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Just after midnight on June 5th 1968, Senator Robert F. Kennedy and his supporters were celebrating
at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles. The results from the presidential primary ran
and Kennedy had won the state. I want to express my gratitude to my dog Freckling.
And I'm not doing this in the order of importance but I also want to thank my wife as well.
But Kennedy's campaign and all the hope that it symbolized for so many people came to an end
that night. Just minutes after giving that speech while he was greeting supporters in the hotel
kitchen, Kennedy was shot in the head by an assassin named Sirhan Sirhan.
The moments right after the shooting were caught by a young L.A. Times photographer.
In this iconic image, Kennedy's lying sprawled on the floor. A teenage bus boy is kneeling beside
him, cradling the senator's head. If you look at the picture today, there's something really haunting
about it, even all these decades later. So in this episode, the story behind that famous photo.
It's the Storycore podcast from NPR. I'm Camila Cassani.
The photo we're talking about is up on our website, storycore.org. But let me describe it for you.
It's in black and white, with a dramatic contrast between dark and light.
Senator Kennedy's limbs are bent at awkward angles. His fist is clenched, and his head is being held
up by this teenager. He's a bus boy in a white uniform, and his eyes are closed, but his mouth is
kind of open, like he's calling for help. Now we're going to hear from the man who took that photo.
His name is Boris Yarrow, and he was a photographer with the L.A. Times for decades.
Boris was 80 when he recorded with us. He retired after having a stroke, and you'll hear how that
affected his speech. The night Senator Kennedy was shot, Boris's editor sent him home early.
He said the next day's paper was already full, and he didn't need anything else.
I was watching the elections on television. The announcer said that Kennedy is in the lead,
and probably going to be the candidate. I was living not far from the ambassador hotel,
so I said to hell with it. I'm going to go. I had my press pass, but I wasn't there on a
assignment. I was trying to find a picture of Bobby Kennedy for me, for my wall. He gave his
acceptance speech. Then got off the podium and started to shake hands from well-washes.
And then all of a sudden popped, popped, popped. The crowd separated, like Moses Partying,
the Red Sea, and Kennedy was putting his hands up like a boxer, trying to avoid getting hit.
Bobby saw him sumptuously ground, and one of the first pictures that I took,
Kennedy sprawled out on the floor, nobody around him except the bus boy.
His legs were split toward me, and I saw the blood drop in a hallelujah air.
I hung the phone booth in the lobby and told the editor,
sir, Bobby Kennedy has been shot, and I have filmed. Says, get down here now.
I ran into the Times office, finished thick-tating to a reporter, what I had seen,
and then I went back to the dark room, and I cried. I hate the damn picture.
I had no copy in the house. I didn't like it then, and then not crazy about it now.
I had covered the watch riots in 1965.
JFK was killed. My horrific king was killed. I was seeing anger in the world,
and it was getting worse. Bobby Kennedy was going to be the night-chining alarm room.
And it didn't get a hot chance.
That was retired LA Times photographer Boris Yaro in Northridge, California.
What happened in the hotel kitchen that night also deeply troubled the bus boy in Borsus photo.
So his name was Juan Romero. When we come back, we'll hear his story.
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Juan Romero was 17 years old when he got a job as a bus boy at the Ambassador Hotel.
He and his family had immigrated to the U.S. from Mexico when he was a kid.
Just one day before Robert F. Kennedy was assassinated, Juan remembered helping deliver his room service.
They opened the door and the senator was talking on the phone. He put on the phone and says,
come on in, boys, you can tell when he was looking at you. That he's not looking through you.
He's taking you into account. I remember walking out of there like I was 10 feet tall.
The next day he had his big, big, big speech. They came down the service elevator, which is behind
the kitchen. I remember extending my hand as far as I could and then I remember him shaking my hand
and I see let go. Somebody shot him.
I kneeled onto him and put my hand between the cold concrete and his head just to make him comfortable.
I could see his lift moving so I put my ear next to his lift and I heard him say,
is everybody okay? I said yes, he was okay. I could feel a steady stream of blood coming through my fingers.
I had a grocery in my shirt pocket and I took it out thinking that he would need it a lot more
than me. I wrapped the wrong guy's right hand and then they wheeled him away.
The next day I decided to go to school. I didn't want to think about it. But this woman was
bringing the newspaper and you can see my picture in there with the senator on the floor.
She turned around and showed me the pictures. This is you, isn't it? I remember looking at my hands
and there was a dry blood in between my nails. Then I received bags of letters addressed to the
bus boy. There were a couple of angry letters. One of them even went as far as to say that if he
hadn't stopped to shake your hand, the senator would have been in my life. So I should be ashamed of myself
for being so selfish. It's been long, 50 years and I still get emotional tears come out.
But I went to visit his grave in 2010. I felt like I need to ask Kennedy to forgive me for not
being able to stop those bullets from harming him. I felt like it would be a sign of respect to
buy a suit. I never want to lose in my life. So when I wore the suit and I stood in front of his
grave, I felt a little bit like the first day that I met him. I felt important. I felt American.
And I felt good.
We must recognize the full human equality of all of our people before God, before the Lord,
and in the councils of government. We must do this not because it is economically
advantageous, although it is, not because the laws of God commanded, although they do,
not because people in other lands wish it so. We must do it for the single and fundamental reason
that it is the right thing to do. And the road is strewn with many dangers. First is the danger of
futility. The belief there is nothing one man or one woman can do against the enormous array
of the world deal, against misery, against ignorance, or injustice and violence. Each time a man
stands up for an ideal or acts to improve the lot of others or strikes out against injustice,
he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope and crossing each other from a million different centers of
energy and daring. Those ripples build a current which can sweep down the mightiest walls of
oppression and resistance.
Senator Robert F. Kennedy, speaking to the National Union of South African students,
an anti-apartheid group at the University of Cape Town in 1966. Before that, you heard Juan
Romero, a bus boy who was photographed cradling the senator's head in the moments after the shooting.
Juan died in October of 2018, shortly after he recorded with StoryCore. He was 68 years old.
And Boris Yaro, the photographer of that photo, died in March of 2020 at the age of 81.
That's all for this episode of the StoryCore podcast. It was produced by Michael
Garafolo, Judd Estee Kendall, and David Herman. Elano Vasilie is our senior producer. Our
associate producer is Max Young Rice. Our technical director is Jared Floyd. Jasmine Morris is our
Story Consultant. To see what music we use in the episode, go to StoryCore.org where you can also
check out original artwork by Lynn Lucia. For the StoryCore podcast, I'm Camille Gashani. Catch you next week.
Support for this podcast comes from the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, a private corporation
funded by the American people. I'm Rachel Martin. After hosting Morning Edition for years,
I know that the news can wear you down. So we made a new podcast called Wild Card,
where a special deck of cards and a whole bunch of fascinating guests help us sort out what makes
life meaningful. It's part game show, part existential deep dive, and it is seriously fun. Join me
on Wild Card wherever you get your podcasts, only from NPR. On this week's episode of Wild Card,
comedian Taylor Tomlinson explains how you can use fear as a motivating force.
I was afraid that I would get years down the road and go, man, I really wish I had pursued that,
or I wish I had developed this town that might have taken me somewhere. I'm Rachel Martin.
Join us for NPR's Wild Card Podcast, the game where cards control the conversation.
On the Ted Radio Hour, NYU professor Scott Galloway says older Americans have failed to live up to
the social contract between generations. We talk about increment equality, but we don't talk a lot
about generational inequality, but we have purposely transferred wealth and opportunity from young
people to old people. Generation gaps. That's on the Ted Radio Hour from NPR.
