Bond of Secrecy
My Life with CIA Spy and
Watergate Conspirator E. Howard Hunt
by Saint John Hunt
9
Window Of Truth
The window of truth opened and closed so quickly that it barely created a breeze. If I hadn’t been there,
no one would know. If I hadn’t heard my father’s voice with my own ears, his words would have
dissipated like the early morning mist on an autumn blacktop road. Even scarier, the information regarding
the “Big Event” would never have been spoken in the first place. I had conspired – we had conspired – to
tell the truth. I had approached my father in a once-in-a-lifetime moment, when he felt that death was at his
door and it was time to tell the truth. In a few brief days he laid out the “chain of command,” as he put it,
laying the blame on the doorstep of LBJ.
I didn’t realize that my presence was essential to the fruition of his confession. After I left for
California, the “Miami Mafia,” as I call his second family, slowly chipped away at his resolve. Like a
man drowning, he reached for me and I wasn’t there. How could I have known? It’s true, we had these
secrets, and I thought that we would follow through. This was to be his final mission. It was supposed to
be our mission. In conversations we had, he said that he realized this was going to be a significant story.
He was confident that, based upon the information he had thus far provided, we could interest an agent
and eventually get a sizable advance. He made it clear to me that there was more to add to the story as
long as financial remuneration was forthcoming. He swore me to secrecy, and revealed that he was
somehow going to have to work this out with Laura.
I knew this was going to be a problem for us, yet I was naïve enough to think that he would be able to
work it out. Laura is a very sweet and politically naïve person. She comes from a very strong Southern
moral background. In conversations I’ve had with her she reacted with disbelief that the CIA condones
political assassination. She’s told me many times that she married my father with the strict understanding
that he had no knowledge of such immoral and evil acts. My father also told me that he had sworn his
innocence of CIA/JFK plots to her. The problem my father now faced was how to break the news to Laura
without losing her. How could he tell her after all these years that he had been lying? How would his
family react? Laura had made it very clear to me that all the money in the world would not be enough to
compensate for the disgrace this would bring. She was very adamant in her threat to leave my father.
In retrospect, I wonder if she would really have left such a needy old man if he had followed through
with the truth. Papa had been denying any knowledge of these matters for years. After all, he had testified
twice in court that he knew nothing of the assassination. I wonder, though, was Laura suspicious? She
certainly became suspicious of my intentions. When my father went to court in the Mark Lane/Liberty
Lobby trail, Laura was at his side. She watched helplessly as he was subjected to merciless examination
by Mark Lane. She must have wondered why witnesses were testifying that Howard Hunt was in Dallas
during the assassination. I think Laura must have had suspicions about the JFK thing but, like a good wife,
she stood by my father, and he stood by his story.
All of this weighed very heavily on my father. Once I left, the pressure was on. Not only was this
worrying him, but he told me that he had caused so much pain and humiliation for his first family, that he
was deeply troubled by what the fallout would bring to his second family, raised long after Watergate and
the JFK assassination charges had disappeared from the headlines. Every once in a while there would be
the odd Watergate anniversary interview, but Austin and Hollis basically hadn’t been affected by these
events. He had made sure to shield them from the adverse publicity that had destroyed his first family.
He gave up his lecture tours and settled on a life of relative obscurity and safety. He wrote frequently
and continued getting published at the rate of almost two books a year. I never understood how fame
eluded him. Not only fame, but respect from the journalistic world. Perhaps it was the stain of Watergate.
He had been publicly discredited when his memoirs came out in 1974. After initial publication, his
testimony at the Watergate trials showed that he had lied in at least ten instances in the book. It was pulled
from the shelves and quickly disappeared from circulation. It is interesting to note that he barely discusses
the JFK assassination there. He all but leaves it out.
Laura never knew about my father’s turmoil over this until I told her in the year before he died. As a
matter of fact I never knew it until my father’s attorney Bill Snyder revealed it to me. Secrets … Papa had
a habit of keeping them. Full disclosure was a completely foreign idea.
Following my trip to Miami, I set up a meeting with Bill Snyder at a restaurant in Sausalito, California.
During our lunch, Snyder was “amused” that Howard had any information at all regarding the JFK
assassination. He recounted that this had been something that Howard had been approached with before.
Snyder told me that, as Howard’s counsel, he would have to recommend that Howard not speak of such
things. He would be jeopardizing his freedom and it was a strong possibility that he could be prosecuted.
“Even if prosecution were not to happen,” Snyder said, “he would face considerable harassment and
humiliation from the media and public.” Snyder insisted it was a grave mistake to go down the
assassination conspiracy trail. “Look what happened to Oliver Stone,” he said. When the meeting was
over, I knew Snyder was going to be a problem.
As I drove back to Eureka, California, where I was then living, I realized for the first time that this
project would have to overcome some serious opposition. There would be pressure on my father fromLaura, Austin and Hollis as well as Snyder and possibly even Kevan to abandon this project. I was right.
I just didn’t know how bad it would get.
10
The Last Confession
In January of 2004, I got a letter from my father expressing concerns that the project was moving too
slowly: “The last I heard of our would-be sponsors they were preparing papers … it is high time a good
faith transfer be made. Without that, I don’t want to talk or negotiate something intangible. I have two
stipulations: source of info must not be identified; and any and all legal fees arising from the enterprise
must be paid by the sponsors. Having said that, I look forward to seeing you here. Much Love, Papa.”
Later that month I received a Fed Ex package containing a cassette tape. The following is a condensed
version of what was on the tape. His voice was extremely labored, and he gasped many times as he
fumbled with the tape recorder or the microphone.
“LBJ had designated Cord Myer to undertake a larger organization while keeping it totally secret. LBJ
settled on Myer as an opportunist like himself, a man who had very little left to him in life … ever since
JFK had taken Cord’s wife as his mistress.” He spoke about Sturgis and Morales and the Big Event. At
the end of it he said, “Let me point out that if I had wanted to fictionalize what went on in Miami and
elsewhere during the run-up to the Big Event I would have done so, but I don’t want any unreality to tinge
the information … that I’ve provided to you and you alone … what’s important is that we’ve back-tracked
a chain of command up through Cord Myer and laying the doings at the doorstep of LBJ…I’ll be perfectly
willing to expand on some of these matters in the future … I’ll only do so if there is adequate monetary
motivation. Please understand that.”
Once the contract from Costner came, with no mention of “adequate monetary motivation,” I knew the
deal was off. At best they offered an equal partnership to be divided between Costner, Giammarco, and
my father, but an equal partnership for what? Costner wanted me to fly back to Miami and bring my father
out to Los Angeles to film a documentary, with Costner acting as the interviewer and my father answering
his questions. I spoke with Costner one last time and told him this was an insulting offer and that my father
would never reveal to the world what he knew without being paid well. I never asked for any money for
myself. I wanted this for my father, and of course the prospect of writing and publishing my own story
sometime in the future. Laura called and Papa asked for all the paperwork and notes as well as the
cassette.
So what’s the truth? As I wrote at the beginning, the same truth can be viewed from many different
angles. The way I see it, my father built his life around secrecy. He was in many ways a key to a mystery,
a thread that links and binds the CIA, Bay of Pigs, assassination plots, JFK, Nixon, and Watergate. I had
hoped that he, as one of the last men standing, would have the last word; but he kept most of his secrets.
This is not your average family story … it’s the story of a man and his son; a family torn apart by scandal
and lies, betrayal and murder, patriotism and treason. There is a woman who gave her life trying to secure
his redemption. There is an old man dying a slow death, a family without love, and a son who will never
be forgiven for telling this story.
11.
The Window Closes
After the failed Costner project, I believed that none of this information would ever be revealed. I was
disappointed and frustrated at how this had turned out. I know my father was disappointed, yet he was
willing to drop the whole thing. His health was continuing to decline, and the thought of dredging all this
up, taping interviews, and dealing with the press was more than he seemed able to deal with physically
and mentally. I know he must have tortured himself over the conflicts this would have caused, and it
appeared to be with some relief when he asked me to return all the memos and audio-tapes I had. He
asked me to promise that I would never reveal these startling details or use this information in any way.
Reluctantly, I agreed. Before I sent back the original memos, I copied them. I never returned the audio
tape, hoping he would overlook it. He never mentioned it, so I assume he had forgotten that I had this
critical piece of evidence. In the next few months, I put all of this behind me and resumed my normal life
of school, work and family obligations.
It was during a call from my brother when I told him about the Costner project and what a disaster it
had turned out to be. He laughed and told me about how he had spoken with Costner and Giammarco the
year before, and Papa hadn’t said anything.
Learning more than I already knew, I chuckled when he told me that, apparently, Giammarco and David
were party buddies, and Costner and Giammarco were good friends. They had offered a large sum of
money through David to Papa if David would set up an interview for Costner. Costner then hired a private
jet and flew down to Miami for that ill-fated interview with my father.
My dad thought Costner was coming to discuss a film proposal about his life. So when Costner
showed up and bluntly asked him who killed JFK, my dad was surprised, became very angry and
declared the visit over. Costner left feeling he had been deceived and soon everyone blamed each other
for the whole mess. David was then further sidelined from family and suffered deeper alienation.
As David and I spoke on the phone, I told him for the first time that Papa had revealed details about a
plot to assassinate JFK, and that I had copied hand written memos and kept a cassette recording that Papa
had asked me to return. David said he knew someone named Eric Hamburg who might be willing to
discuss how best to use the information that I had. Eric Hamburg, he said, had been a technical advisor on
JFK. David had met him on the set of Nixon, which Hamburg had co-produced. Papa and David had been
invited to watch some of the filming, and they had met Anthony Hopkins, Oliver Stone and Hamburg.
Papa’s attorney, Bill Snyder, had joined them on the set and later for dinner.
I don’t know why my father ever thought that Snyder was a capable attorney. He was not a trial lawyer,
and it was obvious even to Laura that he was in way over his head at the Mark Lane trial. As Laura
recounted to me later, Snyder was a bumbling, perspiring novice when compared to Mark Lane. She
believed it was his lack of experience that had caused my father to lose the case. Still, somehow, my
father felt that Snyder was competent because he had asked him to negotiate terms during the Costner
project. On the phone, Giammarco, and Costner, made it very clear to me that Snyder was the single most
damaging influence during negotiations. At least we were all in agreement that Bill Snyder was no asset
to my father. David said he would get in touch with Eric Hamburg and get back to me.
A few days later David called and gave me Hamburg’s phone number. I waited a few weeks before I
called him, but when I did, he seemed very nice and was interested in hearing this new information
regarding the assassination. I quickly realized that Hamburg was no ordinary Hollywood type. His mind
operated like a computer on the subject of the assassination. He was a well-respected conspiracy
researcher and had been instrumental in pushing through a bill that resulted in the declassification of
thousands of government documents. He had been to Cuba several times and met Fidel Castro during a
symposium about the Bay of Pigs. Hamburg told me that he always felt that E. Howard Hunt knew much
more about the assassination than he had ever admitted.
“A man like your father,” Hamburg said, “who was involved in both overt and covert CIA/Cuban
plots, was certainly in a position to have known about plots against JFK. It’s well known that your
father’s trail leads from CIA through Cuba, the Bay of Pigs, plots to kill Castro, and Watergate. I’ve
always felt that your dad was the thread that linked all these events, and possibly the hit on JFK.”
“My father never admitted to me that he had any part in the JFK murder” I said.
“Well what is it that you know?”
We had a long conversation in which I revealed to him what my dad had told me. He confirmed that
some of the conspirators were well known in JFK conspiracy circles and some were not. Of these,
Hamburg said Cord Meyer had never been offered as an actual conspirator. The LBJ connection was
fascinating, he said, and noted that this was a major piece of the puzzle. “Do you think you could get your
Dad to tell you more?” “Jesus” I said. “I just don’t think he’s willing to get into this all over again.” I told
him about the Costner project and we ended our conversation with the understanding that I would try to
find a way to approach my father.
12
Glimmer Of Hope
In February 2005, I wrote to my father with the idea that if I could pitch a new project, one with less
emphasis on the JFK material, we could interest a writer who would be willing to co-write my father’s
true story as a lasting legacy. In this letter, I outlined that we would want to explore all the details of his
fascinating life: “[They are] interested in writing about your whole life; childhood, education, family
history, war service, OSS, CIA, prison, etc. … they are also interested in the fact that you turned to me in
your time of need during Watergate, how we carried out several ops of our own, what happened to us
after our family was destroyed.… This is far more to my liking than the Costner project. The part of the
story in which you were offered a role in the Big Event, but wisely turned it down, is just a footnote in
your amazing life and although it is still a commercially strong selling point, would not be the focus of the
project. Please consider coming to this project and working with me and whichever writer can offer us
the best deal. It would be a cherished memory for a son to have.”
During March I got a phone call from Papa approving the basic principal of the project: to co-write a
truthful memoir with details regarding Watergate and JFK that had never been made public. After a month
of negotiations with Eric Hamburg, it was agreed by the three of us that Hamburg and I would fly down
and tape a lengthy interview with Papa to be used as material for the book. Luckily, my father’s health
was fairly good at the time, and he seemed enthusiastic about the tapings.
In April, Eric and I met at his hotel in Miami to discuss questions for the interview. Eric was very well
prepared and had outlined each principal area to be covered. He had pages and pages of names and
questions that pertained to all areas of interest: OSS, CIA, Bay of Pigs, Guatemala, the White House, the
Plumbers, Watergate, and of course the JFK assassination.
I spent nights at my father’s house and we met with Eric in his hotel room at the Holiday Inn on Miami
Beach. Laura was happy to see that Papa was enthused about something. “Saint, you do your father a
world of good by coming down here,” she said.
“Well, I’m so happy to have something for him to work on.”
Austin was somewhat less enthused. I think he had his suspicions about our ideas for the book. We
scheduled 2-3 hour tapings at the Holiday Inn, which included a break for lunch. Papa was amazingly
clear-headed and answered all the questions with great interest. Each day when I returned to the house
with him, Laura and Austin bombarded me with questions. They wanted to know what was going on
behind those closed doors. We weren’t talking about JFK stuff were we?
I said we hadn’t gotten that far yet, but we would be going over that ground in the next day or so. After
Papa went to bed, Laura, Austin and I had a meeting. Austin wanted to make it clear that asking questions
about the JFK assassination was not what they wanted me to do. I said, “I think that part of Papa’s life is
very relevant and is something that I think he needs to talk about.”
“Saint, you don’t seem to understand that nobody here wants you to discuss these matters, whatever
they may be, with Papa.” Laura sat quietly looking on while the tension level rose quickly.
“Austin,” I said, “you don’t seem to realize that these events … Watergate, JFK, and my mother’s death
… all happened to a part of this family that you have nothing to do with! These events had a direct effect
on my life, and there are secrets that I share with Papa that he wants to reveal; and quite frankly I just
wish all of you would stop pressuring my father into doing what you want him to do. You should be giving
him the courage to do what he wants, not holding him back for your own selfish reasons!”
“St. John, we trusted you when you said this was a different project. We now feel that you still have
intentions of having your father discuss matters that could become huge problems for him and our part of
the family. We think you’re the one who is selfish and narrow-minded. You’re not thinking of what might
happen to us and to your father if he starts talking about all this secret stuff.” I felt like I was being
attacked and I was getting really angry.
“Look, I said, do you think Papa is guilty of killing JFK?”
They sat stunned! “You’re joking right?”
“No, just answer the question!”
“You’re asking me if I thought my, uhm … our father killed JFK?”
“That’s exactly what I’m asking you.”
“No, we don’t. There’s no way Papa would ever have done something against his own President … his
own country.”
“Well, I don’t either!”
“You don’t?”
“No, I don’t. I do believe he knew about some plans to get rid of Kennedy, and he’s told me so. I think
it’s valuable information both historically and for the book.” Laura, who had watched quietly as Austin
and I battled each other, shifted in her chair and said, “St. John, I think you really do believe that your
father had something to do with JKF’s death; just like you think that your mother’s death was a murder and
not an accident.”
“Laura, those are two different, but possibly not unrelated, events. There are things that Papa has told
me which cause me to believe that he has had his suspicions as well.” Then I said, “You guys are all
living this fairly perfect little life down here, and I come down threatening to upset your perfect little
world by wanting to find out the truth about my father! I’m sorry it upsets you. It has been deeply upsetting
to me for over thirty years. My life was almost destroyed by the things he did, and although I’m only
blaming myself for the way I lived my life in the years that followed, I just want to know the truth about
who my father and mother were!” I was fighting back tears now, but I continued. “So unless you find some
way to stop me, Papa and I are going to continue to tape his life story, and whatever he decides to say is
what it will be.” I stormed out of the room and out the door. The Miami warmth, the moon and palm trees
helped me to calm down.
The next morning as I got Papa ready for the trip to Eric’s hotel room, I didn’t talk about our fight the
night before. I especially didn’t want Papa to see evidence that this book project was already dividing a
family that desperately needed to heal. On the way to the hotel I asked Papa how much of what he had told
me last year in the memos he would be willing to talk about on camera. He turned in his seat and looked
at me perplexed. “How much does Eric know?”
“He knows the bare bones stuff. He wants to ask you specific questions about Sturgis, Cord Meyer,
Morales and those guys.”
“Jesus Saint, I thought you promised not to tell anyone?”
I breathed deeply and sighed. “I think it’s a very strong selling point to your book. Can’t you just tell
Eric what you told me?”
“I’m getting a lot of pressure from everybody to not go into that stuff.”
“Who’s doing it?”
“Well, Laura is going to be very upset and it could ruin our relationship. You know she forgave me for
my infidelities several years ago, but I had to really win her back. I was younger then and I’ve been so
sick … lost my leg … and she’s the only one that really takes care of me. She’s all I have and I probably
wouldn’t be alive this long if it weren’t for her. Austin is embarking on a Naval career and may
eventually decide to branch out into intel. I think these revelations might have an undesired effect on his
chances.”
“Do you feel that, or is it just Austin saying that?”
“Well, both of us really.”
“Who else?”
“Snyder is bringing up all these potential legal problems we might encounter … I just don’t have the
strength to engage in those types of confrontations and court appearances anymore.”
“So what’s the bottom line Papa? Are you going to talk about it truthfully or not?”
“Well, if I’m not asked, then I’m not volunteering anything.”
“And what if you’re asked?”
“I can’t promise you honesty. I’m deeply sorry, but that’s the way it’s going to have to be. I can’t and
won’t jeopardize this second family that I live with for something that has already created problems that
are only going to get worse. Saint … I lost my first family and wife over some of this stuff … if I bring it
all out now, I may ruin more lives. Don’t you understand that?” He reached over and held my hand firmly.
I was moved to tears to see how conflicted he was about this. “I love you son, and I respect what you’ve
tried to do here, but I just can’t give you what you want.” I sat quietly next to him and allowed the silence
to shield the pain. It was obvious that he was making a choice – a choice I had presented him with. It was
them or me and so far they were winning.
As we pulled up to the hotel in silence, I felt very badly for Eric. He had come all this way and
although there had been no promise that my father would deliver the goods, I knew Eric was going to be
disappointed. When I knocked on Eric’s door I asked him if he could excuse himself and allow my father
and I to have a few minutes alone. Eric seemed a little bewildered but gave us our privacy. I wheeled my
father over by the window and asked him one more time about the Big Event and Mama’s death. He just
closed his eyes and shook his head in the negative. I felt very bad for Papa. I felt bad for myself, as well.
13.
The Final Interviews: April 2005
Over those few days, my father gave Eric Hamburg and I what was to be his final interview. Papa was
always an early riser and I would usually find him watching Fox News and drinking coffee when I greeted
him in the morning. We drove most often in silence to the Holiday Inn on Miami Beach where Eric had set
up an informal taping area. I was keenly aware that these were going to be long and probably difficult
sessions.
We started out that first morning with Papa talking about his mother and father, his early childhood and
the start of his service during WWII. He was sharp, animated and had an encyclopedic memory of all
things. For a man in his mid eighties, he was incredible. The mood was relaxed, and we let Papa
reminisce about whatever came to his mind. The interview concluded after three hours when he grew
tired and said he wanted to go home. Later that afternoon, when Laura, Austin and Hollis came home,
there was much discussion and curiosity about the day’s events. Papa was in a great mood and enjoying
all the attention he was getting. Austin and Hollis then invited themselves to come over and watch the next
interview. This was bad news! With them present, E. Howard Hunt was never going to discuss anything
he had confided to me about the JFK assassination.
I called Eric that night and told him the Miami Mafia was going to show up, probably sent there by
Laura or Bill Snyder to keep a handle on what Papa was talking about. Eric said we would just have to
play their little cat and mouse games; they surely wouldn’t be there the whole time.
The next day we picked up where we had left off, and a nice flow began to develop. Papa was getting
into some interesting stuff about the formation of the OSS and the early history of the CIA. Suddenly there
was a knock on the door and in popped Hollis, just to see her dear old Dad! I was like a cat bristling at an
intruder: a female canine intruder! She sat there, smiling pleasantly and holding his hand, the devoted
daughter concerned for her Papa. I was nauseated. I wanted to grab her by the throat and toss her out with
the laundry. Luckily, this portion of the interview wasn’t classified. I hoped this would be her only visit.
Papa got tired after a few hours and we broke for lunch. After some delicious stone crabs and a few
beers, he was ready to go again. I must say that his enthusiasm and energy were incredible.
After taking him home, I met Eric at the hotel and we planned our strategy for the next round of
questions. We realized that the critical issues would be coming up at the next session. We had already
covered OSS, CIA, the coup in Guatemala, the Bay of Pigs, and many of the principals involved in those
events. I wondered how we could ease my father into discussing the JFK hit. Would he even go there?
Would the Miami Mafia show up and abort this most sensitive area? Eric had a huge list of questions. He
had seen the handwritten memos that my father had given me and he’d heard the confession tape.
I drove home that night watching the sun set over beautiful Miami Beach and wondered how the next
day would unfold. This was perhaps the most important part of the interview. Once back at Papa’s home, I
tip-toed around looking for some alcohol to drink. I was pretty wound up and really stressed out. I sat
there blindly staring at the TV, drinking rum and cokes. I didn’t like what was happening. I didn’t like the
fact that his second family was putting so much pressure on him. They viewed me as an outsider, and I felt
the same way about them. This was a battle, a war really; a fight between truth and lies. I wished I could
just whisk my Papa away from there. I tried to shut my eyes, but sleep eluded me. Maybe just one more
rum and coke would wash away the stress. I drank heavily that night.
The next morning I took Papa to a doctor’s appointment and then we met Eric for lunch. The interview
got under way and Eric asked him about certain Mafia plots against Castro. Eric questioned him like a
good attorney trying to get to the heart of the matter without losing the cooperation of his star witness.
When we were just about to get to specifics regarding the JFK stuff, Austin showed up. What perfect
timing! I was ready to blow a fuse. Eric was much calmer than I was. My contempt for Austin was thinly
veiled. Eric swiftly changed the topic to other, less critical matters. We finished out the session and
Austin took Papa home. I tried to imagine what they were talking about.
When I got home later in the day, it was clear that the mood was very bad. The air was thick with
tension and nobody was even making small talk with me. I felt like I should sleep outside under a bush. I
stayed in my room and out of the line of fire. A few hours later I emerged, hoping to watch a little TV.
Papa was back in his hospital bed and wasn’t feeling well. He was drained from the day’s events, and I
wondered if he was going to be able to continue the interview tomorrow. I realized that he was the one
being torn apart. I knew it must be excruciatingly difficult for him.
I was feeling a lot of things: anger, sadness, resentment, and frustration. This whole project had
already taken so long, and had gone through so many changes that I just wanted it to be over. I tried to talk
to Laura and Austin that night, but we blew up at each other. The fear and paranoia had taken over. After a
very intense argument about the JFK taboo, I’d had enough of arguing and acting out, so I got up and left. I
was an unwelcome person, but it was my father’s home, and as long as he wanted me there, I was going to
stay. Papa could have terminated the interviews at any time, so I knew at least a part of him wanted to do
it. I spent most of that night worrying as I tossed and turned. I must have fallen asleep just before dawn
because I could feel the air conditioning kick on as the morning sun sweltered outside. Sleep, I was so
happy to sleep!
I woke up with a sense of doom hanging over my head. It could have been the hangover I was nursing,
but after a few strong cups of coffee it didn’t go away. Papa’s mood hadn’t changed; he was upbeat and
ready to go to the hotel for the final day of interviews. I called Eric and told him we were on our way. I
prayed that we would be able to work without interruption. Once we settled into our seats, Eric began
questioning Papa about some of the details of the conspiracy to kill JFK. As I suspected, this was not
easy. My father denied what he had previously told me. Changing his strategy, Eric asked about Cord
Meyer, Bill Harvey, David Morales, Frank Sturgis and Dave Phillips. This was masterful. He was giving
my father the means to talk about the assassination without implicating himself.
My father, of course, was equally as cunning in his choice of words. Without the fear of reprisals that
would surely have come as the result of a more direct admission, my father freely talked about the JFK
murder in a way that he had never done before. Papa fully realized that this was a video and audio
testimony that was of historical importance. His testimony was slippery without being vague, and he let
Eric guide him into answering questions while denying absolute firsthand knowledge. In retrospect, if this
was the best we could do then we had achieved a lot. This was E. Howard Hunt on camera talking about
the JFK conspiracy. He cleverly substantiated what he had revealed in his taped “death-bed” confession
in January 2004. The tapes are a historically significant document and contain hours of fascinating
information. After the JFK portion was finished, we all breathed a sigh of relief. After a hearty lunch, we
resumed our interview and moved on to many interesting topics about Watergate, prison life, and the
current state of the CIA. All in all, there are about nine hours of tape.
14
American Spy: A Story Of Betrayal
The book, American Spy, that was published shortly after my father passed away was the direct result of
everything that Eric Hamburg and I had labored hard and long to achieve. After we flew back to
California, Eric went to work putting a proposal together, with an outline of chapters and content for my
dad’s approval. At the same time he contacted his agent to begin finding a publisher. My father
enthusiastically signed off on the first outline Eric sent him. Based on that, Eric wrote up a further
proposal and gave it to his agent for circulation among publishers. Initially, our prospects looked really
good.
This was to be the definitive life story of one of our nation’s
most infamous intelligence operatives. Unlike his first
autobiography, Undercover: Memoirs of an American Secret
Agent, which was quickly taken off the shelves in 1975 for
glaring untruths, this was to be the real story. The main selling
point of the book was, of course, new revelations by a key insider
about the conspiracy to kill JFK . Finally, after forty-plus years,
someone with real firsthand knowledge was coming forward to
blow the whistle; naming names and confirming that JFK had been
killed as the result of a conspiracy within the American
government.
Eric and I had signed a contract with my father splitting any
profits from the book equally three ways. It seemed to be going
smoothly, until Eric started getting phone calls from my father’s
attorney, Bill Snyder, and a bigger buffoon there could not be.
This man had represented my father since Watergate and had even
been recommended to him by William F. Buckley, Jr.
Snyder was real trouble for the project, and it’s easy to
speculate that he was more of a “handler” than a real attorney. A
handler, in intelligence jargon, is someone who keeps a potentially embarrassing person in line. Eric and I
suspected that Snyder was my father’s handler for the CIA, and would go to any lengths to derail this
project. Eric started getting phone calls and e-mails from Snyder protesting the nature of the revelations in
the book proposal. When Eric countered that Papa had already approved everything, Snyder blew his top
and threatened legal action against Eric and the publishers. He then sent a revised (censored) proposal,
which excluded any reference to JFK other than to say that Mr. Hunt had no knowledge of any plot to kill
Kennedy. It might as well have been written by one of the staff at Langley. This, of course, was
unacceptable to us, and the shadow play went on for months, back and forth, revision after revision until
there was nothing left of any real value in the book.
Snyder pressured my father into terminating our original contract for equal profits, and badgered him into signing a letter which said that I was not to discuss any part of the book with anyone, including Eric
Hamburg, and my share was reduced to a mere 7%. The Miami Mafia prevented me from speaking with
my father on the phone, and I found myself on the outside looking in. I couldn’t believe this was
happening. Snyder had successfully driven a wedge between us. He had secured the complete support of
the self-serving second family that surrounded my dad with a miasma of fear and loathing; and kept him from doing what he had said he wanted. On top of all that, they had convinced my sisters that I had browbeaten my poor father into making wholly untrue statements regarding the JFK assassination. I wrote a
final plea to my father, not for the reinstatement of our original profit agreement, only asking that he retract
cruel statements he had made in the letter to me.
I pleaded for a chance to prove that the charges Snyder had convinced him to make against me were
completely false. Among those charges it was alleged that I had used his good name to borrow and/or
steal money from his friends and associates. This was a ridiculous charge. I had never borrowed or
accepted money from any person connected to my father. As a matter of fact, I never borrow money. This
was clearly a campaign by Snyder and the rest to discredit me, and destroy our relationship. Why were
they so afraid of me? Why did they feel so threatened? Was it really just because once these revelations
came out, their precious little perfect lives would be soiled? The fact that I wasn’t allowed to speak to
him and that I lived so far away caused me a great deal of agony. Still, despite the hurt and bitterness, I
didn’t blame my father. They were the ones brow-beating him, and he was just too old and tired to resist
them. In a final letter, the last one I ever got from Papa, he called for a truce. He said, “I’m too old and
sick to fight with anyone, especially you, my first-born son. Let’s just say that there have been too many
things to forgive and too many to forget. Papa.”
Snyder was now in total control of the woefully compromised project. Eric eventually backed out,
saying that he could not be party to a book that was not truthful and would cast doubt on his reputation.
The publishers were ready to back out of the agreement, saying, quite rightly, that there was no reason to
go forward if my father was not going to disclose the JFK information. The point was also made that since
Eric’s departure from the project, the book had no author. My father was way too sick to write it himself,
and it had always been understood that Eric would be the main author, with my father reserving final
approval of the manuscript. Eventually, they found a new writer for the project, changed the title from Final Secrets to American Spy, and published it.
My father did not live to see its publication.
He died in
January 2007, about a month before the book came out. It
received no critical acclaim, and was regarded as nothing of
importance. Snyder and the family had won the battle, trivializing
the book and gagging my father’s last testimony. For me the
greatest sadness was that I was never able to really speak to my
father again. He died, and we never regained the love, trust and
camaraderie that we had shared. After everything that happened in
our lives, overcoming political issues, death, family loss, prison,
drugs, it was tragic that Snyder and the Miami family had come
between us. I blame them and, sadly, will probably never forgive
them.
15
The Death Of E. Howard Hunt
The last time I saw Papa was in January 2007, when I flew to Miami a week before he passed away.
The tension was as thick as the humidity when I arrived at my father’s home in Miami Shores. The
family’s welcome was at best thin and superficial, but I didn’t let that bother me; I was there for my father.
He was barely recognizable when I walked quietly into his bedroom. The caregiver told me he hadn’t
been out of bed for a month. He spent most of his time sleeping, and Laura had finally agreed to get him a
caregiver/housemaid while she was at work. Papa was sleeping as I pulled up a chair and sat next to his
bed. His face was shrunken, especially because he wasn’t wearing his teeth. He never adjusted to having
dentures and he seemed just as happy without them. My father accepted his decline with frank dignity. He
never allowed his physical problems to alter the fact that, even at his advanced age, he was a man’s man.
He had lived his life the way he wanted, he had endured hardship, and no one could say that he lived
without personal loss or sacrifice. He had been betrayed by his government and his colleagues, and in the
end, after all of the humiliation in the press, all the speculations and accusations, he still carried himself
with grace and pride. I spent the next four hours sitting there, reflecting on our lives. There was so much
to forgive, so much to embrace; it was utterly overwhelming.
Laura came home and gently woke him. “Howard,
look who’s here.”
“Do you know who this is? Howard,” she called,
“do you know who this is?” Papa looked around the
room as if in a trance and, looking me squarely in the
eye, he said softly, “It’s Saint, it’s my son, Saint
John.” I looked into his eyes, searching for some
special sign that all was forgiven. I needed to be
forgiven, even if I had to do it on his terms.
Everything had always seemed to be on his terms, so
why should I think it would be any different now?
Papa was the center of our family universe; Mama
had been the gift, the work, the binding and the
sorrow.
He raised his feeble hand, small as a child’s. I
gripped it, and poured my heart and soul, my love
and devotion into him through our grasp. He held it
tightly. His grip outlasted mine. He said nothing with
words but he said a lifetime with his eyes; those
steely, unflinching eyes, that could pierce through all
the layers of self-protection; that could uplift you or
reduce you to nothing. I spent my life hating and
loving those eyes. He held my hand tightly for at least
10 minutes. Laura came back in the room and felt his
forehead; it was hot. “He’s got a fever,” she said.
“Maybe we should call 911.”
“I don’t think his fever is unnatural Laura, it’s just his body saying it’s time to go.”
“Well you don’t realize just how many times he’s pulled through,” she countered.
“What were Papa’s wishes about his death?” I asked.
“Well, he doesn’t want any major life support, and doesn’t want to be fed through a tube or have his
breathing maintained by a respirator.”
“Don’t you think he needs to die here in his home?” She ignored me and mumbled that she was calling
911. I had the fleeting thought of putting a pillow over his head and ending it all right there. I visualized
myself in the act of suffocating my father, and wondered if my actions would result in a murder charge.
Could they tell if I smothered my father? I didn’t know. Instead of committing parricide, I got up and
followed Laura out to the back porch. “Laura, I think he’s trying to die. Do you really think he’ll pull
through this time?”
She looked at me in disbelief and said, “Saint, I just couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t give your
father every opportunity to get better.”
“I can tell in my gut, Laura, that he wants to die here at home, with us by his side. Don’t take that from him.”
“Saint, I know you love your father, but we’ve gone through this before, and he’s pulled out of it. I’m sorry you’re here to see all this.”
“Sorry? I’m not sorry,” I said heatedly. “I’m sorry for a few things but I’m not sorry that I want my
father to die in peace. Just let him go,” I pleaded, as she picked up the phone and made the 911 call.
“The ambulance will be here in a few minutes; do you want to ride with me or your father?”
“I’ll ride with Papa.”
There was nothing to do now, no arguing my point. Laura was his wife, and she had the power to do what
she thought best. As I returned to my father’s bedside, I wondered why she was seemingly unable to
accept that he was really dying, and what superhuman strength compelled him to hang on. I whispered to
him, “You can let go, Papa. It’s going to be all right.” Soon I heard the siren and in a few moments the
medics were moving my father out the front door and into the ambulance. “I’m riding with him, I’m his
son,” I said. Papa seemed barely aware of what was going on around him. One ambulance trip melted into
another and another and bright lights, nurses, prodding, and questions. All this, the wonders of modern
medicine and free ambulance rides.
next-60
From My Eulogy For E. Howard Hunt
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