previous visit) and the reason for
my termination. Then he brought out his big gun, "What about Jim
Garrison?" Well, knowing I'd been had, I told him I was going to
have to testify in the Shaw trial (which I'm sure he already knew).
I'd heard about every excuse there was for not hiring me but he
should have handed me this one in a gift-wrapped "surprise"
package. "Mr. Craig," he said, (I had been Roger until then)
"we've had a little situation here" and he went on--it seemed that
one of their jailers had seduced a sixteen-year old girl while she
was in their custody--WOW--and with *that* and my connection with
the Garrison probe, the heat would be more than they wanted to
handle. He was sorry. So was I--all the way back to Texas.
When we arrived back in Midlothian we were all exhausted and
very *disappointed*. Molly had the flu, Deanna a bad cold and the
strain of the past few weeks had taken its toll on me. I was
having trouble with my stomach and lungs and was down to 138
pounds. It was February 1, 1969. We had just enough money left
from the trip to perhaps rent a house and buy a few groceries.
Dale Foshee was pressing me again to move and I had nowhere to go
and no prospects of a job. Like a wounded animal, I could only
think of returning to familiar surroundings--the place that I had
spent most of my adult life.
We drove to Dallas and by some streak of luck sneaked by a
property owner and managed to rent a house. Before this poor,
misguided soul could change his mind, we gathered up our belongings
in Midlothian and moved back to Dallas, where I again applied my
trade of LOOKING for work.
I spent the following days filling out many applications and
some of the interviews were even promising. I was very careful not
to mention any part of my involvement in the assassination.
However, on February 13, 1969 I was summoned to New Orleans to
testify in the Clay Shaw trial. On the 14th when I finally took
the stand the defense tried very hard to discredit me by saying
that I worked in New Orleans and was, in fact, *still* working in
that city under an assumed name. Failing to discredit me, they
accomplished the next best thing, the distorted version appeared in
newspapers and wire services throughout the country.
When I returned to Dallas on February 16, 1969 I was to realize
the full impact of this distorted news story for when I contacted
the job possibilities I had before I testified I found all doors
closed. On March 4--after several days of no openings, or being
told that I was not qualified, or that they would call me, which
they never did--I found a job with Industrial Towel and Uniform
Company of Dallas. This was a rental company and they needed men
so that all I had to do was pass a polygraph test to prove I was
not a thief, which I passed!
NOW I was a Route Salesman. Ponder that awhile--a Judge reduced
to picking up dirty laundry. Oh, well, work is work! Still weak
and underweight from being sick during January and February, I was
determined to make it on my new job.
I left home at 5:45 a.m. and arrived at the plant a little after
6:00 a.m., put my route slips in order, loaded my truck and started
my deliveries. I got back to the plant about 4:30 p.m., unloaded
the dirty linens, turned in my money and charge slips and got back
home around 6:30 p.m. This was the season for cold, rainy
weather--wouldn't you know? I had been to a doctor who gave me
some medication for the chest infection I had developed and the
medicine kept me going until March 14--when I, literally, ran out
of gas.
On March 18, Molly called Penn and told him that I was not
any better. Penn began to make arrangements for me to be admitted
to the Veterans Hospital, where he was to meet me. By this time I
was out of it and Molly called an ambulance. I had completely
passed out by the time it had arrived. I knew that I was going to
the V.A. Hospital but when I woke up a short time later I knew I
was not at the V.A. Hospital. Those dirty bastards had taken me to
Parkland Hospital, which has a reputation for saving people
comparable to my employment record for the past two years. I
gathered what strength I had, got off the stretcher and staggered
down the hall.
Molly had reached Penn, who was waiting at the V.A. Hospital, and
he was madder than hell as he hated Parkland Hospital even more
than I did. So, I finally wound up at the V.A. Hospital via Penn's
car, where I spent the next ten days. I was released from the
hospital on March 28, 1969 with instructions not to work out in the
weather until my lungs had improved. This, of course, eliminated
my job as a route salesman.
I knew an inside job was going to be hard to find from my
experience during the past two years. First of all, I knew that
when my rererences were checked Decker would not give me a
favorable recommendation--if he even gave one at all. Second, my
unstable employment record during the past two years had resulted
in a disastrous credit rating. Eight years of experience in
various responsible duties at the Sheriff's Office were gone. They
had, indeed, done their work well!
After many weeks of search I still had no job and was again
behind on the rent. At this point we took two cameras, one 8
millimeter movie and one Minor still, our projector and screen and
sold them for enough to rent a cheaper house. We moved into a
three room house on Gurley Street which wasn't much but it kept out
the rain!
One day I got a wild idea. I would go down to the Federal
Building and apply for a government job--those people will hire
anybody--well, almost anybody. I passed the civil service test and
was told they had a job coming up in the office and I was qualified
for it. I was to go back in two days to begin work. Things were
certainly looking up. I went over to my father-in-law's and drank
all of his beer to celebrate.
The two days passed and I headed for my government job, which
was to be handling correspondence from other government agencies--
they do a lot of writing to each other. Well, when I arrived I was
ushered into one of those cubby hole offices AGAIN, where I was
told that they had received a memo telling them the budget was
being cut and my job was being eliminated (I hadn't even started).
Oh, well, at least I was losing "more important" jobs now.
On June 1 I answered an ad for an Assistant Manager's job at a
liquor store, where the only qualification was that I pass another
polygraph test, which I did, proving that I had not yet turned to
stealing. The next day I reported for work to find that I was a
delivery boy again. My job was restocking private clubs throughout
Dallas who bought merchandise from the store. I soon made friends
with all the club owners and every time I would make a delivery,
they would insist on buying me a drink. I was making $1.87 an
hour. I wasn't the highest paid delivery boy in town but after a
few stops I was probably the happiest!
In the meantime being out of work from March until June 1, I was
again behind on the rent as well as the car payment on my used 1965
Buick. The landlord had asked us to move. I tried to explain my
situation and the fact that I was *now* working and would try to
catch up on the rent but he didn't care--I had to go. It was two
weeks before I received a pay check. I don't know how we made it
but we did. Molly then found a house for us to rent and I paid the
first month's rent. I didn't worry about the car payment any
longer for two days after I started to work the bank repossessed
the car. We then again went back to driving one of Penn's cars.
During the slow periods of the weeks which followed I was always
searching the paper and talking to people--trying to find a better
paying job with a little security. I was working eleven hours a
day, six days a week so it took me some time to locate one and I
also had to be careful not to let people know too much about me
because the general attitude in Dallas was not to get involved in
the assassination. (A little late for Dallas).
On September 18, 1969 I applied at Peakload, Inc., a temporary
employment service, who was looking for a dispatcher. The job
consisted of taking orders from companies which needed temporary
help for a few days, selecting the men from the hall who were best
suited to the customer's needs, then seeing that they were
delivered by our driver and picked up promptly after work. Al
Nagel, the office manager, was from Minnesota and knew little of
the events in Dallas and nothing of the people involved in the
assassination so I slipped by and was hired. Now I was doing
something which I enjoyed and the pay was $500.00 a month with
time and one-half for over 48 hours. The next few weeks went by
swiftly. I was working six days a week and making enough money to
pay the rent, buy groceries and clothes for the kids.
On November 10, 1969 I was taken to the V.A. Hospital again.
This time with neuritis, which the doctors said was caused by a
vitamin deficiency over a long period of time, and bronchial
pneumonia. This time I was not too concerned because Al Nagel
liked my work and I was sure that I had a future with Peakload
regardless of this temporary set back.
Well, after twenty-four days of what seemed like endless
injections of vitamins, penicillin and streptomycin (one hundred
and twenty-eight in all) I was sent home on December 4, 1969. The
next day I called Al Nagel to tell him that I would return to work
in a couple of days--when I got my strength back. Al informed me
that I no longer had the job--that I had been replaced.
My final check from Peakload paid the rent for a month and
bought a few groceries but Christmas was coming and I had managed
somehow not to let the kids down--up until now. While I was in the
hospital Penn Jones brought a letter he had received from Madeline
Goddard. She had, apparently, read much on the assassination and
sent her best wishes and support to us. Also in the letter was the
answer to this Christmas. Madeline had enclosed a check for
She did not realize it, I'm sure, but that kept us from throwing
my hands up in the air and giving up. The next few weeks were a
repetition of earlier days--no jobs, no money, no prospects (there
must be a song in there somewhere). Our only means of eating those
days was Madeline Goddard's generosity; God bless Madeline and her
generous heart.
Penn Jones had a few acres of land in Boyce, Texas, a short
distance from Midlothian and he had persuaded us to move into the
smaller of two houses on this land. We decided to go so that I
could recuperate and regroup my thoughts. By this time, January
24, 1970, I was very depressed and ready to throw in the towel.
Penn and his son, Penn III, moved our belongings into the small
three-room house and I must say that the fresh air and freedom from
Dallas and its citizens was a welcome change. After a few days I
felt better and began exploring our new surroundings. Penn had
seventy-eight head of cattle on the place and I was feeding twenty
bales of hay to them every morning. As my strength came back I
also tackled various small, clean up jobs around the farm. It was
the least I could do--the rent was free and Penn paid the light and
water bills. We bought what butane we had to buy for heat and
cooking. How about this--in 1948 I ran away from home at age 12
and spent the next four years working on farms and ranches in the
west and northwest--now twenty-two years later I was back on the
farm! There were days, however, when the rain and sleet would keep
me inside, only venturing out when I had to (mostly to feed the
The highlight of each day was when the mail man came as we were
now corresponding with Madeline Goddard regularly and always looked
forward to her letters. I do not know what we would have done if
it hadn't been for this wonderful person. If I live to be a
hundred, I couldn't repay her!
Roger, Jr., was sixteen now and living with his grandparents in
Dallas. Terry and Deanna were going to school in Waxahachie, seven
miles away. They had to walk about three quarters of a mile to the
school bus stop so in bad weather we would drive them to school.
This was no easy job in the 1955 Ford of Penn's, which had seen
better days. I certainly do not mean to sound ungrateful--Penn
Jones and his wife were wonderful to us--we will always hold them
It was April when the larger house on the land in Boyce became
vacant and Penn said that we could move into it. We needed the
room and I would be closer to the stock and the feed for them was
also in the barn near that house. Living in the bigger house was
much easier and it was about this time that Penn decided to try to
raise Holstein calves. There were no jobs in this small county and
maybe we could make some money on this venture.
Molly, Terry, Deanna and I drove Penn's Travelall truck to
Cleburne, where we picked up the calf Penn had bought on a pilot
project. At three days old, the calf was a big baby at 80 pounds
or more. Every morning at 7:00 a.m. Molly fixed the calf's bottle
and we took turns feeding him until he decided that Molly was his
mother. Cute--but something she wasn't ready for!
We continued taking care of the cattle for several weeks and
during this time two calves were born. We named one, a little bull
calf, "Jones" and the other a heifer calf, Deanna named "Susie."
They became her only playmates. However, I wasn't making one red
cent and the only help we received was from Madeline who, God
knows, was carrying the burden of feeding my family.
On May 15 a decision had to be made. It was apparent that the
calf project wasn't going to materialize and Penn was talking of
selling some of the land and cattle. It looked as though Penn was
having financial problems and I did not want to add to them. So,
Molly and I talked and decided the best thing for us was to drive
to Dallas and make arrangements to stay with someone and for me to
try *one more time* (there's that song title). We talked to my
mother, who said we could move in with her until I found a job and
a place to live.
As we drove back to Boyce we spoke of our apprehension about
moving but when we drove into the yard we knew it was the thing to
do. The front door of the house was standing wide open. I knew
what was gone even before I got out of the car. I was right. The
30-40 Krag rifle (the only one I had managed to hang onto), Terry's
30.30 Winchester, which he had received as a gift, his 410 shotgun,
and the 12 gauge automatic shotgun Penn had loaned me were all
missing. These were our only means of protection in this place so
far in the country with no telephone or close neighbors. Now we
had been stripped of that. Coincidence? Maybe. I was very uneasy
and the sooner we got out of there, I felt, the better.
It took two days and two sleepless nights to arrange the move
but we did it and were back in Dallas and staying with my mother.
By this time my physical health was somewhat improved and my mental
attitude was back to normal. This was due to the words of
encouragement I had received from Madeline and others who had
written to us over the past months to let me know that there were
people in this country who cared. I was ready for any opposition
from the Political Monster which ruled Dallas and even the very
lives of those so-called Business and Civic leaders who did not
have the guts to stand on their own two feet! As I thought over
the past years, I was even amused that *I*, a man of limited
education and no social position in this City of Purity, had struck
fear into the hearts of its *great* leaders by just speaking to
them on the street!
Although I had not worked steadily since my termination from the
Dallas County Sheriff's Department, I did not forget my obligation
as an American. Thus, when asked by certain critics of the Warren
Report to help, I did what I could. Imagine the turmoil it will
cause when and if the Dallas Police read this and find out I have
copied and turned over to a certain editor several names, addresses
and telephone numbers of people connected with the assassination of
John F. Kennedy which were LOCKED in the files of the Dallas Police
Intelligence Division. Not to mention the files which were
photostated and smuggled out of the Dallas County Mail under Bill
Decker's nose (all after I left the Sheriff's Department). Even
though I have not made any money in the past few years, I hope I
was able to help those who have spent so much time investigating
the assassination, who certainly haven't made any money either!
The last week of May, 1970 I got lucky. The ad in the newspaper
read, "Wanted Dispatcher for temporary labor company". The Company
was Peakload. I quickly made a call to the chief dispatcher, with
whom I had worked previously, and found he was working sixteen
hours every day. He was so happy to hear from me, because of his
workload, that he offered to come and get me so that I could go to
work that day. The company had a new office manager, Jim Morris.
I went in immediately to apply--at the urging of the chief
dispatcher, Bill Funderburke--and for an interview with Jim Morris,
the manager. He was from Ft. Worth and knew more about the
assassination and me than I would have preferred (from the
questions he asked me concerning Bill Decker, Jim Garrison and
others who had made the news). However, the office was in trouble
as they had not been able to keep an evening dispatcher for more
than three or four weeks at a time since I worked there in 1969.
With a word of caution as to my activities, Jim put me to work.
This made Bill very happy as the pressure was now off him. I knew
the work, the customers and most of the men I would be dealing with
so Peakload did not have to worry about breaking in a new man. The
rest of May and early June passed uneventfully but around the
middle of June Molly went into Baylor Hospital, through the clinic
as we could not afford a private doctor or the high rate of regular
hospital services (I had only worked a short time and we still had
a balance owing on Molly's surgery in August 1969). On June 26
Molly underwent major surgery. She had been under a tremendous
strain the past years and was physically and mentally exhausted.

...PART 1
...PART 2

...PART 3
...PART 4
...PART 5





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