For two decades she never spoke in public about the assassination night, nor did she reveal the names of those in government who bargained for her silence; but she has since reaffirmed her original story about the girl in the polka-dot dress.
Scott Enyart, a young high school student at the time, shot three rolls of photographs at the Ambassador the night of the assassination and was perfectly positioned in the Pantry to record the tragedy. On his way out, the police stopped him and confiscated his film; he was told they’d process it for use in the trial. None of the photos made a courtroom appearance. He fought for two decades to get the photos back. When they were finally being delivered to him, the courier’s car was broken into and the photos stolen.
In 1972, when the death penalty was banned in California, Sirhan Sirhan’s sentence was modified to life in prison. The Board of Parole Hearings found Sirhan suitable for parole in 1975, but rescinded his parole grant. The Board conducted fifteen subsequent hearings, in which they found Mr. Sirhan unsuitable for parole. (EDITOR’S NOTE: On August 27, 2021, the Board conducted Mr. Sirhan’s sixteenth hearing and found him suitable for parole. Governor Gavin Newsom rejected the recommendation.)
The bullets fired in the Pantry killed not just Robert Kennedy but the once grand Ambassador Hotel itself, though the latter’s death was a slow one. A misguided 1970s renovation spearheaded by Sammy Davis Jr. included shag carpet, disco ball and purple decor, the hotel finally closing its doors in 1989. Following a lengthy battle involving the L.A. school district and new owner Donald Trump, much of the hotel was torn down in late 2005 and early 2006. The educational complex rising on the site included remnants of the old hotel — the coffee shop now a teachers’ break room, the Cocoanut Grove an auditorium, and the Embassy Ballroom a library named for Paul Schrade, who had been instrumental in securing the property to build what is now known as the Robert F. Kennedy Community Schools.
On the last day of his life, Bob Kennedy saved a boy from drowning. What about that boy, that Kennedy son, who I watched him drag to shore? David died of a drug overdose in 1984. In 1997, his brother Michael, accused of having an affair with the family’s teenaged babysitter, died playing football on the Colorado ski slopes. Kathleen fared better, being elected lieutenant governor of Maryland, and Joe won his Uncle Jack’s congressional seat.
My son Sam runs the A-1 now, out of the Chicago office. Nita and I spend a good deal of time in Boca Raton, which we call our second home — the first is in suburban Oak Brook, although we still sentimentally consider the Beverly Hills Hotel bungalow our real “first home.”
For the first five years or so of our marriage, Nita stayed busy with the budding indie film industry in Florida, and of course we’d go back to Los Angeles for pilot season. She never landed a series but even now does occasional guest shots. Like me, she’s almost famous.
Our house is on a waterway and we often sit with a cocktail and watch the boats go in this direction and then that. Pretty young things water-ski by and I give them wistful looks like most old men do, and Nita tolerates that. Mostly these days she types up these memoirs from the yellow pads I scrawl them on. Me, I take on a job now and then, and occasionally settle an old score.
So if you are one of the bastards who helped take Bob Kennedy down, don’t get cocky. I might get around to you yet.