Every time I see crowds of media and secret service agents surrounding the president I think of how difficult it is to protect him.
On a Saturday evening in November 1964 Sergeant Joe Bob Smith called my home after I got off shift. "Meet me at the office tomorrow morning at seven. I want to see shined shoes and leather, a fresh uniform and bright eyes."
"Does this have anything to do with President Johnson's visit tomorrow?"
"I'll tell you in the morning."
For the past few days the Arizona Republic, Phoenix Gazette and smaller local papers had published stories about the president's upcoming visit. The putative reason for his stop in Phoenix was to attend church services while on his way to California. Most of us figured he wanted to make a few points with the people of Arizona--strictly politics.
A year earlier, late on the morning of November 22, while patrolling State Route 87 on the Gila River Indian Reservation north of Coolidge, Arizona, the dispatcher transmitted an alert tone. It usually meant something serious so I slowed, ready to pull off the road.
"All units. We have received word from Dallas, Texas that Governor John Connally and President John F. Kennedy have been shot."
That was the entire message--no details.
I wanted to know how badly they were shot--did either or both of them die? Also, why did they name the goveror of Texas first? Was he more important than the president of the United States?
At that time the only radios in our patrol cars were the police two-ways, so I couldn't tune in a local station and get the news.
I stopped the next car, then stood by his window for several minutes listening to the radio, both of us horrified by reports from Dealey Plaza in Dallas.
Three days later, on my day off, I leaned against the kitchen doorway in my apartment listening to Kennedy's funeral services--I did not have a television. That was the first time I had cried since reaching adulthood.
On Sunday morning after Sergeant Smith's call, three other highway patrolmen and I met him at the Casa Grande office. I was correct in speculating about our assignment. The four of us rode together into down-town Phoenix.
Preparations were still underway when we arrived. Rifle-toting men scanned the area from several rooftops and uniformed policemen stood conspicuously, no more than 50 feet apart. Plain-clothes officers roamed the sidewalk, some with the small secret service identifying button on their lapels. Even cast-iron manhole covers had been welded shut.
My station was across the street from St. Mary's Basilica where Johnson planned to attend a late morning mass. According to news reports the twin- turreted Spanish Revival style building was the oldest Catholic church in Phoenix.
We were notified when the presidential airplane landed at Sky Harbor Airport. Most estimates were that even driving slowly, the trip to the church with police escort would take little more than a quarter hour.
Thirty minutes went by, then 40. We waited. It is hard to stay alert for long periods and standing on concrete and asphalt made it more uncomfortable. Even though November is considered fall, the pavement still radiated a lot of heat.
I am sure parishoners in the church were fidgeting also, and priests are not used to having to wait for people to show up for services.
Most of us still had images of Dallas in our minds and were concerned for the safety of the president. Eventually we got word Johnson was getting out of his limousine to shake hands and visit with people along his route.
It is very hard to protect politicians whose image is more important to them than their own safety. It was a long day.