My Jail Time

For four summers, bridging my last two years of college and my first two years of law school, I worked as a Deputy Sheriff in Dallas County, serving as a jailer in the county jail. The full-time jailers were required to take their vacations during the summer months while students, like me, and some teachers were available to cover the positions over the 3 summer months. At that time, the jail personnel worked in three eight-hour shifts, starting at 7am, 3pm and 11pm, respectively. Mostly, but not always, I worked the so-called “graveyard shift,” from 11pm to 7am, since the regular jailers worked hard to schedule their vacations to coincide with dates when they would otherwise be on the dreaded late shift.

During my summers in the jail, I met quite a few interesting characters, most of whom were arrested without cause or wrongly convicted, as per their own testimony freely given. Just about every prisoner had a story to tell or a plea to make, which, on the whole, were both tiresome and unbelievable. But there were some interesting, even entertaining moments. For instance, singing was a favorite pastime of many prisoners, some of whom were quite good, though by and large they were rather hard on the ears. But sometimes, when a group of three or more got together to sing ‘harmony” I wished I could record them. I don’t think the term “Doo-Wop” had come into common usage at that time, but if it had, that would have been a good way to describe the prevalent form of the vocalizations. On the seventh floor, however, where blacks were segregated as a group, the sounds were more likely to be wistful, sonorous and soulful, often quite moving.

Another personal joy for me at the jail was the food. There was a kitchen on the top floor of the jail where meals were prepared for the prisoners. But separate and different meals were prepared for the jailers, most of it quite good, depending to some extent on whether or not a good cook was incarcerated there at the time, which was usually the case. The meals were prepared and served by prisoners who had been designated as “trusties” (not a misspelling), and a good cook would quickly gain that status. As someone who was always on the lookout for a free meal, being able to dine there twice a day was a terrific fringe benefit.

Without question, however, the most interesting prisoner with whom I had significant contact was Jack Ruby, the man who shot Lee Harvey Oswald. I first met Ruby in the summer of 1964 at the beginning of my third stint at the jail. Of course, he had been residing there since the events of late fall in 1963.  In March of 1964, Ruby had been tried and convicted for the murder of Oswald and been sentenced to death. His case was on appeal during my time there that summer.

Throughout his time in jail, either because of paranoia or based on legitimate concerns, Ruby feared for his life at the hands of hired or otherwise motivated assassins and he made these fears known to the authorities through his lawyers and friends. Whatever the basis of his fears, Sheriff Bill Decker did take steps to protect Ruby. On the 6th floor of the jailhouse, 

there was an office set aside for the Chief Jailer which was converted into a cell for Ruby, located in an area far removed from other prisoners. It was a form of solitary confinement certainly, but it was well furnished, by prison standards, and quite roomy. Ruby had already been installed in that location when I showed up for work that summer. Although he was isolated from other prisoners, Ruby was easily accessible to the jailers on duty on that floor. 

Whether he was an insomniac or just on a bit of a different schedule, Ruby was usually awake when I came on duty around 11pm on a lot of nights that summer. In the wee hours, when very little else was going on, I had numerous conversations with him, mostly about the baseball season and books — he read a lot, though not much in the way of serious literature. I never questioned him about his case or the Kennedy assassination at all, but when others did so, he strongly rejected all efforts to steer the conversation in those directions,

I remember, in particular, discussing with him the Louis L’Amour western novel “Hondo” which we had both read. Neither of us had seen the movie adaptation of the book, but agreed that John Wayne was a poor choice to play the part of the title character, Hondo Lane. Wayne was too nice and refined to ever fill the role of the hard-nosed, self-reliant loner depicted in the book (later, when I saw the movie, I had a change of attitude as I thought Wayne did an admirable job living up to my notion of Hondo Lane). The only other book I remember discussing with him was “Lord of the Flies,” by William Golding. It sticks in my memory because it was the only serious literature I ever knew him to read, plus it happened to be another book I had read and could discuss with him. We had not seen the movie version, which had been released only recently, but neither of us cared for the book.

One night in mid-August, shortly before I was to leave to go back to school, Jack summoned me over to his cell door and asked, “Why have you never asked me about the shooting? Just about everyone else around here has.” 

Of course, I was quite taken aback by the question, but managed a terse reply, “I figured it was none of my business”. But then I added, “I don’t think I have ever asked anyone in here about whatever offense or allegation had brought them into residence at this establishment.” (This latter statement has been translated from the jailhouse vernacular response I actually used).

“Well,” he said, “I like you kid and I want you to hear this before you leave for school; and I want you to hear it from me. No one made me do it, no one told me to do it, no one paid me to do it and no one even offered it as a suggestion to me. I did it because I was angry — mad as hell. To think that some weasel, some piss-ant nobody, someone who had never accomplished a single meaningful thing in his life could hide in waiting to shoot our President in the back of the head — killing one of the greatest men of our time, or maybe any time — just enraged me beyond belief, particularly knowing there was at least a chance he might get away with it on some technicality or other. It was just so unfair and unjust I went into a rage. After I settled down a bit, I realized that, because of my particular situation and connections, I was maybe the only person in the world in a position to see that justice was done and done quickly. So I did it. That’s it.”

I was astonished by this emotional outpouring, but found it completely believable. Jack Ruby was a man from the streets and his vocabulary and its use did nothing to suggest otherwise. So, the statements I have attributed to him have been edited somewhat to eliminate quite a few four-letter words and other foul language, but the essence of his remarks is accurately preserved. He did not raise his voice, he did not gesticulate and he looked me straight in the eyes throughout. Of course, I later learned that he had made and would later make, statements that could be interpreted as inconsistent with what I had heard, not only statements to the Warren Commission, but statements he made as he was dying from lung cancer which led to a pulmonary embolism. He insisted to the end that he had been injected with the cancer cells by those who did not want his new trial to take place. *

I never made a study of his case and have not researched the matter for this writing, other than to verify a few dates, but I have often questioned my belief in the truth of his statements to me. Each time, I have reached the same conclusion: I don’t think he was a good enough actor to put on a believable show for my benefit and I know for sure he had nothing to gain from lying to me. So, I still believe what he said was true, or at least that he believed it was true.

I saw Ruby again during the summer of 1965, but he seemed to me to be a completely different person. He had become quite uncommunicative and reclusive. He slept through most of my stints on the graveyard shifts that summer and would barely acknowledge my presence on the few occasions I had to interact with him. I have no other significant memories of him from that last summer.

*Ruby’s conviction for shooting Oswald was overturned by the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals and his new trial was scheduled to commence in early 1967. He died before the second trial could begin, on January 3, 1967.