Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir (7 page)

Agent Jeffries, Pam Turnure, and Mrs. Kennedy with the
Caroline
in background

T
here was a great deal of turbulence on the flight from Washington to Palm Beach. Howard Baird, the captain of the
Caroline,
was a superb pilot, but the altitude limitations of the Convair 240 meant that the plane could not get above certain storm areas. The bumpiness made it impossible for Mrs. Kennedy to rest, and while she never complained, I could see that she was exhausted and physically drained from her tour of the White House.

It was evening by the time we landed, but the temperature was in the mid-70s—nearly 40 degrees higher than what we’d left in Washington, D.C.
There was a crowd of people waiting at the Palm Beach Airport as well as some press photographers and as soon as Mrs. Kennedy saw them, she turned to her husband and said, “I am not talking to the press. And I don’t want any photographs of the baby. I was hoping we would have more privacy down here.”

The president-elect nodded in understanding. Members of the President-elect Secret Service detail had secured the area and had cars waiting for us. President-elect Kennedy stepped out of the plane and as he walked down the steps, he smiled and waved to the small but enthusiastic crowd. He walked over and shook some hands as a couple of Secret Service agents stayed close.

As soon as Mrs. Kennedy appeared in the doorway of the plane, at the top of the portable stairs, several people yelled, “Jackie! Jackie! Look over here!”

She looked at the crowd and smiled, but held tightly to the railing as she walked down the stairs and headed straight for the car. Unfortunately, the privacy Mrs. Kennedy sought would be elusive for the rest of her life. People were fascinated by her, and there would be few places she could escape. Palm Beach was certainly not one of them.

The town of Palm Beach is actually a long, narrow barrier island off the southeast coast of Florida, and it was like nowhere I had ever been before. The Intracoastal Waterway separates the island from the ordinary mainland cities of West Palm Beach and Lake Worth, like a moat, and when you cross one of the few bridges into Palm Beach, it is like you are crossing into a world imbued with privilege and power. Sixteen miles of pristine white sand beaches on the Atlantic Ocean form the east side of the island, along which is a string of mansions. From the interior roads, the homes are secluded by tall, natural barriers of hedge, bougainvillea, and palm trees. It is only when you fly overhead or sail along the coast that you can see the grandeur of these magnificent estates, which are used mainly as winter getaways by the ultrarich. The resort-like town offered an elite escape where the men would golf and socialize at the exclusive Palm Beach Country Club, while the women loved to shop in the glamorous shops of Worth Avenue.

Ambassador Joseph Kennedy bought the home at 1095 North Ocean Boulevard in 1933 as a place for his large family to congregate during the winter holidays when it was too cold on the Cape. The six-bedroom, 8,500-square-foot Mediterranean-style house sat on two acres of well-manicured lawns and gardens, and had a stunning view of the Atlantic Ocean. President-elect Kennedy had informed the Secret Service that this would be his “winter White House” and that in the weeks leading up to the Inauguration, this is where he would spend most
of his time. Because this would be a regularly used residence for the first family, the Secret Service had to establish security on a semipermanent basis. This meant checking everything from the basic construction of the building to access from any and all directions. Secret Service agents would be posted at strategic points on the property, but because of the limited resources and personnel in the Secret Service, the security operations would have to be a joint effort on the part of the entire law enforcement community. Fortunately, the Palm Beach Police Department and the state and county officials were all very cooperative, freely sharing information and personnel to ensure the safety of the Kennedy family.

Ambassador Kennedy residence, Palm Beach

As soon as our small motorcade arrived at the residence, Mrs. Kennedy immediately went to her bedroom to rest, and rarely emerged for the next week.

Prior to our arrival, one of the supervising agents on the president-elect detail had arranged accommodations for the Secret Service agents in nearby—and not
so posh—West Palm Beach, at a place called Woody’s Motel. Woody’s was a one-story, U-shaped building with a small rectangular swimming pool situated in the middle. It had been around for a while and was rather run-down, but it offered two key advantages: the rooms were air-conditioned and the price was right. The negotiated rate for our extended stay fit into our limited per diem allowance of twelve dollars, out of which we had to pay for hotel, meals, dry cleaning, laundry, and miscellaneous expenses while traveling. My annual $6,995 salary didn’t stretch very far, and like the rest of the agents, I was very frugal and careful with expenditures.

Each morning I would report to 1095 North Ocean Boulevard, usually by 8:00
A.M.
in order to be there prior to the time Mrs. Kennedy awakened. There was a garage attached to the front wall of the Kennedy’s property, adjacent to the entry gate, which had been set up as the Secret Service Palm Beach Command Post. A telephone was installed with a direct line to the house so that if the president-elect or Mrs. Kennedy needed us for any reason, we could respond immediately. There was a coffeemaker, a small table, and a couple of chairs, but basically it was a corner of the garage.

Mrs. Kennedy was recuperating well, and slowly gaining strength, but she was hesitant to leave the privacy of the residence, especially after seeing the crowds that had greeted her at the airport upon her arrival.

We had been there just a few days when Mrs. Kennedy called me at the command post.

“Mr. Hill?” she asked in her soft, whisper-like voice.

“Yes, Mrs. Kennedy. What can I do for you?”

“I need some things from Elizabeth Arden, but I just know if I go to Worth Avenue, I’ll be mobbed. I was wondering if you would call over there and arrange for someone to bring me some clothes and beauty supplies. I have a list all ready for you.”

I had never heard of Elizabeth Arden, and arranging for home shopping wasn’t something I’d ever done for President Eisenhower, but I did as Mrs. Kennedy desired, and arranged for one of the salespeople from Elizabeth Arden to come to the residence.

In addition to worrying about her wardrobe and makeup, the move to the White House—and how to make it a home rather than a museum—was uppermost on Mrs. Kennedy’s mind at this time. She wanted the White House to be a place in which her children could grow up as normal as possible even with
maids and butlers, doormen and ushers, and uniformed officers and Secret Service agents all over the place.

On another occasion, I was waiting in the Secret Service office when she called for me.

“Mr. Hill?” she said. “Will you please join me outside by the pool? I need to talk to you.”

It was a beautiful afternoon and the sun felt warm on my face, as I walked across the lawn past the back of the house, toward the rectangular swimming pool. Two of my colleagues on the president-elect detail were standing post at the corners of the property bordering the beach, and I gave them each a quick wave. In Palm Beach the Secret Service agents shed our standard uniform of a dark suit and shined dress shoes for more casual clothing, with the intent of melding into the local populace to appear as inconspicuous as possible. The two agents in their cotton-knit shirts and cotton trousers looked like they could have just walked off the golf course. In the distance, a Coast Guard boat patrolled the waters along the coast.

Next to the swimming pool, Mrs. Kennedy was sitting on a chaise lounge, in a revealing bathing suit, with a stack of books by her side and a yellow legal pad in her lap. Caroline played and splashed in the pool while one of the agents who had been assigned to her protection stood watch nearby, ready to render assistance if needed.

“Yes, Mrs. Kennedy?” I asked as I approached her.

She looked up at me, her eyes hidden by a pair of large round sunglasses, and said, “Come sit down, Mr. Hill,” as she gestured to the lounge chair beside her.

Dressed in my normal attire for working in Palm Beach—a pair of khaki slacks and a short-sleeved shirt worn outside my waistband to conceal the .38-caliber handgun strapped to my hip—I felt somewhat awkward sitting next to her in her bathing suit, but sat down as instructed.

After seeing how the Secret Service operated with her husband, Mrs. Kennedy was concerned about what their family life would be like in the White House.

“I’m worried, Mr. Hill,” she said, as her brow furrowed slightly, “about losing all semblance of privacy.”

She turned toward the two agents posted at the beach. “Are these Secret Service men and other agents going to be around us constantly? Even in the White House?”

Although she was used to having maids and cooks in the house, I could tell that having the Secret Service around all the time was troubling her, so I attempted to explain our role and tried to put her at ease.

“The second floor of the executive mansion is considered off-limits pretty much for all employees, including the Secret Service. This is the private area for use as a home by the first family, and you may restrict access to whomever you desire. The Secret Service agents will only come up there if called, or if there is an emergency. And the household staff is very professional—most of them have been around for years and are able to do their jobs unobstrusively.”

“Well, that is good to know,” she said, as her facial expression relaxed. “I’m just so worried about Caroline and John growing up in such a restricted environment. I want them to have as normal a childhood as possible.”

As she said this, I thought to myself,
after January 20, Caroline and John will forever be the children of the president of the United States. They will be saddled with that title for the rest of their lives. A “normal” childhood will be impossible.

“The goal of the Secret Service is to allow you and your family to do the things you want to do, while maintaining your safety and security at all times,” I said aloud. “The key is communication. If you can give us as much advance notice as possible about your plans, then we can make the appropriate arrangements. And if there’s ever anything that bothers you, just let us know.”

My answer seemed to appease her fears about privacy, so she moved to the next item on her legal pad.

“It seems that I am not receiving my mail in a timely manner. What is happening with our mail?” she asked.

“As a matter of security, all incoming mail to this address is redirected back to the White House mailroom from the Palm Beach Post Office for sorting, examination, inspection, and distribution. Unfortunately, this process causes a delay.”

She tilted her head and looked at me quizzically. “All the mail has to be inspected?”

I didn’t want to scare her, but I thought she should know exactly why we took this precaution.

“We need to ensure that there is no hidden explosive material or poisons prior to delivering letters and packages to you and the president-elect. And, of course, we screen for any mail that is threatening in nature.”

What I didn’t tell her was that we also weeded out the “hate” mail, of which there was plenty. The fact that President-elect Kennedy would be the first
Catholic president did not sit well with many Americans. There was a fear that, as president, Kennedy’s decisions would be based on his religion and dictated by the pope. Additionally, Kennedy’s support for civil rights was unpopular in many parts of the country, and the violent nature of his opponents was of great concern to the Secret Service. Nothing was left to chance.

“But what about personal letters from my friends and family?” she asked. “Obviously those letters are safe, and it’s important that I receive them in a timely manner.”

We discussed a few options but none of them made me feel completely comfortable. Finally, I came up with an idea that I thought might work.

“How about if you have your friends and family put my name, ‘Clint Hill,’ along with your name as the addressee? This way, you can control who has this special access, and the post office can easily separate those letters and packages.”