My Remarkable Journey (12 page)

I believe I’ve been to just about all of my dad’s marriages. I can’t think of any that I wasn’t at—that I’m aware of. My dad
has always been an in-the-moment kind of guy. So I guess I thought early on that there was no right “one” for my dad.

He would meet somebody new and ask me, “How do you like her?”

My answer to him was always, “Does she make you happy?”

He’d say “Yes,” because in that moment, he was happy.

And I’d say, “Be happy.”

Everyone will bring their own experience into how they’re looking at Larry. It’s sort of like the movie
Rashomon
. The same scene is interpreted very differently by many sets of eyes.

I remember how beautiful Alene was. I remember being the best man at the wedding that came after the first one to Alene. My
recollection of that wedding is of their laughter. There is happiness at every wedding. But there was something frivolous
about the laughter at that wedding. It gave me the feeling the marriage wasn’t going to last.

Knowing Larry, it had to be very painful for him to give up the child that came out of that wedding for adoption.

D
AUGHTER

In the early days, my dad was known as a penetrating interviewer. You don’t see that as much now because society has changed.
Now the show has got to move fast. There are bullets at the bottom of the screen and panels of people. But his gift is in
one-on-one interviewing and getting to know what’s behind a person. That really is his talent. He can go deep into others
in a nonthreatening way. But he won’t turn that on himself.

I’m not saying I know what’s at the bottom of my father’s many relationships. I’m certainly no expert on marriage. But I know
one thing. If you take a risk and you love somebody, if you’re really committing yourself, you’re opening yourself to be hurt.
Which is why I think my father’s experiences all relate back to when he lost his father at such a young age. You can look
at what he’s been through as a form of running to protect his heart.

I
’
VE SEEN
the mug shot. They publish it sometimes in the tabloids under the headline
FAMOUS ARREST PICTURES
. It’s been run next to Sinatra’s. A lot of famous people have been arrested.

I’m certainly not proud of that picture. The police didn’t treat me like a criminal when it was taken. They all knew me and
were very nice. I was fingerprinted, photographed, and released on my own recognizance within ten minutes. Some of the guys
helped sneak me out the back door to avoid the press.

When I look back on that moment, it’s hard to believe that it happened. Boy, was I playing in a league way over my head. JFK’s
assassination. A multimillionaire. A district attorney. A state attorney. Stacks of hundred dollar bills in brown envelopes.
And little Larry Zeiger from Brooklyn. What was I doing there? I ended up the fall guy. But the fall was a long time coming.
I’d been playing musical chairs with my finances for years. At some point, the music was bound to stop. I just didn’t count
on being arrested when it did. Here’s what happened.

One of the fans of my radio and television shows was a guy named Lou Wolfson. Lou was a prominent financier who grew up in
Jacksonville and later lived in Miami. His family had a history as liberal Democrats, and he played football at the University
of Georgia. Lou became known as “The Great Raider” in the ’60s for the sort of corporate takeovers that gained notoriety in
the ’80s. He ultimately created an industrial and commercial empire that was said to be worth more than a quarter of a billion
dollars, and would come to own the Triple Crown–winning racehorse Affirmed. He even tried to buy Churchill Downs.

You couldn’t live in Florida in the ’60s and not know who Lou Wolfson was. One day I was walking to place a bet at Hialeah,
and someone called out my name from a private box. It was Lou Wolfson. Lou Wolfson was calling
my
name.

Lou told me how much he liked my shows, and we made plans to have dinner the following week. He was under suspicion by federal
authorities for stock market manipulations at the time—this was 1966. But what did I know?

A complicated friendship grew out of that first dinner. Lou was a generation older than me, and he had the air of a father
figure. When he heard that I was a step ahead of the IRS, he genuinely wanted to help. He proposed funding an interview show
for me that would be syndicated to bring in more money than I was making.

There were pluses in the budding friendship for Lou, too. Lou believed that there was nothing more powerful in America than
the media. “I can have all the money in the world,” he once told me. “But I don’t have entrée.
You
have entrée.” I would later come to understand the power he saw in my connections.

Here’s an example of the kind of guy Lou was. Lou heard a show I did with Ralph Nader. This was back when Nader was making
a name for himself suing automotive companies for building unsafe cars. General Motors hired private detectives to discredit
Nader. But Nader won the lawsuits and in the process changed transportation laws. You now wear a seat belt because of Ralph
Nader.

Lou wrote Nader a check for twenty-five thousand dollars, and sent it with a note that said something like, “My friend Larry
King tells me you’re a hell of a guy. I’d like to support Nader’s Raiders.”

A week later, Lou called to tell me that Nader had returned the check. Ralph had attached a note explaining that he wouldn’t
accept any donation more than fifteen dollars. If he took too much money, Nader explained, he’d be forced to return phone
calls. Lou lived in a world where tipping the maître d’ got him the table he wanted, and he was astonished to find someone
who wouldn’t accept a gift or a favor.

Our friendship developed naturally over dinners and on trips. Occasionally, Lou called me for entrée. Occasionally, I’d introduce
Lou to friends and acquaintances in need of money for good causes. “How much do you need?” Lou would ask, reaching for his
checkbook. As we grew closer, Lou lent me money so I could stay ahead of my debts.

The trouble started after Lou became intrigued by an interview I’d done with the New Orleans district attorney—Jim Garrison.

Garrison believed that Lee Harvey Oswald had not acted alone in the assassination of John F. Kennedy. He believed there was
a giant conspiracy that had roots in New Orleans, and as district attorney he had amassed a lot of facts not known by the
public. It would take me three hours to tell you all the intricacies of his theories. Believe me, it’d be easier for you to
rent the movie
JFK
. Oliver Stone’s film is an accurate depiction of Garrison’s beliefs.

There was no bigger event in the ’60s than the Kennedy assassination. Not only was it shocking at the moment, it didn’t end.
It was an unsolved mystery. Everybody wanted to know what really happened on November 22, 1963. I interviewed the cop who
arrested Oswald. I asked him if Oswald had said anything to him. “I’m a patsy,” Oswald told him. Meaning, of course, that
he’d been set up. When the Warren Commission issued a report that said Lee Harvey Oswald had acted alone, much of the public
didn’t believe it. I remember interviewing Gerald Ford about it—he was a member of the Warren Commission. Anybody who might
have something new to say about the assassination made a great guest because the public hungered for the truth. Nothing ever
added up correctly. John Connally, who was riding with his wife Nellie in the convertible in front of the president and Jacqueline
Kennedy that day, came on my show. He couldn’t even agree with his wife on how many shots were fired because he said he didn’t
hear the shot that hit him. I can still remember Connally showing me the wound in his wrist. And the last words Nellie said
to the president over the cheers of the crowd before the shouts rang out: “Mr. President, you can’t say that Dallas doesn’t
love you.”

It was only natural that a guy like Wolfson, who had strong links to the Democratic Party, would be intrigued by what Garrison
had to say. Lou called me after that show and asked if I could set up a dinner with Garrison. He also asked me to bring along
my pal, the state attorney in Miami, Dick Gerstein. Gerstein’s job was very similar to Garrison’s. Lou thought that a legal
mind like Gerstein’s would be able to spot any holes in Garrison’s theories.

We went to a steak house in Miami Beach—Lou, the two attorneys, and me. Garrison stated his case. Lou questioned him from
appetizers to dessert. Dick and I sat and listened.

At the end of the dinner, Lou looked at Dick and said, “Do you believe him?”

“Well, I haven’t seen the evidence,” Gerstein said. “But I have a lot of respect for Jim. Off what he says, I’d certainly
want to know more.”

We went to Garrison’s hotel room to listen to tapes of people he’d interviewed. I wish I could re-create the eerie mood in
that room. The more we listened, the more we just had to know.

Garrison’s problem was that the State of Louisiana wouldn’t finance his continuing investigation. Remember, the shooting took
place in Texas. Garrison was working for the taxpayers of New Orleans. “There are a lot of people who think I’m too caught
up in it,” he told us. “They don’t want me to go any further. I’ve gone as far as I can go. I need more money to continue.”

“How much do you need?” Lou asked.

“About twenty-five thousand.”

If Lou had just pulled out his checkbook right then and there and written Garrison a check for twenty-five thousand dollars,
my mug shot never would have ended up in the tabloids. It would have been perfectly legal. But Lou came up with another way
of getting Garrison the money. His idea was to break the total up into five installments, which he would pass on in cash through
me and Gerstein. The idea of transferring cash from me to Gerstein to Garrison may seem crazy now—but not so back then. According
to Garrison, people who knew of the conspiracy to kill JFK were showing up dead. There were many good reasons to avoid a paper
trail.

I was so caught up in the passion behind Garrison’s investigation that I didn’t think twice about helping it along. Neither
did Gerstein. We felt like we were on the inside of something huge. Plus, it made sense logistically. There were times when
Gerstein and Garrison were scheduled to be in the same place. So the arrangement didn’t seem at all farfetched.

Every word Garrison said seemed to make his conspiracy theory more ominous. I’ll never forget driving Garrison to the airport.
He got out of the car, then leaned back in and said: “Within a year, they’re going to kill Robert Kennedy.” Then he walked
away.

Lou gave me a brown envelope filled with five thousand dollars worth of hundred dollar bills. I passed it on to Gerstein.
He passed it on to Garrison. The second or third payment—I can’t remember which—came at a time when I missed connecting with
Gerstein. It was also a time when I owed a tax payment. So I called Lou and asked if I could use the money to pay my taxes.
I had money coming in, and I told Lou that as soon as it arrived I’d get the five thousand dollars to Gerstein. Lou said that
would be OK.

Not long afterward, Lou was convicted of selling unregistered stock. It was a very complicated case.

Lou began to realize he’d need more than his lawyers to figure a way out of jail. I was with him when his secretary put in
a call to the Supreme Court justice Abe Fortas.

Fortas had represented Lyndon Johnson in 1948 during a challenge to Johnson’s slim margin of victory in the Texas Democratic
primary. Johnson got his Senate seat because of Fortas, and Fortas became one of his most trusted advisers. Years later, when
he became president, Johnson wanted Fortas to become chief justice of the Supreme Court. There was only one problem. Fortas
was Jewish. Back then, you couldn’t have two Jews on the Supreme Court. It was an unwritten rule that has since changed. So
you know what Johnson did? He asked Arthur Goldberg to leave the court. He gave Goldberg an appointment as representative
to the UN—just to get Fortas on the Supreme Court. Goldberg didn’t have to leave. It’s a lifetime job. But Johnson told him
that he really needed him at the UN—which was bullshit. A hundred other guys could have been named UN ambassador. Goldberg
gave up his position just so Johnson could put Fortas on the Supreme Court.

Lou Wolfson was sending Fortas checks for twenty thousand dollars through his foundation. Fortas would speak to a Jewish organization,
and Wolfson’s money would defray the expenses. There was nothing illegal about it. My point in all this is that it wasn’t
long before Fortas returned Wolfson’s call.

The conversation didn’t last long, and the expression on Lou’s face told me he hadn’t gotten the response he wanted. Lou said
two words after he hung up, and they were very cold. “That’s friendship.”

Lou was going to be sentenced, and I guess he was down to his last option. Me.

Richard Nixon had just won the 1968 presidential election. I’d interviewed Nixon many times over the years and knew his friend
Bebe Rebozo. Bebe put together a celebratory breakfast at Nixon’s vacation home in Key Biscayne and invited about two dozen
people. I was on the guest list.

Nixon had a few private moments with each of us at that breakfast. When he got to me, he said, “Larry, I know we don’t always
agree on the issues, but I’ve always been treated fairly on your show. Now that I have the chance, is there anything I can
do for you?”

Could there have been a better opening?

“Well, Mr. President, there is.”

I told him that Lou Wolfson was a friend of mine. Nixon indicated that he knew of Lou. I explained that Lou felt that he’d
been convicted of a crime that he didn’t commit, and that Lou had documents to prove it. Nixon called over a bald, pudgy guy
and introduced him as John Mitchell, his campaign manager. He told me to send along any documents to John and that John would
get back to me.