an excerpt from Mike Golden’s

Boris Yaro’s photograph of RFK lying wounded on the floor immediately after the shooting

As he was falling to the floor, Bobby pulled the tie lying on the floor next to his body off his hired bodyguard  Thane Eugene Cesar, after he shot him twice in the back of head.


If I could have looked back from 50-years in the future, to the day RFK Jr., suddenly came out of nowhere, and said he didn’t believe that Sirhan Sirhan had killed his father, and that the investigation into Bobby’s death should be reopened (https://news.google.com/search?for=rfk%20jr&hl=en-US&gl=US&ceid=US%3Aen), I would have growled, “What took you so long, chump? Were you afraid the fuckers were going to whack your whole clan out of existence?” And would have realized the best theory still stuck to Occam’s razor was that no matter who was in on it, mob Boss-of-Bosses Carlos Marcello had called the shots on all three assassinations. Giving the ok to take out Jack was just the first step in his master plan to get the rat dog Attorney General gnawing on his leg.

Ever since he’d obsequiously weaseled his way into JFK’s hotel room at the 1960 Democratic Convention and convinced him, against his baby bro’s advice, to dump Missouri Senator Stuart Symington from the second spot on the ticket he’d already accepted, LBJ had subtly started mau-mauing his oil baron patrons and mob benefactor Marcello that the best way to protect their interests was to get rid of Jack, knowing full well in advance of his move that there was no other way that an ambitious psychopathic corrupt Southern racist (and proud of it) could ever be nominated, or ascend to the top spot on his own, much less pass himself off for decades on end to Liberal sheep (making heroes of their villains) as “The Civil Rights President”, unless he got JFK taken out while he was his legal successor.

Jack’s inclination to let his badass baby bro run roughshod over his father’s former mob business partners who made Irish Big Joe Kennedy richer and more powerful than the fictional Vito Corleone (who was probably inspired by Big Joe, since it had to be as obvious to Mario Puzo as it was to me that The Godfather’s master plan was always to have his youngest son Michael Corleone grow up to be as legitimate as Jack Kennedy, in order for the family to get respect and takeover running the world.

Not that the heinous hyena had to push the envelope very hard for Jack’s removal the first three years, since the young President’s recklessness could have doomed him without any help from his so-called friends. He made more than everyone-all-together’s share of enemies for himself between his intention to cut the big pigs’ oil depletion allowance (27% right off the top of their profits), the memorandum he wrote to start removing U.S. troops and advisors from Vietnam, not to go into all the enemies he made of the pissed off Cubans who blamed him for the botched Bay of Pigs fiasco that stuck it to the Intel community right where the Dulles brothers breathed, at the same time it killed the mob’s gambling investments in Cuba for good, to go along with his inclination to let his badass baby bro run roughshod over his father’s former mob business partners (like Frank Costello) who during Prohibition made Irish Big Joe Kennedy richer and more powerful than the fictional Vito Corleone (who was probably inspired by him, since it had to be as obvious to Mario Puzo as it was to me that The Godfather’s master plan was always to have his youngest son Michael Corleone grow up to be as legitimate as Jack Kennedy, in order for the family to get the respect they needed to legitimately takeover running the world). And this doesn’t even take into account that the obviously horny-all-the-time speed-freak 35th President of the United States felt he needed to have at least one piece of strange a day to feel alive and avoid the migraine headaches that plagued him without new women to take his mind of the pain he was in. That he could still obviously get a hard-on, in the middle of dealing with the world’s problems, was the major reason my young generation loved and related to him so much, though if truth be told, if he hadn’t been whacked that day in Dallas he most likely would have been impeached and convicted for uttering state secrets to the East German spy Ellen Rometsch, who indulged his fondness for bondage and psychedelics while shacking up with him. On the day he was assassinated there was a squib in the back pages of the New York Times about the affair.

That JFK could still obviously get a hard-on, in the middle of dealing with world problems, was coincidentally enough the major reason Stein’s young generation loved and related to him so much, though if truth be told, if he hadn’t been whacked that day in Dallas he most likely would have been impeached and convicted.

Of course, all those very-very real issues were secondary compared to the immediacy LBJ felt that that Jack was going to boot him off the ticket in 1964 (while taunting himself with the likelihood he’d be replaced by his mortal enemy, dirty little Bobby).  And that wasn’t the worst of it; they had him dead to rights for his involvement in scandals (orchestrated by Texas grain-elevator wheeler-dealer Billie Sol Estes and his own aid-de-camp Bobby Baker’s crooked, but very profitable deals), and were going to put him away for anywhere between 5-20 years, depending on what else turned up against him – not to dwell on at least 12 murders he was ostensibly responsible for his boy Mac Wallace carrying out, including his own big mouthed playgirl baby sister Joseph’s check-out stroke, along with everything that ever went down in Texas that he claimed a piece of the action on. There were so fucking many dirty deals in his pocket, even his whitewashing on-the-tit apologist biographers Caro & Kearns-Goodwin, couldn’t deny them at the same time they covered up the heaviest stuff.  The only possibility LBJ wouldn’t be put away was if something tragic happened to poor charming Jack, and he somehow ascended to the presidency, and from that power position, threw out all the charges (sound familiar?) still gathering against him (today) in one fell swoop. In fact, that was the major motivating factor to assassinate Jack Kennedy. Then covering the conspirators tracks by creating The Warren Commission with Hoover, as a bogus shield for Johnson to hide his involvement in the assassination of his predecessor, by very simply killing any and all other legitimate investigations of what happened in Dallas. It would have been perfect if the cherry on top of the icing on that cold blooded cake stuck out its tongue at suckers like us and put Carlos Marcello on the Commission headed by former California Governor and Grand Dragon of the Klu Klux Klan, Chief Justice Earl Warren.

The only possibility LBJ wouldn’t be put away, instead of being on the ticket in ’64, was if something tragic happened to poor charming Jack, and he somehow ascended to the presidency, and from that power position, threw out all the charges (still) gathering against him (today) in one fell swoop; for now we can call it The Warren Commission, which was created by LBJ and Hoover as a bogus shield for Johnson to hide his involvement in the assassination of his predecessor, by killing any and all other legitimate investigations of what happened in Dallas.

It was an incestuous trifecta, to say the least. Marcello, not only improbably owned the pinball parlor next door to Jim’s Grill, the low rent beer and hamburger joint whose backyard not only overlooked the Lorraine Motel, but was where the real plot to assassinate MLK in Memphis took place, but he had his own personal lawyer, the undefeated Houston criminal defense guru Percy Foreman, suddenly appear out of nowhere to become James Earl Ray’s lawyer, and coerce the patsy to plead guilty (in order to protect the exclusivity of the intellectual property from his trial from going into the public domain) for a mere $500. Ray recanted his confession not long after Foreman got what he wanted, filing an Appeal on his own with Judge Preston Battle’s, court, asking for a trial. Which as we all should know, never happened, despite the fact there was a law on the books in Tennessee that if a defendant had an Appeal on a sitting judge’s desk and the judge dropped dead with it on his desk (as Judge Battle did), the defendant would automatically be granted a trial. But that never happened in Ray’s case. The state ignored their own law for 30 years, and refused to ever grant him his chance to testify under oath. And then when he died, quietly removed the law from the books.

Frank Liberto, the local produce dealer, who allegedly delivered $100,000 to Jim’s Grill owner Loyd Jowers to find someone to kill King, was originally from New Orleans, and the brother of Marcello’s barber and closest confident Salvatore Liberto. Jowers, an ex MPD-cop, had an obvious entrepreneurial flair.  Besides his low rent joint, he had his own small cab company, took bets and ran book for all the local cops, and was a part time hitman on the side, just for “Fuck You” pocket change. When Liberto passed Marcello’s hundred-K to Jowers to find a shooter to do the job Chez Hoover wanted done, it was the easiest money he’d ever seen, and a job he ultimately couldn’t turn down, especially since it was taking place, with or without him, in his own backyard. So he kept the money and from the jungle growth brush filling up the yard, took King out himself. Even bragged about it to anybody who would listen, but naturally the local DAG refused to question him, declaring that they didn’t want to give him “credibility” by taking his confession. And even more amazing than that lame refrain they were rooted in, nobody in the chickenshit media ever had the balls to call the DAG out for that ridiculous statement, and question them about their own lack of credibility.  This shit is just too hard to believe to have been made up.  Even as fiction in a bad anti-historical novel.

Thane Eugene Cesar, unlike Jowers, was an occasional weekend warrior bodyguard who was called at the last minute by the mob controlled Ambassador Hotel management to provide additional security for RFK once it was clear Bobby was going to win the 1968 Democratic presidential primary in California. No matter what other bullshit was thrown in to obfuscate what really happened, Cesar was the only one physically in position to have actually taken Bobby out, according to the coroner’s report. And yes, Cesar was connected to Marcello too, directly through San Diego mob gambling King John Alessio, who not only owed his position in the mob to the New Orleans-Texas Godfather in the same way Cesar owed his fat Lockheed guard job to Alessio, who was also a good friend of L.A. gambling boss Mickey Cohen, who just happened to know Sirhan Sirhan as an exercise boy and heavy losing gambler who did odd jobs for wise guys around Santa Anita or Del Mar (Hoover’s favorite race track to mooch off the mob) in order to make ends meet. If this is starting to sound like a mob version of I Love Lucy, it ought to, since Sirhan was also working as a groom at a horse breeding ranch in Corona, partly owned by his friend, mob connected Cuban exile band leader Desi - yes, that Desi - Arnaz, who was without a doubt tight with Mickey Cohen too.  To tie that connecting knot even tighter than Michael Cohen was to the putz in power when all his dirty deals went down, Mickey Cohen was Marcello’s partner on various underwelt gambling ventures across the country, so it’s not hard to picture Sirhan and Cesar being put together, without even knowing each other (at the last minute) to take out Bobby, five years after Jack. Who, incidentally, had to be taken out first by a totally different team (that did not include Lee Harvey Oswald as anything but their patsy and co-conspirator at the same time) from either the mob, Poppy Bush’s CIA team on the grassy knoll, or the-odds-on-favorite and only identifiable fingerprint found in the sniper’s nest of the Book Depository, Lyndon’s number one button boy Mac Wallace, in order to extract revenge on Bobby for snatching Marcello right out of the New Orleans Immigration office he reported to once a month, in 1961, and dumping the dumbfounded don penniless in the jungles of Guatemala. It took Marcello over two months to get back into the USA, more dead than alive, and needless to say, decide to have Jack killed in order to remove Bobby from his mad dog Attorney General powers and stick him helplessly between his two arch enemies, LBJ and Hoover; that was the Contract he dedicated himself to putting together in order for the parlay to have a chance to take Bobby out years later, when the little rat prick had nobody in power around to protect him when he made his run for the roses.

There was enough evidence of Marcello’s intentions that it should have been obvious where the hit was coming from, but what the in-cahoots LAPD concluded about the assassination was so patently false it was a Don’t fuck with us, we’re the mob in this fucking town, hambones-move, that dared anyone to call them out and prove different. When you look at the way it all went down, it was almost like the LAPD wanted everyone to know they had authorized the assassination. And it would stay that way, come hell or highwater, or at least until more details of (still living) Cesar appears to either solidify his guilt as Marcello’s second cousin on his mother’s sister’s side of the bloodline between Palermo and Guatemala, or I.D. the fucker’s corpse in a body bag next to Osama bin Laden, at the bottom of the deep dark sea.

It all came down to Marcello extracting revenge on Bobby for snatching him right out of the New Orleans Immigration office he reported to once a month, in 1961, and dumping the dumbfounded don penniless in the jungles of Guatemala. It took Marcello over two months to get back into the USA, and needless to say, two more years to have Jack killed, in order to remove Bobby from his mad dog Attorney General powers and stick him helplessly between his two arch enemies, LBJ and Hoover; that was the Contract he dedicated himself to putting together in order for the parlay to have a chance to take Bobby out five years later, when the little rat prick had nobody in power around to protect him as he made his run for the roses.

So far that hasn’t happened, though Dr. William Pepper, who got famous over the last 30-years serving as both the King family and James Earl Ray’s lawyer at the same time, took over representing Sirhan several years after his attorney Lawrence Teeter succumbed to cancer. This, after Pepper took over leading the 9/11 Truth movement, and in the inimitable way he seems to have of glorifying himself at the same time he discredits everything he represents at the same time, permanently closed it down not long afterwards.

After the state ignored his multiple petitions for a mew trial for Sirhan, Pepper told me when I asked him about Cesar, that he was still alive, but (he once told me Jowers had never killed anyone before either, until I asked about the 5 or 6 hits he and his partner, who was on death row in Texas, had allegedly done. Then he started screaming “Loyd only killed one, ONLY ONE!”) in typical Pepper-babble, he claimed the only man who actually could have been the killer of RFK was not the killer, but then wouldn’t identify what donkey he was pinning the tail on next, since over the years (and half truth books he’s written) he obviously ran out of dead cops to name as the shooter, and his last one on MLK claimed a Doctor (who wasn’t there according to a first hand witness who was) suffocated (the already dead) King in the operating room. The eye-witness was his own former Private Investigator John Billings, who he must have forgotten was once a 19-year-old on-duty scrub-orderly who had been ordered to stay in the room the whole time King’s body was there, on April 4, 1968.

At a 2017 party at the Civil Rights Museum in Memphis to celebrate Pepper’s latest attempt to cop a Nobel Prize (for his ability to botch every investigation he touched like a living manifestation of The Warren Commission?), he was called out (http://thewileyreport.blogspot.com/2017/11/dr-william-pepper-explores-plot-to-kill.html) for replacing the dead cops, this time with the dead head of surgery at St. Joseph’s Hospital, telling his team “stop working on the nigger and let him die,” before putting a pillow over King’s still breathing head and suffocating him.  From watching his moves over the years, it’s hard to tell if Pepper’s a government mole or just the most naturally incompetent investigator in history, since he always seems to get the right evidence before reaching the wrong conclusion to discredit his whole investigation.

Not that Pepper’s always wrong; in fact, he’s always right before he goes wrong. The key word there is always. In RFK’s case, it was no secret there was an embarrassing lack of effort made by the LAPD to solve the RFK assassination, much less provide info on the moonlighting rent-a-cop who was standing directly behind Bobby in the kitchen of the Ambassador Hotel on the morning of June 5th, 1968, because not only was Cesar the most likely shooter, but according to the autopsy report, the only possible candidate in physical position to have been able to fire three shots at an upward angle into the Senator from New York’s body - one behind the right ear, a second near the right armpit and a third one-and-a-half-inches below the armpit wound - all at a steep upward angle, in a slightly right-to-left direction, almost like he had squatted down behind Bobby like a catcher behind home plate, when Sirhan, standing 3-4 feet in front of Bobby like a drunk Manchurian Candidate, started indiscriminately firing (13-shots from his 8-shot gun) around the room. That the assassination went down the way it went down was as much an indictment of the RFK campaign and the LAPD as Cesar (and ultimately the Kennedy family that waited 50-years to challenge the set up). Cesar, after all, was just carrying out the patient Marcello-to-Cohen-to-Alessio Contract, as it was delivered to him. The odds that the LAPD was inadvertently not at least complicit in making sure the case got closed on the patsy are at least as good as the Russians influencing the 2016 presidential election for the putz-in-power. Even though there’s no way to understand Why would anybody have hired the part-time ACE security guard (with the uncanny knack for beating lie-detector tests) to protect RFK? The normal 9-to-5 Allesio had indirectly secured for him had a high security clearance at Lockheed Aircraft, so once he was in there it should have been relatively easy for him to register with a protection agency and get high profile weekend assignments as a guard. But, according to Cesar himself, he hadn’t worked The Ambassador for four months, when the Hotel called him to come in that night.

Who would know a mob-connected guy could do that, but the LAPD?  Or maybe the CIA?  It was the FBI’s job to know shit like this, but even if they did, we can be damn sure the agency under Chez Hoover would have buried it with all the other illegal skeletons in their fucking closet. It is not difficult for any citizen in this country to be pissed at the FBI, even if sometimes these self righteous cube-squared screws are the only thing standing between us and sinking into the judgment of Sodom and Gomorrah. Though Cesar came from a private service, it’s hard to believe they didn’t originally hire him without a recommendation from somebody in clearing house authority (owned by Allesio or Cohen) who could vouch for him to somebody in RFK’s campaign. But after the assassination, the Ambassador’s Director of Security disappeared and the Hotel’s files for 1968 conveniently were destroyed. So the only generic bio we have of Cesar lists him as a rabid right-winger, with out-front racist views, a died-in-the-wool anti-Kennedy boy, who openly supported George Wallace; just the perfect weekend warrior bodyguard some incompetent or never-found double-agent inside the RFK campaign hired blindly to protect the bumfuck fantasy of the next President of United Camelot.

© 2018 Mike Golden

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