Releasing John Hinckley

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I felt torn — and still do — when I heard today that John Hinckley Jr., the man who shot Ronald Reagan on March 30, 1981, is going to be released after being in custody for 35 years.

I'm torn because, on one hand, I believe that anyone who tries to kill a public official should spend the rest of his or her life in prison — until that life is ended by the state or nature. On the other hand, I believe in the jury system and that anyone who is accused of attempting to kill a public official — or any other crime — must be found guilty by a jury of his or her peers.

Everyone who is old enough to remember that day knows that Hinckley fired the gun that wounded Reagan and three others. The new president, only 10 weeks into his administration, had just given a speech, and a swarm of reporters and photographers were waiting for his exit. It may have been the most photographed presidential assassination attempt in history; there was plenty of photographic evidence of Hinckley's crime.

No one died that day — although when Reagan press secretary Jim Brady, who was critically wounded by a shot to the head and permanently disabled, died in 2014, his death was ruled a homicide, the ultimate outcome of the gunshot wound he suffered 33 years earlier.

Anyway, there was no question of Hinckley's guilt, but there was plenty of doubt about his sanity, given the paper trail he left behind.

And that was the question Hinckley's jury had to decide when he went on trial in 1982. Its verdict — not guilty by reason of insanity — was not a popular one. The laws concerning insanity defense were revised in many states; the defense itself was abolished entirely in three states.

But the point now is that Hinckley was not convicted. His verdict was conditional; he would be confined to a mental institution until it was determined that he was not a threat to himself or others. That was an ongoing struggle for about 25 years. From time to time he was given periodic temporary release privileges that were revoked when it was established that he was still obsessed with actress Jodie Foster — for whom he had attempted to kill the president.

It has now been determined that Hinckley poses no threat to himself or others, and he will be released on Aug. 6 — ironically, two days after the second anniversary of Brady's death. He is to live with his 90–year–old mother and have no contact with the Reagan family or Foster.

In case you're wondering, Hinckley could not face new charges in Brady's death because he had already been found not guilty by reason of insanity in the original shooting.

The Unintended Victim

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From April 4, 1841 until Nov. 22, 1963, a period of 122 years, America averaged a presidential death about every 15¼ years (we have now gone more than 50 years without an incumbent president's death). Some of those deaths were the clear outcomes of assassination attempts, and others were rumored to be — but never proven to be — assassinations.

No president had ever been the target of two assassination attempts — presumably because nearly all of the previous assassination attempts were successful — until this day in 1975.

I guess you really couldn't blame President Gerald Ford for wondering if there was a target on his chest. It was the second time in a month that he had been targeted for assassination — and both attempts were carried out by women in the state of California.

As a result of that first attempt, the Secret Service began putting more distance between Ford and the crowds who greeted him at his stops. That strategy was still evolving, but it may have prevented Ford's injury or death when, 40 years ago today, Sara Jane Moore attempted to shoot Ford from across a street in San Francisco. The gun never went off in that first attempt. It did go off in the second attempt, but the sights were off, so the shot missed.

The shot may also have been affected by the actions of a retired Marine standing next to Moore. Acting out of instinct, he reached for her just as she fired the first shot. Before Moore could fire a second shot, the ex–Marine reached for the gun and deflected the shot, which missed Ford by about six inches, ricocheted and wounded a taxi driver.

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It turned out afterward that the retired Marine was gay, and his heroic act brought a lot of unwanted attention to him and his lifestyle. His big problem was that his family found out about his sexual orientation for the very first time through those news reports.

The man was outed, so I hear, by gay politician Harvey Milk, who was a friend of the man. Supposedly, Milk thought it was too good an opportunity to show the community that gays were capable of heroic deeds and advised the San Francisco Chronicle that the man was gay. That was the tragedy of the story. The man became estranged from his family, and his mental and physical health deteriorated over the years. Eventually, he reconciled with his family, but he drank heavily, gained weight and became paranoid and suicidal.

At times later in his life, he expressed regret at having deflected the shot intended for Ford. He was found dead in his bed in February 1989. Earlier in the day, he told a friend he had been turned away by a VA hospital where he had gone about difficulty he had been having breathing due to pneumonia.

I don't know if that was his cause of death or not, but his treatment after the incident speaks volumes about the America of the mid–'70s and the America of today. The man asked that his sexual orientation and other aspects of his life be withheld from publication, but the media ignored his request. President Ford was criticized at the time for not inviting the man to the White House to thank him and was accused of being homophobic. Ford insisted that he did not know until later about the man's sexual orientation; my memory is that the topic was never mentioned the next year when Ford ran for a full four–year term as president.

Ford lost that election, but the ex–Marine, Billy Sipple, lost a lot more than that. He was the unintended victim.

Taking Aim at Jerry Ford

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"In the job of selling himself to the voters, Ford embarked, shortly after Labor Day, on a routine two–day trip to the West Coast. Before it was over, the nation was treated to yet another bizarre illustration of the unpredictability of American presidential politics."

Jules Witcover, Marathon: The Pursuit of the Presidency 1972–1976

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For just a moment or two, put yourself in Gerald Ford's position 40 years ago. The summer of 1975 was Ford's first full summer as president, having succeeded Richard Nixon in August 1974. To say that his first year in office had been challenging would be an understatement.

Most people who are old enough to remember Ford's presidency would tell you that he seemed like a nice guy, a decent guy, whether they agreed with him on most things or not. When Ford became president, the contrast between his easygoing disposition and the sullen Nixon was so stark that he enjoyed astonishing popularity from the start. He irretrievably lost a lot of the public's good will when he pardoned Nixon about a month after becoming president, but he didn't deserve to be targeted for assassination for it. I think even Ford's detractors would agree with that.

Yet it was 40 years ago today that Squeaky Fromme, one of the original members of the Manson Family, tried to assassinate Ford in Sacramento, Calif.

Now, to be fair, Squeaky's motive for shooting Ford apparently had nothing to do with the pardon of Nixon. It was just that, even then, the timing of the shooting seemed spooky to me — just a few days shy of the one–year anniversary of the pardon.

I suppose most people don't remember Squeaky's real name (Lynette). Doesn't really matter, I guess. "Squeaky" suited her.

Most of the first half of 1975 had not been particularly kind to Ford. He came under frequent criticism from hard–liners in his party over his choice of Nelson Rockefeller to be vice president. The economy had been a drain on his presidency; only a few months after taking office, he went on national television to encourage anti–inflation sentiment — since inflation was regarded as a greater threat to economic stability than rising unemployment (which, while high by the standards of the times, seems modest when compared to today's 5.1% rate). And the United States had suffered its greatest foreign policy humiliation — up to that time — when the North Vietnamese drove the Americans from South Vietnam. That led to rumblings of concern that Ford's national security team wasn't up to the job.

But in May 1975 Ford's luck began to change, thanks to an event half a world away, in the Gulf of Siam. Inexplicably, the Khmer Rouge seized the merchant ship Mayaguez and held its crew captive. The Ford administration freed the crew with a plan that was both daring and overkill, subjecting the Cambodian mainland to heavy air strikes. It was a shot in the arm for those who had worried about a loss of U.S. influence in the region, and it was leverage that Ford supporters used — unsuccessfully — in an effort to persuade Ronald Reagan and his supporters not to challenge Ford for the Republican nomination in 1976.

The Mayaguez incident was a real turning point for Ford. Economic news was getting better, too. The recession that had plagued the economy was bottoming out. Unemployment was still higher than most would like, but there were signs of a recovery, which was seen as good news for the administration, and Ford announced his candidacy for a full term in July.

Also that July, California Gov. Jerry Brown, a Democrat, would not commit to speak to the annual "Host Breakfast" in Sacramento — a gathering of the state's politically influential business leaders. They saw Brown's response as a snub and, in apparent retaliation, invited Ford, a Republican, to speak. Ford believed California was crucial to his hopes of winning a full term in 1976 and accepted the invitation.

Meanwhile, Fromme apparently had become active in environmental causes and believed (due, in part, to a study that had been released by the Environmental Protection Agency) that California's redwoods were endangered by smog. An article in the New York Times about the study observed that Ford had asked Congress to ease provisions of the 1963 Clean Air Act.

Fromme wanted to bring attention to this matter, and she wanted those in government to be fearful so she decided to kill the symbolic head of the government. On the morning of Sept. 5, she walked approximately half a mile from her apartment to the state capitol grounds — a short distance from the Senator Hotel, where Ford was staying — a Colt .45 concealed beneath her distinctive red robe.

Ford returned from the breakfast around 9:30 a.m., then left the hotel on foot at 10, his destination the governor's office — and an apparent photo opp with Jerry Brown. Along the way, he encountered Fromme, who drew the gun from beneath her robe and pulled the trigger. The weapon had ammunition — but no bullet in the chamber — so the gun didn't fire.

"It wouldn't go off!" Fromme shouted as Secret Service agents took the gun from her hands and wrestled her to the ground. "Can you believe it? It didn't go off."

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Ford went on to the capitol and met with Brown for half an hour, only mentioning the assassination attempt in passing as he prepared to leave.

"I thought I'd better get on with my day's schedule," Ford later said.

Two months later, Fromme was convicted of attempting to assassinate the president and received a life sentence. She was paroled in August 2009, nearly three years after Ford's death.

The First Attempt on the Life of a President

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I've studied a lot of American history in my life.

I've always been something of an amateur historian. I even minored in history in graduate school.

And it pains me to see the state of knowledge of history in this country. As someone who has done some teaching in his life, I can assure you that the shocking stories of what young people do not know are absolutely true. I've seen enough instances of it that it doesn't surprise me anymore — which may be the worst part for me. I am not repulsed by the knowledge of just how many young Americans have no idea who the first president was or what the significance of the year 1776 was. Not anymore.

But I can forgive those who do know some things about American history for not knowing that the assassination of Abraham Lincoln in 1865 was not the first attempt to assassinate a president. Lincoln was the first president to be assassinated, but he was not the first to be the target of an assassination attempt.

That was Andrew Jackson on this day in 1835.

Jackson, who was 67 at the time, was leaving a congressional funeral when an out–of–work painter approached him and tried to shoot him. The gun misfired, and Jackson hit his attacker several times with his cane. The would–be assassin pulled out a second gun and tried to shoot the president with it, but that gun also misfired.

The president's aides pulled the president and the assailant apart. Jackson, it is said, was angry but unhurt.

Jackson believed the attacker had been hired by his political opponents, who were fighting with him over the president's attempt to break up the Bank of the United States. Jackson's vice president, Martin Van Buren, began carrying two pistols with him on Capitol Hill.

No connection between the assailant and Jackson's political enemies was ever established.

It was later determined that the odds of both guns misfiring during an assassination attempt were one in 125,000.

The Day George Wallace Was Shot

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There were quite a few assassinations — and assassination attempts — when I was growing up.

But I believe the one that occurred 40 years ago today — in which Alabama Gov. George Wallace was shot while campaigning in Laurel, Md., for the Democratic presidential nomination — was the first to show both the assassin and his would–be victim together in the same photos and film sequences.

It was a Monday, and school was going to close for the summer in another week or so. Everyone was eager for summer vacation — the students, the teachers, everyone, I guess, except the mothers who would soon have their children under foot 24 hours a day.

Otherwise, it was just an ordinary Monday — and, sometime that afternoon, I learned that Wallace had been shot. I don't remember now if word spread while I was still in school that day or if I learned what had happened when I got home, but, when I did get home, it was all over the television stations, wiping out the cartoons I usually watched after school.

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So I got on my bike and rode over to the home of two guys who were in my grade in school, Danny and David Johnson — and, as I often did in those days, I stayed for supper.

I've written here before about that occasion. Danny and David's father was a well–known Arkansas segregationist who managed Wallace's independent presidential campaign in Arkansas in 1968, and the attempt on Wallace's life earlier that day inspired political reporters in Little Rock to seek his reaction.

They got a quick response from him — he called it a "dastardly act" — and my memory of that day is that nothing else was said about the shooting around that table that night — other than Mr. Johnson's wry comment to his sons and me that his remark "sounded like a bad word."

He grinned his trademark grin when he said it, and, even though I was a small boy and didn't understand all the things that were happening in the world, I felt confident that Gov. Wallace would not be like the Kennedys and Martin Luther King, that he would survive the shooting.

Which he did. But he never walked again.

It was the end of an era, and, historian Theodore White asserted in "The Making of the President 1972," his book on the 1972 election, Richard Nixon's re–election was assured thanks to the Wallace shooting.

In his paranoid way, Nixon feared Wallace, who nearly succeeded in his quest to deny both Nixon and Democrat Hubert Humphrey a majority in the Electoral College in 1968. If Wallace won the 1972 Democratic nomination, Nixon reasoned, he might win outright.

"For two years, George Wallace had haunted the planning of the White House," White wrote. But, after Wallace was shot, "it was all over. Only the question of margin remained; whether the president could get that mandate for which his lonesome soul so longed, that landslide authority which might let him act with the largeness of the great presidents of the past."

Nixon did, indeed, win a landslide victory over George McGovern in 1972. A few years later, when White wrote his thoughtful examination of Nixon and the Watergate scandal, "Breach of Faith," he credited Wallace's influence for many of the decisions and actions of the Nixon White House.

"[T]o eliminate the threat of Wallace in the future," White wrote, "[Nixon] was to use, in 1970, trickeries against the Alabama governor only slightly less dirty than those he used against Democratic candidates in 1972."

And, as we all know, Nixon ultimately was forced to resign because of the dirty tricks his 1972 campaign used against the opposition.

But that was still in the future on this day in 1972. Forty years ago today, the shooting of George Wallace was a cause for somber reflection on both political extremes.

Although not as polarized then as they are today, the right and the left were forced by the shooting to examine their own philosophies and their attitudes about George Wallace and his role in the political debate.

For voters on the right, Wallace was the spokesman who articulated their hopes and dreams — and fears. For those on the left, he was symbolic of everything they believed was wrong with the nation.

He was both — at the same time — I suppose. And he was neither.

I'm inclined to think Wallace was a politician — and, like most successful politicians then and now, a panderer.

Early in his political career, when he was a circuit judge, Wallace had a reputation for being fair and impartial. Race did not matter in his courtroom. But then he lost a governor's race in which he had been endorsed by the NAACP and the winner had enjoyed the support of the Ku Klux Klan.

Wallace claimed he had been "outniggered" and that it wouldn't happen again. He kept his word. When he ran for governor four years later, he took a solidly segregationist stand and won by a landslide.

"I tried to talk about good roads and good schools and all these things that have been part of my career, and nobody listened," Wallace said. "And then I began talking about niggers, and they stomped the floor."

Perhaps the most troubling aspect of the Wallace shooting for many was the fact that, like the shooting of Gabrielle Giffords last year, the assailant had no real political motive.

Had there been one, it might have been easier to accept. But when the diary of Arthur Bremer, Wallace's would–be assassin, was published, it indicated that his only real objective was notoriety — not unlike the would–be assassin of Ronald Reagan, who wanted only to impress an actress.

There was nothing that could elevate the intended sacrifice, not even a biblical sense of justice.

The Day Reagan Was Shot

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On this day in 1981, the president of the United States was shot by a would–be assassin — a (thankfully) rare occurrence as it is, but this time was unique in American history.

This president lived to tell the tale.

That president, Ronald Reagan, wasn't the first to be the target of an assassination attempt, but he became the first president to survive being shot.

There were many reasons why that probably should not have been so, but it was.

Fortunately, Americans have been spared the agony of the shooting of their president for three decades now — and you just about have to be in your mid–50s (at least) to remember the last such attempt that succeeded.

I don't know why that is so. Are protection methods so much better now?

Surely, the Secret Service's methods must have evolved, but they would have to have done so quietly, wouldn't you think? I mean, I presume the changes that have been made in presidential protection have not been publicized — sort of like the policy that prevents most police departments from revealing certain details of high–profile cases.

They know that, many times, the guilty party will reveal himself because he has knowledge that only the person who committed the crime would have.

It is the same sort of thinking (in a kind of reverse fashion) that tells me that anything law enforcement knows and prepares for without the knowledge of any would–be assassins improves the chances that such an attempt will fail.

That would make sense to me. I played some poker in college. I wasn't very good at it, but I knew there was a lot of value in bluffing and keeping your opponents in the dark.

And I also know (or, at least, I think I know) that the murders — or attempted murders — of public figures were far more commonplace when I was growing up than they seem to be today. Presidential assassinations have been rather infrequent in our history, but there was a time when I was growing up when two attempts were made on the life of a president within a month of each other.

I can only conclude that presidential protection methods must have improved in the last 30 years, but it also seems to me that — with the exception of the recent shootings in Arizona — the methods for protecting most public figures have improved as well.

It may not seem like attacks have declined appreciably — maybe the preferred targets have shifted, from public figures to private (or, at least, less public) ones — but the atmosphere seems entirely different today than it was when I was growing up.

If anything, the political dialogue is more venomous, more toxic than I can recall at any other time in my life — and, for all I know, actual death threats may be more numerous than they have ever been, as well — but actual attempts on the lives of public figures are way down from what they once were.

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When I was small, two of the most admired men in America, Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy, were assassinated within a couple of months of each other. A few years later, political firebrand George Wallace was paralyzed in an assassination attempt.

In the years that followed, John Lennon was murdered, and Pope John Paul II was shot but survived.

Sometimes it seemed like the world was a shooting gallery, but even the attempts on Gerald Ford's life in 1975 didn't spark the chaos that Reagan's shooting did on this day in 1981.

On a day that was as confused and bewildering and filled with uncertain moments as any I have witnessed in my life, perhaps the most noteworthy was Secretary of State Al Haig's pronouncement that "I am in control here" in spite of the fact that the vice president, the speaker of the House and the president pro tempore of the Senate are ahead of the secretary of State in the constitutional line of succession.

Haig insisted that he was not speaking of presidential succession but rather of the chain of command in a crisis. But, even on that point, he was on shaky ground.

In addition to loopholes in the chain of command that were exposed by the shooting, there were problems in presidential protection that were uncovered as well.

Lead Secret Service agent Jerry Parr told Ari Shapiro of NPR that "we still took a defensive posture" on March 30, 1981.

"With this event we realized that wouldn't work anymore, and we did it in a flash. That's what came out of it."

Perhaps the four presidents who followed owe their lives to the lessons that were learned that day.

And what of the man who tried to kill Reagan 30 years ago today?

John Hinckley Jr. is "moving closer to the day his doctors may recommend he go free," CNN's James Polk reported a few days ago.

The assessment of the doctors at the mental hospital where he has been held for nearly 30 years is that he is no longer a threat to anyone.

And, because Hinckley was found not guilty by reason of insanity — even though video and still photographs taken at the scene show beyond any doubt that he was the man who pulled the trigger — his case is handled differently. He has received privileges for which he never would have been eligible if he had been found guilty of attempting to assassinate the president — and, consequently, may one day be set free.

I remember people complaining about that very thing when the verdict was announced — it was quite controversial at the time — and the knowledge that such a thing still is possible — however improbable it may be — continues to bother some people.

One of those people is Reagan's daughter, Patti Davis, who writes movingly in TIME of the damage that is still present in the lives of those who were shot — and the people around them.

"Time is a matter of perspective," Davis writes. "Sometimes 30 years isn't so long. There are times when the American legal system works brilliantly. There are times when it fails."

The presiding judge and Hinckley's defense lawyer, she suggests, have made this case one of the latter.

Davis, like Ron Reagan Jr., has a record of supporting progressive causes, but on this issue she sounds more like their father.

I'm not saying she is wrong. She is entitled to her pain and suffering, just like the other victims and their families.

But Reagan lived for nearly a quarter of a century after being shot and did not appear to suffer any lingering effects from the experience — unlike the others who were shot that day.

Or most of the nameless, faceless Americans who are shot every day in America. Many are killed, but some survive and must adapt in whatever way is made necessary by the injuries that have been sustained.

They continue to pay the price, but Davis' father turned an enormous profit.

Not quite 10 weeks into his term, suggests Jonny Dymond for BBC, Reagan was handed a priceless opportunity to connect with the voters — and he seized it. With his gentle, good humor when faced with personal peril, Reagan's presidency was "lifted ... out of the mere normal." He went on to become the first president since Eisenhower to serve two complete terms.

"Just a few weeks ago, what would have been Reagan's 100th birthday was commemorated with a slew of rosy retrospectives," writes Dymond. "But the legend that was celebrated was arguably born 30 years ago today."

The Attempt on Reagan's Life

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Twenty-eight years ago today, Ronald Reagan exited the Washington Hilton Hotel after speaking to some AFL–CIO representatives. It had been a fairly routine presidential appearance, but what happened next was far from routine.

Reagan was fired upon by would–be presidential assassin John Hinckley Jr. A bullet pierced the president's lung, missing his heart by less than an inch. He was rushed to George Washington University Hospital, where he underwent surgery and spent the next two weeks recovering from his wound. Three other people, including the president's press secretary, still lay wounded on the ground, as the presidential limousine made its way to the hospital.

In hindsight, it's hard to tell if Reagan secured his second term that day. His economic policies suffered something of a setback in the 1982 midterm elections, but he went on to be re–elected by a landslide in 1984. The way he handled the attack on his life, just shy of 10 weeks into his presidency, may have had a lot to do with it.

The impression he made on the public during the most trying of personal circumstances — saying to his wife, "Honey, I forgot to duck" or saying to his surgeons, "Please tell me you're all Republicans" — was decidedly endearing.

In the previous 20 years, Americans had become accustomed to the shootings of public figures — the murders of the Kennedys and Martin Luther King in the 1960s, the attempts on George Wallace and Gerald Ford in the 1970s and the slaying of ex–Beatle John Lennon a few months before Reagan was shot, among others — but the attack on Reagan shocked most Americans.

His gentle, good humor in the aftermath of an horrific experience was reassuring, even for those who disagreed with him.