True Compass (31 page)

There was an increasing perception in the country that Vietnam was no longer "Johnson's war," it was now "Nixon's war"--a scalding rebuke to a president who'd campaigned on the promise that he had "a secret plan" to end the war. I always doubted Nixon ever had such a plan. But as American casualties mounted in the spring of 1969, he began to improvise secret tactics. One of them was the bombing of presumed enemy supply lines in neighboring Cambodia. This operation did not remain "secret" for very long, as leaks to the press began around the same time as Hamburger Hill. Nixon's outrage over leaks and supposed leaks escalated his impulse toward surveillance: telephone taps, procurement of personal records, and, ultimately, the bugging of the Democratic offices at the new Watergate apartment and office complex in Washington.

Speaking of Watergate, not long after Nixon's inauguration in 1969, I took over the chairmanship of an obscure Senate subcommittee, Administrative Practices and Procedures. I could not have anticipated, at the time, how pivotal this subcommittee was destined to become.

On June 8, I gave a talk in Kentucky, and allowed the Associated Press reporter Joseph E. Mohbat, with whom I'd been friendly, to accompany me and some aides back to Hyannis in a small plane. June 8 fell two days after the first anniversary of Bobby's assassination, and the heaviness of it had caught up with me in spite of my constant attempts to stay busy. Mohbat sensed my reflective mood, and took the opportunity to draw me out on my thoughts regarding my political life and my future.

When asked about a possible presidential run in 1972, I shared my misgivings: "I mean, is the country going to be receptive? Will it be the time? And if it is, is it really the best thing for me to do? And what kind of contribution could I make, even if...?"

Mohbat noted in the piece that I spoke hesitantly, in half-sentences, and he offered some examples: "I'm really very unresolved right now... Maybe over the summer... some sailing... the family... I think perhaps by fall I'll be settled, have some idea..."

In response to my flying companion's pleasantry about a "good crowd tonight," I could summon little enthusiasm: "You know, these kinds of things kind of turn me off now. When I first came on into this in 1962, it was really good, easy. But the kicks aren't... I mean, meeting Molly Somebody and hearing all about her being Miss Something."

I added, coming close now to the heart of it, "What's it all for? I used to love it. But the fun began to go out of it after 1963, and then after the thing with Bobby, well..."

The reporter then ventured one of those formulaic questions that almost seem to invite an equally superficial reply: whether I thought the Kennedy name would still be "magic" in 1972 or 1976. My response was probably unreflective and offhand, yet it hinted at deeper feelings.

"I just don't know," was what I told him. "I really think all these things are predestined."

June gave way to July. My calendar remained cluttered with dates for speeches and appearances around the country, and I continued my frenzied travel pace to fulfill all of them. Toward the calendar's lower right corner, the square marking July 18 read, "Edgartown regatta."

The Kennedys had a long history in the regatta. Joe Jr. and Jack had raced in it before World War II. Joe Gargan and I had always competed as kids. This was the regatta where Jack had swooped in from the skies from Washington one year to skipper for Joe and me on
Victura
, then swooped up and away again.

This summer would mark my first return to the regatta since Bobby's death.

There was an event that would be held on the same day and in the vicinity--on Chappaquiddick Island, separated from Edgartown and the rest of Martha's Vineyard by a narrow split of the Sound--a reunion of the six young women who'd served on Bobby's campaign staff, doing the hard necessary work of answering phones, getting out press releases, overseeing schedules and accommodations, and dealing with the press.

Such gatherings, I knew from experience, tended only to increase my difficulties in dealing with the grief. But Nance Lyons, one of the six who was then on my staff, let me know that it would mean a lot to the others if I attended. And so I decided to stop by the gathering.

I flew from Washington to Boston that morning, then made a smallcraft connection from Logan airport to the Vineyard. Tip O'Neill was my seatmate out of Washington, and I recall telling him, "I've never been so tired in my life."

That night on Chappaquiddick Island ended in a horrible tragedy that haunts me every day of my life. I had suffered sudden and violent loss far too many times, but this night was different. This night I was responsible. It was an accident, but I was responsible. One week after the accident, I purchased airtime to discuss the details of that night as best I could recall them. I gave the best account of it in my power at the inquest at Edgartown in January 1970. I've touched on it in interviews. And that, aside from many apologies, to the Kopechne family, to my constituents, to my fellow citizens, and in prayers for forgiveness, has pretty much been the extent of my public comment.

I have been told that upwards of twenty books have been published that deal in whole or in part with what has been known for forty years as "Chappaquiddick." Newspaper and magazine articles on the subject over the years are probably uncountable. I am aware that there are many who are skeptical of my explanation. And I am aware that there are others who are contemptuous, with the unchecked chatter in the blogosphere even going so far as to spin totally false, bizarre, and evil theories that do not deserve to be repeated here.

People have asked why I have not attempted to knock down each of these theories, as though my silence somehow gives credibility to every horrible allegation that people choose to make. Throughout my life, not just with this accident, I have refused to respond to false gossip and innuendo. I have never, not once, responded to a story in the tabloids, even when the story got repeated in the mainstream press. I knew that once I started, I would be forced to engage in a back-and-forth on every allegation, no matter how ludicrous or impossible. And I knew that no matter what I said, it would not satisfy those who had already made up their minds.

But whatever attacks and misrepresentations I have suffered as a result of Chappaquiddick, I know that they have been nothing compared to the grief endured with dignity by Mary Jo's father, Joe, who died on Christmas Eve 2003, and her mother, Gwen, who died in 2007. I know that my public discussion of that terrible night would only have caused them more pain.

I also have a personal distaste for self-justification. I grew up in a family of people who didn't want to hear you complain, and, quite frankly, I don't have a lot of respect for people who whine or go around feeling sorry for themselves. I do not intend to re-create all the details of a night that happened forty years ago, as I write this book. I couldn't. From my fortyyear vantage point, what I am left with now are mostly memories of memories, and even those older memories lacked clarity, as records of the time show. My thoughts through the hours that followed the accident were disrupted by shock, terror, and the concussion that I received on impact. In any event, I gave testimony about those events at the time, and that testimony is the best evidence of the chronology of that evening. But I do want to share the general story and my more personal feelings.

I landed at Martha's Vineyard airport in the early afternoon that Friday and was met by my driver Jack Crimmins, who had previously brought my Oldsmobile sedan to the island. Jack drove me across the Vineyard to Chappaquiddick Island. We crossed the narrow spit by ferryboat and went on to the small cottage that Joe Gargan had rented for the weekend festivities. I took a swim and then went back to Edgartown. Joe had reserved rooms at an inn near Edgartown for the women and at another inn for the men, including me.

Besides Joe, Jack Crimmins, and myself, the men included my friends Paul Markham, the former U.S. attorney for Massachusetts; Ray LaRosa, a former fireman and stalwart campaign worker; and another campaign aide, Charles Tretter, a lawyer and head of the New England Regional Commission. The young women, besides Mary Jo and Nance Lyons, included Nance's sister Mary Ellen, Susan Tannenbaum, Rosemary Keough, and Esther Newberg.

Later that afternoon I skippered my Wianno Seniors sloop,
Victura
, in the regatta, with Joe Gargan as part of my crew as usual. My recollection is that we finished in the top half of the fleet. After celebrating a while with the crew of the boat that won the race, I returned to my hotel to freshen up for the evening. Crimmins drove me to the cottage for the cookout. The guests, transported from the ferry site by Joe, had all gathered by about 8:30. We all talked, told fond stories about Bobby, listened to music, danced a bit, and had cocktails until dinner was served a little before ten.

During the evening, I began speaking with Mary Jo Kopechne. I did not know her socially before that evening. Perhaps I had met her before, but I did not recall it. We reminisced about Bobby, and we both became emotional. I needed to get out of that party. I needed to get outside, to breathe some fresh air. When Mary Jo said that she wanted to go home, I was grateful for the excuse to leave. I asked Jack Crimmins for the car keys and left with Mary Jo. My intention was to take her to the ferry and back to Edgartown and to her hotel.

With Mary Jo in the car, I drove the short distance from the cottage to a T-intersection. It was very dark. I had not been to this part of the island before that day, when I had been a passenger in the car and not the driver. I turned onto what I now know was Dike Road. The road was unlit, and a narrow car bridge for crossing the pond came up suddenly and unexpectedly in my headlights. It had no guard rails and headed in a leftward angle from the road. My car slipped off the side of the narrow bridge and into the water and flipped upside down.

To this day, I cannot tell you how I escaped that car. Most probably, I squeezed through the window on the driver's side, a reprise of escaping through the window of the crashed airplane, with Birch Bayh's help, five years earlier.

I dived back into the water several times, trying to get to Mary Jo. I could not see her in the car. I hoped she'd been able to escape, too. That's what I wanted to believe, even though I knew it was unlikely. I ran back to the party to get help. I returned with friends who also dove, but could not see her.

What I said and did in the ensuing hours has been copiously recorded, examined, disputed, and debated for decades: my devising and rejecting scenarios with Joe and the others that flashed compulsively through my feverish thoughts; swimming across the channel to Edgartown; delaying in reporting the accident. I am not proud of these hours. My actions were inexcusable. Perhaps I have not made my acknowledgment of this clear enough over the years. And perhaps I have not fully acknowledged the following points as well:

I was afraid. I was overwhelmed. I made terrible decisions. Even though I was dazed from my concussion, exhaustion, shock, and panic, I was rational enough to understand that the accident would be devastating to my family. They had suffered so much, and now they would be forced to suffer again because of me. And I knew it would be damaging to my political career as well.

I also worried that people would leap to false assumptions about Mary Jo Kopechne and me. We had no romantic relationship whatsoever. Yet I understood that my reputation was such that many people would seize on the circumstances to attack Mary Jo's character. And mine. The sad fact is that my flawed and wrongheaded actions had the opposite effect of having people link Mary Jo to me in a romantic way. I am deeply sorry about that. Mary Jo Kopechne was an innocent young woman who had done nothing more than been loyal to my brother and his cause. And she lost her life in an accident when I was at the wheel. I've had to live with that guilt for forty years. But my burden is nothing compared to her loss and the suffering her family had to endure. She also didn't deserve to be falsely linked to me in a romantic way. She deserved better than that. And God knows her parents did.

When I finally did stumble off into the darkness after my futile efforts to rescue Mary Jo, my mind was a jumble of mutually conflicting thoughts. I believed that the young woman was dead, and the thought buckled me with grief and horror. At the same time, I'd managed to convince myself that she surely must have escaped, given that I had not seen her in the car. Perhaps I had misperceived while I was in the dark water. Perhaps I could wish it all away.

But I could not wish it all away. I had suffered many losses during my life. I had lost all of my brothers and my sister Kathleen. My father had been lost to me in many respects because of his debilitating stroke. And now this horrible accident. But again, the difference this time was that I myself was responsible. I was driving. Yes, it was an accident. But that doesn't erase the fact that I had caused an innocent woman's death.

Atonement is a process that never ends. I believe that. Maybe it's a New England thing, or an Irish thing, or a Catholic thing. Maybe all of those things. But it's as it should be.

On Saturday, November 15, my frail father suffered the latest in a series of strokes that had ravaged his eighty-one-year-old body and slipped into unconsciousness at the Cape house in Hyannis Port. He never awakened. Three days later Joseph P. Kennedy quietly passed from this world, lying in bed in the same second-story room, with its view of Nantucket Sound, from where his blue eyes had tracked us children as we'd scampered home at twilight so many summers, and lifetimes, ago. The core of his surviving extended family kept watch at his bedside in the final hours: my mother, Ann Gargan, Pat, Eunice and Sargent Shriver, Jean and Steve Smith, Jackie, Ethel, Joan, and myself.

Condolences came in from all over the world. President Nixon graciously noted Dad's passing and the role he played in shaping American history.

Dad's old friend Richard Cardinal Cushing presided over the simple services two days later at the small nearby church where Kennedys have worshipped over the decades, St. Francis Xavier on South Street. It was November 20, Bobby's forty-fourth birthday. My remarks at the service were brief. There was too much to say, and too many tears to hold back. I observed quietly that this was not so much a final prayer for Dad as a reminder to the rest of us of the deep love he held for us, and our obligation to lead the kind of lives he would want us to lead.