The Lacey Confession(14)
Warren talked awhile about some of the specifics Johnson had mentioned, mainly procedural and technical areas—how the Commission would be chartered, the methods for keeping records and drawing funds, the jurisdictional problems which affect any enterprise involving more than one of the three branches of government. Finally, he added what he wanted to sound like an afterthought, no more than a casual personal reference, but what really constituted his reply to the President’s request and the reason for this meeting. “I would have to rule out my own participation,” he said. “Serving on this type of a commission would, as I see it, constitute an inappropriate judicial role for a sitting Chief Justice.” Such an American thought. The anger and frustration in Johnson’s eyes, Warren wrote in his journal, were almost palpable. “But,” Warren said to his President, “I can prepare a short list of retired Federal Judges, some quite well known . . .”
“You don’t seem to follow me,” said Johnson, restraining himself as best he could. “The Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of The United States of America—that’s who’s needed. The report of this Commission will be the most important document our government issues in this century. It must be beyond reproach. Its stamp of truth must be the stamp of—it must be your stamp! It has to be the Warren Commission!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President. I cannot accept. I think I fully . . .”
“Mr. Chief Justice,” interrupted the President, like a man slamming on the brakes of a runaway truck. “I want you to think about it. Hold your answer. Think about the grave national crisis threatening to overwhelm us. Think about the brave young man we’re gonna bury tomorrow, his family, your family, our national family. I won’t take your final answer now. Just you think about it and we’ll talk some more.” LBJ smiled broadly and shook the Chief Justice’s hand as he would have had he been stumping for votes, gripping Warren’s hand firmly with his own right hand while his left covered Warren’s wrist. It didn’t hurt, wrote Warren. Nevertheless, he went on, I felt the President’s handshake all the way home.
Neither Warren’s wait nor his sleep lasted too long. At 5:50 am the doorbell rang. A tired and half-dressed housekeeper answered. She was greeted by two agents of the Secret Service. A limo, with the motor running, was parked at the curb. She woke the Chief Justice, told him the President wanted to see him immediately and then, as he dressed, she went to prepare some tea and hot oatmeal.
At 6:25 am, less than twelve hours since his last visit, Chief Justice Earl Warren walked into the Oval Office again. The beige couch was gone. The desk too. All the pictures on the wall had been changed. He couldn’t recall if the lamps or the two round end tables had been there a few hours before. Johnson was already sitting behind a huge, wooden desk made of a lighter wood, more worn than the one Kennedy had. It must have been moved from the Vice President’s office during the night. The President had been shot on Friday and the new President moved in before the weekend was over. I suppose, Warren later wrote, that’s the way it has to be. Everything seemed in order. The phones were lined up across one end of the desk to the President’s right—two white ones, each with six lines, a black phone with three rows of extra buttons, the kind of setup Warren had never seen before, and a plain, red one—a simple, unmarked red telephone with no dial and no buttons. Warren shuddered to think what use it had. All the personal items were there too, suitably arranged. Among the pens and paperweights Warren could see pictures of the Johnson daughters, another showing Lady Bird and LBJ in work clothes probably taken at the LBJ Ranch, somewhere in Texas, and near the only clock on the desk, off to the side, was an old black and white photograph in a brass 5x7 frame of the young Congressman Lyndon Baines Johnson shaking hands with Franklin Delano Roosevelt. President Roosevelt was holding the Congressman’s right hand firmly in his own while his left hand wrapped completely around Johnson’s wrist. They were both smiling.
Two young men, neither of whom Warren recognized, stood talking by the window nearest the door leading to the garden. The President was giving instructions to one of his secretaries, a comely young woman. He was especially animated although Warren could not overhear what he said. A valet, an old Negro man, approached carrying a tray. “Coffee or tea, Mr. Chief Justice?” he asked. Warren indicated a certain tea and watched as the old man prepared it with one hand while still holding the tray with his other. “Why don’t I just put it down over here,” he said. “And you can sit right down.”