“I started in the Denver Field Office on September 22, 1958, sir.”
“And when were you transferred to the White House Detail?” Baughman asked.
“Just over one year ago. On November 1, 1959.”
This is strange, I thought. Surely all of this information is in my file.
Baughman asked a couple of more innocuous questions, and then each of the other men began asking me things, all sorts of things about my past, both personal and professional, as well as my attitude about protective activities.
What did you do prior to becoming an agent? Where did you grow up? Where did you go to college? Are you married or single? Do you have any children? Do you swim? Do you know how to play tennis? Have you ever ridden horses? I answered the barrage of inquiries as honestly and candidly as possible, but each new question increased my anxiety, as I still had no idea what this was all about. My mind was spinning as I replayed the events of the last couple of weeks, trying to figure out what I could have done wrong, and though my stomach was in knots, I did my best to stay calm and composed.
At times, the men would go off into a corner of the room and confer, just out of earshot, so I couldn’t hear what was being discussed. I was thoroughly convinced that I was about to be fired. Why else wouldn’t I have been sent to Palm Beach?
The interrogation went on for nearly one and a half hours. One and a half hours in which I’d done all the talking, and just like it said on Baughman’s plaque, I hadn’t learned a damn thing.
Finally, Baughman said, “Clint, we have made a decision. You are being assigned to protect Mrs. John F. Kennedy. Jim Jeffries is the leader of the First Lady’s Detail and you’ll be his assistant.”
I was too stunned to speak. The First Lady’s Detail? Me? But why?
“Yes, sir,” I said. There was nothing more to say. I was relieved that I wasn’t being fired, but I was deeply disappointed that I wasn’t going to be with the new president.
Baughman told me to report to 3307 N Street Northwest, to the Kennedy home in Georgetown. Mrs. Kennedy would soon be arriving from Hyannis Port, Massachusetts.
My mind was spinning as I left the chief’s office. Why was I selected for this assignment? What actions or experience in my background caused them to make this decision? It felt as though I had been demoted from the starting lineup to the bench. From grade school to college, in all my years playing football, basketball, and baseball, I’d always been a star player, and now, in the most important game of my life, I’d just been kicked off the first team. I was devastated.
The more I thought about it, the more upset I became. I had been on the White House Detail for just over a year and had traveled with President Eisenhower on several unprecedented trips that took us throughout Europe, Asia, and South America. At the time, I was twenty-seven years old and had never flown in a jet aircraft. Having grown up in the high plains of North Dakota, I could never have imagined I would accompany the President of the United States to ancient cities I’d only read about in history books: Rome, Ankara, Karachi, Kabul, New Delhi, Tehran, Athens, Tunis, Toulon, Paris, Lisbon, and Casablanca. To top things off, I was issued a diplomatic passport, which allowed for preferential treatment, as if I were a dignitary myself. I felt so privileged and I thrived on the constant activity.
One of the things I most enjoyed was the camaraderie among all the agents as we worked together as a team. Now all that excitement was over, and I could just envision what lay ahead. While my buddies on the President’s Detail would be right in the middle of all the action, I knew where I was going to end up: fashion shows, afternoon tea parties, and the ballet. I felt as if my career had come to a screeching halt.
I pulled my Secret Service commission book out of my suit coat pocket and held it in my hands. The impressive midnight blue grosgrain leather case was engraved on the front cover with the gold five-point Secret Service star. Within the star it read: UNITED STATES SECRET SERVICE.
As I went over and over in my mind what had just transpired, the only conclusion I could come to as to why I’d been chosen for this assignment was that Mrs. Kennedy and I were fairly close in age—I was now twenty-eight and she was thirty-one—and that I had a child nearly the same age as her three-year-old daughter Caroline. I couldn’t come up with any other reason.
I finally realized I had no recourse. I was a Secret Service agent on the White House Detail, and the first lady required protection. Somebody had to do it. So I pulled myself up, grabbed the keys to one of the Secret Service sedans, and headed to the historic streets of Georgetown.
THE THREE-STORY REDBRICK townhouse at 3307 N Street stood so close to the street that the front door was just two steps up from the sidewalk. The house was not very big—just three windows across on the upper two floors and two windows next to the front door on the ground floor.
The Secret Service agent posted in front of the house had been alerted to my arrival and allowed me inside without difficulty. Agent Jim Jeffries was waiting inside and came to the door to greet me.
Agent Jeffries was about five foot ten, the same height as me, with a medium build, and was about thirty-two or thirty-three years old. He had light, reddish hair, and a ruddy complexion, which I imagined would burn to a crisp if he spent more than a few minutes in the sun. As he approached me, he had a serious, almost
