WORKING FOR THE U.S. EMBASSY Part 2

WORKING AT THE AMERICAN EMBASSY IN RIO DE JANEIRO, PART II

As I mentioned in Part I, the U.S. Embassy was guarded by Marine Guards around the clock. Not only did they check everyone entering the Embassy, but at 3.30 pm daily, they would make the rounds, asking each and every employee if any of them had classified material to be disposed of. This included shorthand notes, carbon typewriter ribbons, all carbon copies (this was in pre-computer days) and anything that had “classified” in its title.

All classified files in use, had to be securely locked up in special filing cabinets with combination locks. In my case, only R.J. my boss, and I knew the combination to the lock.

If I was the last one out at night, I’d lock the cabinets, but if R.J. was working late, he’d do it.

Every night, after the Embassy personnel had all left, the Marine Guards did a “shake down” of the Embassy, and if classified filing cabinets had been left open, or any classified material was found, there would be a “Security Violation” pink slip left on the desk of the offender, to greet them the next morning.

If I (or any other locally hired personnel) received one of these dreaded pink slips, it would be a minor infraction against us, and we’d have to go and apologize to Mr. Parrott, Head Security Officer. But if a Washington appointed American Embassy personnel received a pink slip, he or she would be fined quite heavily, and it would be a black mark against them in their Washington personnel files. So the offense would’ve been much heavier against R.J. than it would for me – you’d be surprised how often I took the rap for him, for having forgotten to lock up the classified files!

R.J. appreciated it, and took me out to dinner a few times, as a gesture of his gratitude for my having had to eat craw, once again, and apologize to Mr. Parrott for an offense I hadn’t committed!

The Embassy attracted the usual number of crackpots. One guy used to walk into the huge lobby where the U.S. flag hung on a pole, directly over a large brass eagle. For reasons best known to him, he’d either make a snappy salute to the flag, turn around and march out, or he’d spit at it. The Marine Guard’s desk was right there at the entrance, and they’d lay bets on whether “Bongo” (as they nicknamed him) would spit or salute on that given day.

The Marine Guards were very conscientious about who gained entry into the Embassy and who didn’t. However, on one day, they made a mistake, which could’ve cost me my life.

The year was 1960, and Caryl Chessman had just been executed for murders he claimed he’d never committed. I have Googled him, and here is a background to his case:

“Caryl Chessman long claimed that he was innocent of the kidnapping and rape charges that sent him to death row.
“Chessman was a 27-year-old parolee from Folsom Prison who had spent the better part of his adult life in and out of prison when in January 1948 he was arrested in Los Angeles as the Red-Light Bandit. The Bandit would approach victims parked in lonely spots, flash a red light resembling that used by the police, and rob the victims — sometimes taking the woman to another area and forcing her to perform sexual acts with him.
“His 12-year battle for a new trial and the publication of 4 books from death row transformed the prisoner rights movement by humanizing death row and casting well-deserved doubt on the fairness of the death penalty. His first book, Cell 2455 Death Row, sold more than half a million copies and was translated into 18 languages. Throughout those 12 years, Chessman always maintained his innocence and claimed that he knew the identity of the real red-light bandit. But out of a desire to protect people close to him who were threatened, he refused to release the name.”

There is no death penalty in Brazil, and Brazilians were outraged that he’d been executed, after spending 12 years incarcerated, and writing four books that he’d managed to write while in prison and smuggled out.
So one sunny afternoon, I was sitting working at my desk, when suddenly a man burst into my office. He was about 6ft tall, thin, black hair which seems to be flying in all directions, mouth contorted with rage, black eyes wild and glaring. He came right up to my desk, put his hands down on it, leaned forward and screamed at me, right in my face “I HAVE COME TO PROTEST THE MURDER OF CARYL CHESSMAN BY YOU AMERICAN IMPERIALISTS.” His breath was fetid and foul, and I felt sickened by it. He went on ranting and raving, getting progressively angrier by the minute, and I really feared for my life.

I didn’t say a word. I just picked up the phone and dialled the Marine Guard Desk downstairs, and laid the receiver down on my desk. To their everlasting credit, they traced my phone in double quick time, and rushed to my office, grabbing the insane man and dragging him off.

Such was my terror and horror over what had just happened that I threw up into my waste paper basket. I didn’t envy the Marine Guards having to search through it for classified material that night, but seeing that they’d allowed this poor demented man to get through and put my life at risk, I felt it was poetic justice, somehow.