Chapter Text
THE ASSASSINATION of John Fitzgerald Kennedy on November 22, 1963, was intended as a cruel and shocking act of violence directed against a man, a family, a nation, and against all mankind. A young and vigorous leader whose years of public service are well-known and beloved by all, one can only imagine how terribly the world would have turned out had he been the victim of the fourth Presidential assassination in the history of a country dedicated to the concepts of reasoned argument and peaceful political change. This Commission was created in the hopes of learning exactly who endeavored to harm America in this way, and why. The resulting report has been prepared with a deep awareness of the Commission’s responsibility to present to the American people an objective report of the facts related to the plot.
. . .
The White House had never been a favorite locale of Robert Kennedy. As much as he loved his brother, he hated the building he lived in. The drab décor, the boring curtains, the furniture that hadn’t been replaced since the Adams administration. Kennedy hated it all. That wasn’t the reason why he had resigned as Attorney General—it was mostly a political ploy, and partly to get away from Lyndon Johnson—but it’s not out of the question that he’d have stayed if the wallpaper had been a better shade.
As Kennedy walked down the steps from the White House, he wondered to himself why exactly he wanted to be President. Four years of living in such an ugly building? That didn’t sound incredibly pleasant to him. But Jack insisted. He had bemoaned that his work wasn’t done, that Israel and Palestine were still fighting, that Afghanistan and Iran seemed on the brink of collapse, that inflation was threatening the American dollar, that the Soviets were still a threat. Whatever. Eventually, Bobby learned to tune it all out. The point was, Jack thought the only people who could handle the job had his last name. Bobby wasn’t so sure. But hey, Jack was the president. Leader of the free world and all. Clearly, he knew something.
The thing that unsettled Bobby most about this last meeting was Hoover. The director of the Federal Bureau of Investigations seemed like he was breathing down Jack’s neck the whole time. Something in those eyes, something dead, repulsed Bobby. Maybe that was why he left. Not Johnson at all. But J. Edgar Hoover, the sociopath running his own secret police.
Hoover had done a lot of horrible things during Bobby’s tenure. As Attorney General, one of Bobby’s main jobs was to watch over Hoover and make sure he didn’t do anything too unconstitutional. He hadn’t always been successful at that. The wiretaps—God! Bobby shivered as he reached the sidewalk. He still has nightmares about that sometimes. Why on earth did he ever approve those wiretaps on Martin Luther King? King, a man he respected so much! King, a man his brother had invited to the White House! King, a man that he had been privately urging to run for the Senate! And Bobby had approved Hoover’s request to tap his phone lines. Why did he do that?
As Bobby plodded along towards the Capitol Building, some guy from the press ran up to him, carrying a notepad.
“Senator Kennedy,” he said. “David Broder. Washington Post. Are you considering a run for President?”
Bobby had answered this question a thousand times. Maybe it was time to try a little humor.
“Senator Kennedy is my brother, Mr. Broder,” he said. “You can just call me Bob.”
“Alright then, Bob.” Broder was not having it. “Are you considering a run for President?”
“Just...” What was Bobby supposed to say to that? “Just wait and see. I’ll be deciding soon, Dave.”
Broder nodded. “If you do run, you’ll be up against a few major contenders. Vice President Johnson, Senator Humphrey, Senator McCarthy, Governor Wallace. How do you feel about each of your potential opponents?”
Bobby mulled it over. George Wallace. Wallace was the former Governor of Alabama, an ardent racist who sought one thing in this election: to permanently enshrine African-Americans as lesser than white people. In his quest for total power, he had also worked his wife to death. If he became President, the United States would regress back to an era of total inequality. Bobby would sooner vote for Barry Goldwater, the Arizona wackjob who wants to nuke the Soviets, than George Wallace.
Eugene McCarthy wasn’t terrible. In fact, he and Bobby agreed on a lot of things policy-wise. Their only big difference was on foreign policy. Bobby had the same ideas as his brother, the belief that he could negotiate his way out of any conflict. McCarthy just wanted to run away any time a threat popped up. What a coward. But the kids liked him, and Bobby thought his civil rights ideas were pretty good.
But when it came to civil rights, no name loomed larger than Hubert Horatio Humphrey. Humphrey had written the Civil Rights Act of 1964, the Voting Rights Act of 1965, and the Equal Rights Act of 1967. He was one of Jack’s favorite senators, and Humphrey was always happy to share credit for his efforts. Hell, Humphrey was always happy. Bobby had never seen him without a smile.
And of course, the kingfish. Lyndon Baines Johnson, the sitting Vice President. The sole voice of moderacy and stonefaced, emotionless reason. The only man who would make Bobby vote for George Wallace. Johnson was a useful tool for getting legislation passed, but he was a terrible man, and Bobby hated even looking at his ugly mug.
Bobby carefully considered his answer and turned to the reporter. “I think that the country will be in good hands.”
And with that, he walked off.
— — —
In the United States of America, the power to make laws rests with Congress, which is composed of two houses: the Senate and the House of Representatives. Members of the Senate typically hold more power than members of the House, as there are only 100 Senators, and it only takes one Senator to kill any bill. Thus, few men in the United States of America held more power than the junior Senator from the state of Minnesota, Eugene McCarthy. McCarthy had been in the Senate for a little less than ten years, and many wondered why someone such as him would run for President when more competent alternatives such as his fellow Minnesota Senator Hubert H. Humphrey and Vice President Lyndon B. Johnson were already in the race. The fact was that McCarthy wasn’t really running for President. He was running in the hopes of getting appointed to a more lucrative, and high-paying, position in the President’s cabinet of advisors.
McCarthy sat in his office in the North Wing of the United States Capitol Building, reading letters from college kids. He didn’t much care for them, but they loved him, and that’s what mattered. That’s always the number one goal for a politician. Eugene McCarthy was nothing if not a politician.
A commotion outside attracted his attention. McCarthy set down a letter from some starry-eyed dreamer at the University of Michigan and opened the door to his office. He walked down the hall to some room where half the press in the nation seemed to be gathered.
“What’s going on?” he asked Peggy Whedon, a reporter he knew from ABC.
“You’ve got competition, Gene,” said Whedon. “Bobby Kennedy just announced his candidacy.”
McCarthy paused for a second, resetting. “Is that so?”
Whedon nodded. “1968 should be an interesting year.”