“HEY, MY MAN,” Dean Andrews said to me. He was a roly-poly lawyer who spoke in a hippie argot all his own. “We’ve been friends since law school days. Why do you want to treat me like I’ve got leprosy?”
“Because you keep conning me, Dean. You admitted to the Warren Commission that on the day after the assassination—while you were a patient at Hotel Dieu hospital—you were called on the phone and asked to fly to Dallas and be Lee Oswald’s lawyer. When the Warren Commission asked you the caller’s name, you replied that it was ‘Clay Bertrand’.”
“That’s right,” he said.
“Now, when I tell you I want to know who Clay Bertrand is, you tell me he’s a client of yours but you really don’t know what he looks like because you never see him.”
“Scout’s honor, my man,” he said.
“That might have been good enough for the Warren Commission, Dean, but it’s not good enough for me,” I replied.
The puffy, oval face opposite me assumed a look of wounded pride. At least, what you could see of it did. A large part of his face perpetually was concealed by huge black glasses—the kind that let him see you but did not let you see him. He wore them always. Sunny days, cloudy days. Outside, inside. I think he slept in them.
After some nights of reading Andrews’s testimony before the Warren Commission, I had arranged for him to meet me for lunch here at Broussard’s Restaurant. This was back in early 1967, when I was still frustrated with our futile search for Kerry Thornley. Based on the Warren Commission testimony, I thought Andrews might lead us to an even more important witness.
Broussard’s was one of the older places in the French Quarter. The bottom half of the walls around us was of veined marble, the top half was mirrored. The walls had been that way for close to a hundred years and, except for the regular polishing of the mirrors, nothing ever changed in the place. It was one of the least crowded French restaurants, a good place to meet for a quiet conversation. It was a meeting I still recall vividly.
In my reading I had learned that, at the time of his first F.B.I. interview shortly after the assassination, Andrews had described Clay Bertrand, his New Orleans caller, as a man approximately six feet two in height. He had gone on to say that Bertrand was a man who called him from time to time to help young friends of his who had become involved in minor scrapes with the law. Then—and later in more detail—he explained that in the summer of 1963, when Lee Oswald was living in New Orleans, Bertrand had called him and asked him to help Oswald with some citizenship problems his wife, Marina, was having. Oswald, consequently, had met with Andrews several times at his office.
It had readily become apparent to me, however, that the more Andrews realized that his having received a phone call to defend Lee Oswald was a potential danger to him, the foggier the identity of Clay Bertrand became in his mind. By the time Andrews appeared before the Warren Commission in July 1964, Bertrand’s height had shrunk from six feet two all the way down to five feet eight inches.
Apparently in response to subtle pressure from the F.B.I. agents, Andrews told them, “Write what you want, that I am nuts. I don’t care.” The agents obligingly wrote in their final report that Andrews had come to the conclusion that the phone call from Bertrand had been “a figment of his imagination.” This not only allowed the Bureau to conclude its investigation into Andrews but harmonized with its announced conclusion that Lee Oswald had accomplished Kennedy’s assassination alone and unaided.
I knew Andrews well and had known him for years. He had been at Tulane Law School at the same time I had been there, although we were not in the same class. His practice was focused toward the municipal courts, and he appeared to obtain much of his business from his regular presence in some of the more off-beat bars in the city.
From reading his statements and subsequent testimony, it was clear to me that Andrews indeed had received a phone call from someone in New Orleans about going to Dallas and defending Oswald. And it had come the day after the assassination.
Andrews suddenly leaned forward, his black glasses looming at me. “Pipe the bimbo in red,” he said in a low voice.
“What’s that?”
I glanced in the direction he was pointing and saw a lissome young lady radiant in crimson, turning heads as she arrived with her lunch date. “She’s pretty,” I said, turning back to Andrews. His laid-back manner, which seemed to enable him to shed reality as a duck sheds water, was beginning to irritate me. I had been trying to pin him down for half an hour now, and he was well into his second martini, quite unfazed.
“Could we get to the point? Just who is Clay Bertrand? Where do I find him? I want to talk to him.”
Andrews swung his arms open wide in exaggerated frustration. “God almighty,” he said. “You’re worse than the Feebees.[34] How can I convince you that I don’t know this cat, I don’t know what he looks like, and I don’t know where he’s at. All I know is that sometimes he sends me cases. So, one day, this cat Bertrand’s on the phone talkin’ to me about going to Dallas and representing Oswald.” He put his hand over his heart. “Scout’s honor, man. That’s all I know about the guy.”
Andrews resumed eating his Crabmeat Louie with gusto. Apparently he felt that I had my answer and the matter was settled.
For the first time it occurred to me that seated in front of me was a man who took everything in life with a grain of salt. Or perhaps, I reflected, he had up to now.
As he lifted another forkful of his Crabmeat Louie, I reached out and grabbed the fat hand with the fork in it. The black glasses swung my way. The crabmeat halted in mid-air.
“Dean,” I said, “I think we’re having a communication problem. Let me see if this will help clarify it for you. Now stop eating that damn crabmeat for a minute and listen to me.”
I could not see through the glasses, but I knew I had his attention. “I’m aware of our long friendship,” I said. “But I want you to know that I’m going to call you in front of the Grand Jury. If you lie to the Grand Jury as you have been lying to me, I’m going to charge you with perjury. Now am I communicating with you?”
Andrews stopped eating his crabmeat and put down his fork. He was silent for a long moment, apparently saddened at the failure of his jive humor. Then he spoke, and for the first time he seemed to be serious—at least, as far as you could tell before the black glasses blocked your vision.
“Is this off the record, Daddyo?” he asked me. I nodded. “In that case,” he said, “let me sum it up for you real quick. It’s as simple as this. If I answer that question you keep asking me, if I give you that name you keep trying to get, then it’s goodbye, Dean Andrews. It’s bon voyage, Deano. I mean like permanent. I mean like a bullet in my head—which makes it hard to do one’s legal research, if you get my drift. Does that help you see my problem a little better?”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw blue flames flare up. I glanced over to the nearby table. A couple was having crêpes Suzettes, and the waiter had just lit the brandy. He hovered over the burning dessert with great ceremony.
I leaned forward. “Read my lips,” I said. I spoke with careful deliberation. “Either you dance in to the Grand Jury with the real moniker of that cat who called you to represent Lee Oswald, or your fat behind is going to the slammer. Do you dig me?”
Andrews froze. I could not read through the huge pitch-black glasses, but I sensed that he was shaken. Then he stood up so suddenly it startled me. “Do you have any idea what you’re getting into, my man?” he asked. “You want to dance with the government? Is that what you want? Then be my guest. But you will get sat on, and I do mean hard.” He dropped his pink napkin on top of his Crabmeat Louie. “Thanks for the lunch,” he mumbled. “It’s been lovely.”
He wheeled and walked away from the table. When he had entered the restaurant he had jigged in the front door, snapping his fingers to some imagined tune. Looking at him as he walked away, I realized that I had finally gotten through. He was not jigging anymore.
My office’s search for “Clay Bertrand” began with a discussion by our small group of the back-pedaling by Andrews—as described in the Warren Commission volumes—away from any clear identification of the man. We came to a general agreement that because Andrews himself was known to be a frequenter of some of the bars deep in the French Quarter, such places could be a fertile field for inquiry. It was plain enough that Andrews knew the man who had called him, and the association well might have derived from one of those places where he hung out.
By that time, Andrew Sciambra had become a member of our investigative group. Sciambra had grown up, and had lived much of his life, in the Sixth Ward, which included a large part of the lower French Quarter where the bars Andrews patronized were located. Over the years Sciambra had come to know one and then another operator or employee of these various bars.
To ease the entrée of our people at locales not always enthusiastic about the arrival of law enforcement personnel, we planned for Sciambra first—and, in some cases, friends and acquaintances of his—to contact the various bar owners in the lower part of the Quarter. That done, we formed teams of one assistant D.A. and one investigator each (in this instance, to cover the large area involved, we borrowed liberally from our entire attorney and investigative staff) to sweep the bars and ask if any proprietors knew of a man who used the name “Clay Bertrand.”
On the first night of the hunt I went out with one of the teams to one of the bars deep in the Quarter. This particular place, Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop, had been a popular watering hole for classmates of mine back in Tulane Law School days, and I had the distinct impression that I had seen Dean Andrews there—even though that was some years before.
When we arrived at the Blacksmith Shop, I saw that it had changed very little. It was held to be the locale at which Jean Lafitte, the famous pirate whose headquarters was on Bayou Barataria, just outside New Orleans, actually maintained a blacksmith’s shop. The place was built around a huge open fireplace and chimney and was constructed almost entirely of ancient brick.
It appeared old enough, given the benefit of occasional rebuilding over the years, to have been standing there since the War of 1812. There was a definite air of intrigue about the place, emphasized by the low ceiling and the thick, uneven rafters which had been hewn by hand rather than cut by machine. From the gaslight lanterns behind the long wooden bar to the chimney lamps at each table there was not an electric light to be seen.
It took very little imagination, amid this unique atmosphere, to envision the pirate, Jean Lafitte, meeting there with representatives of General Andrew Jackson. Jackson’s great victory in the Battle of New Orleans has been attributed by some to these meetings, at which he obtained from Lafitte much-needed flints for his rifles.
Unfortunately for our particular expedition, the old owner of the place, who had always been friendly to me, had died a year or two back. The new owner, while friendly enough on the surface, seemed very nervous. Besides, while he was beaming welcome from ear to ear, I noticed that he had eyes like an anxious barracuda, and they definitely were not responding warmly to me. It was evident immediately that I was going to get nothing from him. He had no idea who “Clay Bertrand” was, he said, adding with emphasis that he had never heard the name.
As we left the bar, Lou Ivon came over. “Look, boss,” he said gently. “I know you’d rather have me come straight out with this. Your showing up with us like this, without any warning, just about gave that man a heart attack. Seeing the D.A. suddenly walking in doesn’t make too many people happy in this area. I think you better leave this operation to us.”
So I did. The rest of the sweep was handled by the members of the group. Most of them were better than I was anyway in establishing quick, casual relationships.
These were long evenings for the staff members engaged in the hunt. It was not the kind of thing where one could pop in a place and then pop right out again. Even with Sciambra’s help, relationships nevertheless had to be developed at each place visited. If the owner was not there, then it usually meant having to have a few beers while chatting with the bartender. Our investigators learned to go straight to the bar stool nearest the cash register, which resulted in more chances for casual banter with the person tending bar.
At the end of the first week all the scouting patrol had to show for their late nights was a collection of baggy eyes. A number of the owners and bartenders seemed to know well enough who “Clay Bertrand” was, but they felt a professional obligation to protect him, as a regular client, and none whatever to help us.
Still we pushed on. Then at some point—along about the third week—we had our first break. At Cosimo’s, a small, crowded tavern deep in the Quarter on Burgundy Street, the bartender had been friendly and receptive on the first encounter but indecisive about knowing who Bertrand was. On the follow-up visit he was cooperative. An uncle of Sciambra’s had called him on the phone.
“Sure,” he said, “Bertrand comes here a lot. I guess you might say this is a regular stop of his.” Did he know whether Bertrand used another name? “Oh, sure,” he said. “Clay Shaw. I think most people know that.” He went on to mention having seen him on the TV news, usually with important people. He could not understand, however, what the mystery was. As far as he was concerned, everyone in that part of the Quarter knew Bertrand. Did he know why Shaw used the name “Bertrand”? The bartender shrugged. All he knew was that it had been that way for a long time.
After that, two more bartenders—also from places deep in the Quarter—cooperated in quick succession. Clay Bertrand? Sure, they knew him. Everybody around here knew him. His other name? Clay Shaw. Everybody knew about that.
The general feeling seemed to be that Shaw used his pseudonym as some kind of private game, something for his own satisfaction. No one at these bars had any idea why he chose to be “Bertrand” when visiting their places, but that was good enough for them.
Shaw was not particularly discreet in the use of this alias, but he appeared to use it only in the raffish bars in the lower Quarter where his presence might well have tarnished his public image as a prominent civic leader.
Gradually, my men began encountering one person after another in the French Quarter who confirmed that it was common knowledge that “Clay Bertrand” was the name Clay Shaw went by. However, no one would authorize the use of his name or even sign a statement to be kept confidential. No one wanted to get involved. This was quite curious considering Shaw’s reputation throughout the city as a man of decorum and distinction.
Finally we located a young man named William Morris who had met Shaw at the Masquerade Bar on St. Louis Street in the French Quarter. He had been introduced to Shaw by Gene Davis, who worked at the Court of Two Sisters. Davis had introduced Shaw to Morris as “Clay Bertrand.” Morris had become a friend of Shaw’s, not only visiting Shaw’s apartment, but encountering him at one private party and, on occasion, again at the Masquerade Bar. Morris said that his tall friend was always referred to as Bertrand.
Then, in a break from a far different direction, the lady who had been the hostess at the V.I.P. room for Eastern Airlines at New Orleans International Airport called us. She had been on duty when a man—apparently meeting a friend who had arrived by plane—signed the guest register as “Clay Bertrand.” From some acquaintance she had heard that the D.A.’s office was looking for a man by that name.
The name had stuck in her mind, she said, because each V.I.P. room visitor was supposed to sign the register before leaving. Only this man—not his friend—had signed before they left. She looked at his signature, which she customarily did, and saw the name “Clay Bertrand.”
We followed up with a search through the airline’s guest registers. As her memory became more specific, the search narrowed down to the sign-in registers for a period of a few months. And then the signature was found. After the printed phrase “Visiting Guest,” there was signed with a flamboyant flourish: “Clay Bertrand.” Her description of the signer was a tall, elegant, white-haired man with distinguished bearing—obviously Clay Shaw.
Things began to pick up. One lead led to another—or two or three. This was taking weeks, but the team was making steady progress. And slowly, ever so slowly, we were getting a signed statement here, a signed statement there.
Our patient, plodding footwork had taught us that “Clay Bertrand” was actually Clay Shaw—the distinguished director of the International Trade Mart in New Orleans and a civic leader of note. But at the time we had no inkling that Clay Shaw was much bigger and more powerful than his New Orleans persona indicated. It was not until much later, well after the Shaw trial when it could have been of any use to us, that we discovered Shaw’s extensive international role as an employee of the C.I.A. Shaw’s secret life as an Agency man in Rome trying to bring Fascism back to Italy was exposed in articles in the Italian press which we obtained from Ralph Schoenmann, secretary to the philosopher Bertrand Russell, who had been one of the earliest supporters of our investigation.
According to these articles, the C.I.A.—which apparently had been conducting its own foreign policy for some time—had begun a project in Italy as far back as the early 1960s. The organization, named the Centro Mondiale Commerciale (the World Trade Center), had initially been formed in Montreal, then moved to Rome in 1961. Among the members of its board of directors, we learned, was one Clay Shaw from New Orleans.
The Centro Mondiale Commerciale’s new headquarters, according to the Roman press, was elegant. Its publicity, announcing the new, creative role it was going to play in world trade, was impressive. The Centro opened an additional office in Switzerland, also an impressive move.
However, in 1967, the Italian press took a close look at the board of directors of the Centro Mondiale Commerciale and found that it consisted of a very curious collection of individuals. The board contained at least one genuine prince, Gutierrez di Spadaforo, a member of the House of Savoy, whence came Umberto, the last of Italy’s kings. Spadaforo, a man of considerable wealth, with extensive holdings in armaments and petroleum, had once been the undersecretary of agriculture for Il Duce, Benito Mussolini. Through his daughter-in-law, Spadaforo was related to the famous Nazi minister of finance, Hjalmar Schacht, who had been tried for war crimes in Nuremberg.
Another director of the Centro was Carlo D’Amelio, the lawyer for other members of the former Italian royal family. Another was Ferenc Nagy, the exiled former premier of Hungary and the former head of its leading anti-communist political party. Nagy also was described by the Italian newspapers as the president of Permindex (ostensibly a foundation for a permanent exposition and an offshoot of the Centro Mondiale Commerciale). Nagy, the Italian newspapers said, had been a heavy contributor to Fascist movements in Europe. Yet another director was a man named Giuseppi Zigiotti, the president of something with the congenial title of the Fascist National Association for Militia Arms.
One of the major stockholders of the Centro was a Major L.M. Bloomfield, a Montreal resident originally of American nationality and a former agent with the Office of Strategic Services, out of which the United States had formed the C.I.A.[35]
This then was the general make-up of the Centro Mondiale Commerciale, on whose board of directors Clay Shaw served. Judging from the background of its members and the fairly heavy activities in which they were engaged, the organization could not be confused with the Shriners or the 4-H Club. The Centro was described in 1969 by writer Paris Flammonde in The Kennedy Conspiracy as apparently representative of the paramilitary right in Europe, including Italian Fascists, the American C.I.A., and similar interests. He described it as “a shell of superficiality … composed of channels through which money flowed back and forth, with no one knowing the sources or the destination of these liquid assets.”
The Italian government had no problem distinguishing the organization from the Shriners and the 4-H Club. Before 1962 was out, it had expelled the Centro Mondiale Commerciale—and its half-brother, Permindex—from Italy for subversive intelligence activity.
Perhaps because of its Montreal origin, the Centro aroused the interest of a Canadian newspaper, Le Devoir. Referring to Ferenc Nagy, one of the Centro’s directors, it wrote in early 1967: “Nagy … maintains close ties with the C.I.A. which link him with the Miami Cuban colony.” Nagy subsequently emigrated to the United States, making himself at home in Dallas, Texas.
With regard to Major Bloomfield, Le Devoir observed that although now ostensibly a Canadian, he had been involved in “espionage” in earlier years for the United States government. It went on to point out that Bloomfield was not only a major shareholder of the Centro but of its affiliated group, Permindex, as well.
Summing up the fate of the two related enterprises, Le Devoir stated: “Whatever the case may be, the Centro Commerciale and Permindex got into difficulties with the Italian and Swiss governments. They refused to testify to origins of considerable amounts of money, and they never seem to engage in actual commercial transactions. These companies were expelled from Switzerland and Italy in 1962 and then set up headquarters in Johannesburg.”
The ultimate evaluation of Clay Shaw’s Centro Mondiale Commerciale by the Paesa Sera stated: “Among its possible involvements (supported by the presence in directive posts of men deeply committed to organizations of the extreme right) … is that the Center was the creature of the C.I.A. … set up as a cover for the transfer of C.I.A. … funds in Italy for illegal political-espionage activities. It still remains to clear up the presence on the administrative Board of the Center of Clay Shaw and ex-Major (of the O.S.S.) Bloomfield.”
Paesa Sera made an additional observation about the Centro. It was, the newspaper observed, “the point of contact for a number of persons who, in certain respects, have somewhat equivocal ties whose common denominator is anti-communism so strong that it would swallow up all those in the world who have fought for decent relations between East and West, including Kennedy.” That just happened, as well, to be a trenchant one-line description of the parent organization, the Central Intelligence Agency.
As for Permindex, which Clay Shaw also served as a director, the Italian press revealed that it had, among other things, secretly financed the opposition of the French Secret Army Organization (O.A.S.) to President DeGaulle’s support for independence for Algeria, including its reputed assassination attempts on DeGaulle. This observation, had we known about it in 1967, would have brought us full-circle all the way back to the blimp base at Houma, Louisiana, where David Ferrie and others from Guy Banister’s operation repossessed the munitions from the Schlumberger bunker which the C.I.A. earlier had given to the assassination-minded O.A.S. It would certainly have helped our case against Shaw to have been able to link him definitively with the C.I.A. Unfortunately, however, with our limited staff and finances, and many leads to follow, our investigation was not able to uncover any of this crucial background information when we needed it most.