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Copyright 2001 - 2020 James Thomas Westbrook --- All Rights Reserved --- The author exercises any and all rights of exclusivity he is lawfully entitled to pursuant U.S. Copyright Law as a literary property. --- "1979" is a copyrighted non-fiction book technically speaking, and was first registered with the U.S. Copyright Office on December 31st 2001. ---- The author also exercises any and all copyright protection he is entitled to as a graphic artist,regarding the copyrighted photo art montages included thereon each and every one of the title pages of Parts 1 through 13 as well as the various Sub-Parts contained in Parts 1 through 13 of "1979". This also applies to the Epilogue to it. --- Any and all inquiries regarding "1979"/1979westbrook.com may be submitted to me by e-mail at: 79westbrook@protonmail.com or Westbrook79@Yandex.Com




Part 1 -- Sub Part 1
"1979" / 1979westbrook.com

Part 1 of "1979" covers the circumstances and events of only one day in my life, from Thursday morning to Thursday night March 22nd 1979. -- It takes place in Portland and West Slope, Oregon -- Part 1 of "1979" is comprised of Sub Parts 1 through 3.

My 'Camel Lights' Quest Results In My Discovery Of An L.A. Cop I Hadn't Since Seen May '71 --- Now Appears Eight Years March '79 At The Portland Hilton Where I Work Disguised As An Elevator Repair Tech -- The Cop Now Desperate Makes Ready To Attack When Suddendly The Floor Bell Chimes And The Elevator Doors Open To My Floor And A Corridor Full Of My Co-Workers

By

 

It was mid-morning, sometime after 10:00 am, on Thursday March 22, 1979, at my the place where I then worked, the Hilton Hotel, which was then and still is at the time of this writing in 2004, then located in downtown Portland, Oregon, "The Rose City", of the American "Great Northwest".

I had just finished a rather quick breakfast in an employee's commissary located therein one of thereon one of the sub-levels of the Portland Hilton, having just eaten I then had the usual smoker's craving for a cigarette, whereas I prior to giving up cigarettes for good in December 1980, I had then had habit.

My day-shift hours were from about 7:00 or 7:30 am until about 3:00 or 3:30 pm daily as I recall, whereby we actually worked only six and a half hours, but were paid for a full 8 hour day, with a full hour lunch and two 20 minute breaks.

As the break time was then nearing an end I then raced to several different cigarette machines therein commissary and also others on another sub-level, therein a typically semi-urgent dash find that
brand of smokes which I was then rather partial to at the time, those being
"Camel Lights".

As luck would have it, all of the machines I tried the sub-levels were out and as I wasn't allowed to smoke whilst I worked, I grew a little dismayed at the prospect of having to wait another couple of hours until lunch in order to have a smoke I suddenly had an idea as to where I could quickly cop a pack of "Camel Lights", grab a quick smoke, and still make it back to my work as interior room painter, there on one of the upper most floors of the Portland Hilton.

There was catch to my plan however whereas it involved the breaking of one, or rather two of the "Cardinal Rules" laid down by the chief foreman of my paint crew, which I myself was of course a part thereof.

These rules were to always stay out of the Portland Hilton's main lobby on the street level and the other being a ban from using the Hotel's guest elevators and to use only the service elevators to go to and from our work and lunch breaks.

I would add that these rules only applied to the other painters and myself during our day-shift work hours, when we were dressed in our painter's white's and cap, and not during our off hours, when we were coming to or leaving work therein our respective street clothes before going to a sub-level to don our painter's whites, and make ready our painter's carts with various paints, tools, brushes, patching compounds, sandpapers masking tapes and other related items.


So as things turned out that late on that late Thursday morning, on March 22, 1979, I then immediately grabbed what was as I recall a Hilton Hotel service elevator , got off in the hotel lobby, made a beeline for the bank of several well stocked cigarette machines, and got a pack of "Camel Lights" thereon my first try from the cigarette machine and carefully looking around to see if I was being spotted by one of our work supervisors, foreman, or possibly one of the hotel detectives who might inform on me for breaking two major rules of my employment at the Portland Hilton.

Not wanting to get caught returning to work late from break I decided that I would then take one of the guest elevators leading back up to one of the upper floors we were then working as a crew.

There I was there in the ground level lobby of the Portland Hilton, enjoying my nicotine induced nirvana, which occasionally alternated between a calming satisfaction and intermittent attacks of nervousness out of fear of discovery from hotel management or possibly even one of the hotel detectives that might at any given moment chance upon my presence therein hotel lobby, as I stood there conspicuously waiting for the first hotel guest elevator that would take me back-up to the floor of rooms I was then working on.

I further recall that when the bell rang for the elevator, I tensed for a split-second and took a drag as the elevator doors opened and looked with much relief to see that the only two occupants of the Hilton guest elevator, weren't Hilton employees at all, whereas they were wearing matching uniforms that clearly indicated that they were employees of the Otis Elevator company, and both each wore well stocked tool pouches, worn professionally as well.

I remember that I was much relieved to see I wasn't gonna get busted as entered the hotel guest elevator car, whereby I then blew out a rather large drag I had just inhaled thus creating a miniature cloud of cigarette smoke and haze, whereas I figured that these guys weren't very likely to rat me out to the Hilton management.

And so with a casual workman like swag I then staked out a corner near the floor button control panel, and gingerly reached over and punched the floor-button in the elevator car for the upper floor at which I then worked, and made sure to take another drag off my smoke whereas once I got to my floor I had to put my cigarette out and make double-time back to work out of concern for being disciplined or even possibly being dismissed for violating the terms of my employment.

The two workmen wearing the Otis elevator repair uniforms, must have both triggered somehow triggered my internal radar, whereas without thinking I instinctively made note of their physical appearance, both gents being well over six feet tall, around six-four.

Both were meticulously well groomed and shaven, although one had a moustache, however the odor of aftershave which somehow cut tight through all the cigarette smoke I blowing at the top of elevator car.

These two rather tall, trim and physically fit and powerful looking men looked to be in top form, and were in their late thirties or early to mid-forties.

My instincts must have told my subconscious that the last time I saw two tall guys like this together they were cops, so when I saw these two tall Otis repairmen I guess that they reminded of too, too many cops, and under-cover Narcs and such, I had been accustomed to seeing from time to growing up a kid and teenager in during the post assassination ridden -Vietnam War era in the late 1960's through mid-1970's as an expatiated L.A. County-Southern Californian who by March 22, 1979, hade become a resident of the greater Portland metro area and hard working employee of the Hilton Hotel in downtown Portland, Oregon a thousand miles from L.A.

I guess that I must have wanted to reaffirm my findings on the only two other occupants of the Otis elevator car , whereas through the exhalations of cigarette smoke and with ever so subtle tilts of my head, thereby obscuring my eyes from theirs, being only five-foot four, to their six-foot four, I then then made note of the emblems on there uniforms and re-read the name Otis thereon their light blue shirts with dark blue stripes which matched the color of their navy blue work pants.

I then noted that the elevator car that we were all being carried in at that very moment, was after all manufactured, and thereby presumably installed and apparently maintained by the Otis elevator car company, as plainly evidenced by the two elevator maintenance men sporting the matching uniforms with the Otis
emblems stitched on their work shirts.

I would from time to time glance over at the floor display indicator ticking off the floors at a rate of about 2 seconds a floor or so as the elevator car made it's way back up to the upper floors of the Portland Hilton, trying to get in as many drags from my Camel Light cigarette as could before the car stopped and I would have to put it out, and go back to work.

As I stood there in my corner in the front of the elevator car, and the two in the Otis repairman's uniform both stood next to each other , which in some ways looked like a couple of soldiers at ease, but on the ready, there along the rear wall of the elevator car, directly opposite the polished steel automatic elevator doors, I noticed that one of the two gents in repairman's uniform's, the guy with the neatly trimmed moustache and straight brown hair, looked a perfunctorily and politely impatient as many folks habitually do when the elevator there in goes up or down between the floors.

Using the routine of my workman's manners, I once again ever so slightly titled my head back as I blew out yet another drag from my smoke which enabled me to grab a quick, but in more depth glance in casual matter of fact manner thereat the other Otis repairman, although as soon as the steel doors opened down below in the lobby of the Portland Hilton I immediately took note of his shaved head, light colored eyes, possibly hazel, maybe blue-gray, and most discernable bearing and manner which one associates with men from the military or possibly a police background of some kind, as the elevator car and we inside continued to proceed to climb the upper floors of the Hilton.

It was then and therein the close confines of the elevator car, though a wafting layers of cigarette smoke near the top of the car, that my past suddenly had a head on collision with then the present thereon March 22, 1979, as the elevator car steadily rose upwards at there at the Portland Hilton, whereas I had just recognized the face of one of the two tall men wearing in Otis elevator repairman's uniform.

I was astounded to say the least. "What the fuck is he doing here?" was my first thought, my second thought being that I must be mistaken it couldn't be, and yet there he was all six-foot four of him as plain as day.

This man that I recognized in the elevator repairman's uniform was no repairman at all, in fact the last time I saw that face that I recognized, it was some eight years earlier in mid- May 1971 and thousand miles away in college classroom back home in Southern California.

The man whose face I recognized therein the still rising elevator located thereat the downtown Portland Hilton, a thousand miles away from Covina and that part of Los Angeles County California from which I lived from the age four in 1957 and attempted to find a life in until Labor Day Weekend 1974 when I stuck out my thumb and tried to leave all the rot back home in L.A. only to find that part of it had tracked me down at my then place of work, the Portland Hilton, some 8 years later and 800 miles away from home in Covina and L.A. County.

The tall man in the elevator, with the shaved head, and face which I recognized in the elevator at the Portland Hilton on March 22, 1979 who I last saw back in the spring of 1971, was a Detective-Sergeant, with the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department.

How do I know this, very simple the man who I had just made as being an L.A. cop therein the Otis elevator repairman's drag at my workplace the Portland Hilton was in addition to being L.A. Sheriff's Sergeant, was in 1971 also my college class instructor thereat a local community college, Citrus College to be exact, located in Glendora, California.

The class that this L.A. Detective, who was dressed in and elevator repairman's disguise and who was for some fucking reason, was most apparently working undercover thereat my work place, now some eight years later, was my college police science instructor for a class titled: "Introduction to Public Service", details of which I will go into a bit later.

Again returning to the Thursday morning elevator ride at the Portland Hilton, on March 22, 1979, my first response was to play it cool and say nothing, and take another drag off my Camel Light therein my corner of the elevator, and to run some more visual recon over this cop's face but good, meanwhile my other subliminal self-preservation instincts kicked in and I could sense the cop's extreme alarm, paranoia and hopeless desperation.

I watched the cop as he panned the ceiling lights of the elevator car which illuminated every feature on his face, so much so that he looked like he was praying that I didn't recognize him, at least for the first second or two in any event.

As this went on in a fraction of a second that seemed much longer somehow, I felt my pulse uncontrollably racing and an intense sense of fear well up inside, so much so that the scent of my fear combined with the L.A. Cop's rampant paranoia all seemed to merge together there with the thick layers of cigarette smoke that wafted on up towards the top of the elevator car.

I tried to use this to my advantage by tilting my head slightly back when I exhaled the drag off my smoke, as this the raised the angle of my painter's cap affording me a few more glimpses of the face of this L.A. Cop who I had already identified beyond any trace of doubt.

My first initial hope was is that my old police science college instructor, the L.A. Sheriffs Sergeant, playing under cover cop at my workplace the Portland Hilton, I hoped that this his presence there in diguise was merely a fluke and he was apparently there on some kind of undercover assignment for the L.A. Sheriffs or possibly for some other State or Federal law enforcement agency.

As yet another split second ticked off, I could see that the alarm now etched into the face of this L.A. Cop at my discovery of his presence thereat the Portland Hilton had now somehow possibly put his very life in jeopardy and that must have all been connected to all the bizarrely weird things going on there at the Portland Hilton since I started work there only some weeks before in mid-February 1979.

I then realized that the L.A. Cop's presence there at the Portland Hilton was most apparently connected to the 'Plans For Me Up North' that were inadvertantly revealed to me by my then Portland Girlfriend, during an hysterical fit of rage due to the pain she was in from an incindiary burn on her leg and the combined effects of drugs and alcohol, there at the home of a friend of mine who then lived in the woods near Callahan, California, during the 'Callahan Days' music festival then underway on July 25th 1975.

The legitimacy of these 'Plans' were confirmed and bonified for me the very next night when my Girlfriend Karen and her Portland friend Kathy led me to a darkend corner of the 'Callahan Days' festival where my 'friend' Greg Downard was shoved out at me from the darkness on July 26th 1975, and who then collapsed in my arms, bleeding profusely from the dozen or so stab wounds in his back after he yelled: "Help! Jim they're trying to kill me." He must have really been screaming for me to have heard his voice over loud rock music then playing in the background.

It was Greg's 'fuck up' only two days before his stabbing, that inadvertantly led to the spontaneous combustion like circumstances and events that resulted in my having accidentally uncovered the existence of these 'Plans For Me Up North' and now here I was three years and eight months later in March 1979, therein a guest elevator racing upwards to the floors of the Portland Hilton where I was intending to return to work, but now found myself in an
explosive situation with the L.A. Cop I knew from 1971 and who was now 'flipping out' over my having just accidentally discovered his presence there in disguise only a few seconds before.

When I tilted my head back slightly and blew out my cigarette smoke so as to catch another glimpse of this L.A. Cop that I once knew, I couldn't help but notice that his entire head suddenly flushed red as he looked nervously up at the ceiling of the elevator car as though he was praying I wouldn't recognize him.

I then glanced at the other tall guy in the elevator who was standing next to the L.A. Cop I knew, and who was also 'tricked out' in OTIS elevator repairman's drag, I knew for certain that this guy was some kind of a cop or intelligence agent, possibly even FBI, or CIA for all I knew.

This guy was about ten years younger than the L.A. Cop I knew standing next to him, and wore his hair in a 1970's hair-cut with neatly trimmed sideburns and a well groomed moustache. This guy looked straight out into space at elevator doors, in a kind military review like fashion, looking and acting as though he was totally oblivious to the increasingly tense and electrified like situation then unfolding between myself and his partner, the L.A. Cop I once knew and hadn't seen in 8 years.

I then looked over at my old college instructor, the undercover cop from L.A. whose cover was just blown, and noticed how the flush of red had just left his face and that his reaction of shock, embarrassment and fear at having been "outed".

His face now had a look of deliberate calm and steely cold resolve, mixed in with a a kind desperately ruthless resolve, that now seemed like some kind of psychological switch he used to make the change from the benevolent Dr. Jeckyl like L.A. Cop, into the murderously psychotic 'hitman' ala Mr. Hyde.

As things turned out during this rather unpredicable and scary ass elevator ride, I was saved by the bell, to coin a phrase, as it was the soumd of the elevator floor chime that announced my stop at one of the upper floors of the Portland Hilton, just as the L.A. Cop was about pounce on me like some wild fucking animal, but once the elevator doors to the hotel corridor then filled with my fellow co-workers then returning from break, the L.A. Cop suddenly regained control of himself and he stood there like a soldier on review next to the other tall guy in an Otis Elevator repairman's uniform, who seemed oblivious to what was going on during this March 22, 1979 elevator ride from hell, thereat the Portland Hilton where I then worked.

After I stepped out of the elevator car I then shot a glance back at the face of the L.A. Cop whose face went blank and looked a little pale and worried, whilst I on the other hand felt much relieved at just having escaped from what well might have been the fucking jaws of death. -- I suppose I turned round out of reflex, just to make sure the murderous fucking cop wasn't coming out to grab me, in spite of the of the fact that I knew he wouldn't what with a dozen or more of fellow co-workers there to witness an attack if one should happen and or possibly jump in on my side if was I grabbed.\

Taking my last drag off my smoke in the hotel corridor, I then put it out in a hotel ashtray and proceeded back to work as if nothing had happened, and spent the rest of the workday going over and over those events which took place therein that Hilton elevator at just after morning break.

The more I thought about the events of that late morning elevator ride on March 22nd 1979, the more I started to remember all the weird shit that this same L.A. Sheriff's Detective-Sergeant was involved in from January through May 1971, and the other bizarre, bloody and muderous events that were soon to follow in the weeks to come, one being the murder of my friend 'Spud' Helberg in July '71 involving at least one L.A. Sheriffs informant and the attempted 'frame ups' invoilving the L.A. Sheriffs that followed in 1972.

 

The Wikipedia Bio for Alyson Bailes makes no mention of her: 'narrow escape' from death as Bailes was reportedly sitting next to Ambassador Sykes in the back of his Rolls Royce when Sykes was fatally shot on March 22nd 1979 at The Hague Netherlands.

The four arrows (Left) point to the multi-purpose room wing at Gladstone High where I had my brief stint in the Gladstone High Student council in September 1969.

The three arrows (upper right) points to the house where my half-sister Ann then lived on March 30, 1979. -- I called her there that Friday evening at about 7:30 PM from the Western Airlines terminal at Portland Airport during the scary ass showdown there. -- We exchanged greetings for a minute or so when I was about to ask Ann to drive out from Covina and pick me up just outside of the Western Airlines terminal at LAX Los Angeles after my flight arrived there, which was originally scheduled to arrive there at about 10:15 PM or so. -- It was during this time that Ann suddendly said loudly "Jim! I can't hear you! I can't hear you! -- I replied: "Gee, that's funny I can hear you perfectly." I then listened to hear breath over the long distance line as she paused and then simply hung up the phone. -- When I tried to call her again the GTE pay phone took my money repeatedly, before the GTE operator informed me that the long distance phone lines were out.

I then decided to have my Girlfriend Kendra drive me over to her father's place on NE 47th near Failing Ave. a short drive away from Portland Airport also located in Northeast Portland, whereby Kendra's Dad let us in so I could use his phone. -- As I knew my sister was lying about not being able to hear me, I decided to call a surfer friend who lived about 7 blocks away at
the corner of Lark Ellen Ave. and Arrow Highway in Covina. (Techinically L.A. County with a Covina mailing address.)

As I made the call both Kendra and her Father stood right next to me and were both hanging on to every word I spoke to my surfer friend who asked me to call him when me Western Airlines flight arrived at LAX and he would drive out from Covina and pick me up there. -- My cover story to her Dad was that my Mother was in the hospital dying and I had to get home quick.

I wanted to say a lot more but as Kendra and her Dad were breathing down my neck and looking nervously at each other in a rather paranoid manner and then back at me, I decided to skip the rest of what I wanted to say. -- It was a good thing too as I might have scared my surfer friend to the point where he might have not agreed to give me a ride from LAX back out to Covina.

Kendra's Dad had this giant bottle of V.O. Whiskey there in alcove in the wall near the front door so I had him pour me a double, as I had been sipping on the bottle of V.O. bought the week before all that week. The V.O. bottle all lit up in the alcove reminded me of one of those little prayer stands with a cross and sometimes a figurine of Jesus or the Virgin Mary one sees in the movies and travel logs of trips on some country roads in France.

We said a quick goodbye to her Dad and climbed into Kendra;s VW 'Bug' and as she turned the car around to for the drive down the long dirt and gravel driveway to 47th en route back to the airport, mid 1950's Dodge pick up had just turned into the other end of the long driveway and came charging down the bumpy driveway all the way to Kendra's Dad's house, where before the truck came to a complete stop the driver jumped out and the guy sitting next to him grabbed the wheel and hit the brake as the driver from the truck raced over to the front door of the house we had only just left only seconds before and Kendra's Dad came out to greet him.

As this scene umfolding I asked Kendra: "Who the hell are these guys? to which a rather stunned Kendra automatically replied without thinking: "Oh, they're just some Cuban friends of my Dad's." -- As she hadn't turned on the headlights to her car yet the driver nor the other two guys in the Dodge truck hadn't seen us and I could tell that Kendra was getting ready to stop the car and turn me over the Cubans who I'm sure were most likely armed, when I nudged her shoulder and looked at her in manner that convinced her that I ready to shove her 'flippy' ass out and take her car back to the airport without her. -- Kendra then sheepishly cooperated and drove the car back to Portland Airport and I made sure to keep her calm on drive back lest she decide to crash the car before we made Portland Airport by appealing to the better side of her conflicting situation.

Upon our return to the Western Airline terminal at Portland Airport we had time to chat a bit, and Kendra then gave me the kiss of life and death just before I boarded my Western Airlines DC-10 flight bound LAX. Once aboard I ordered up some V.O. & 7's and relished them as I smoked my 'Camel Lights'. -- When I ordered another couple of drinks twenty minutes later I realized that something was wrong, as this was the start of what turned out to be 90 minute or so long bomb threat, whereby my 8:30 PM Western Airlines flight didn't take off until 10:30 PM on the night of March 30th 1979.

You may read more about the bizarre circumstances of my Western Airlines DC-10 escape flight from Portland, Oregon on March 30th 1979
in Part 11 of "1979" /1979westbrook.com.

Me the fall of 1969, my Drama teacher Mr. Caskey and Civics class teacher Mr. Kkan both in 1969 or there abouts.

What with my presenting credible evidence of the involvement of subversive elements in the FBI and CIA therein the various acts of State Sponsored terrorism and plane crashing in 1979 -- it became necessary to try to smear and discredit their accusers in the eyes of the
American Public and those in other countries as well.

 

After week plus in custody I had just been transferred from L.A. County Jail to Biscailz Center on March 22nd 1971, when the unaccountably weird nose dive crash of the Western Airlines 720 took place at Ontario Airport about 40 miles east of L.A. -- A witness to the plane crash apparently saw too much of what he shouldn't have seen and was murdered. -- His death later added to the body count of the the Western Airlines crash, bringing the number of deaths total to 5.

Ironically enough It was during this time that I was befriended by a purser for Western Airlines and a guy who was CIA, among a number of other various groups and individuals thereat Biscailuz. -- I recall that it was about the time of the crash that the purser and the CIA looked somewhat down.-- I later found out that some Western Airlines pilots had some well known connections to certain factions of the CIA.

Below is the front page of the New York Times for April 15, 1971. -- I was released from custody at Biscailuz on April 13, 1971 and made arrangements on April 14th to finish out my Senior Year at Gladstone High by taking a couple of night classes and finishing out my Police Science class at Citrus College, the one taught by L.A. Sheriffs Detective Sergeant Ostman -- the same L.A. Cop who turned up at the Portland Hilton in disguise where I worked on March 22nd 1979.

The timing of CIA Director Helm's 'Rare Speech' made on April 14th 1971, the day after my release is rather interesting, as is the message of Helm's speech defending the CIA as it appears on the front page of April 15th 1971 edition of the New York Times. -- It was on April 15th 1971 that Detective-Sergeant Ostman had re-admitted me to my Police Science class, whereby our field trip that day was to the L.A. Sheriffs Academy in East L.A. -- The Sheriffs Academy was staffed by scores of my then recent fellow inmate-trustees from Biscailuz Center only two days before. The tour was 'rigged' to make me look like an informant, a 'plant' and a 'snitch' before my former fellow inmate-trustees.

 

The upside of the April 15th 1971 tour of the L.A. Sheriffs Academy was the tour of the crime scene forensic unit workshop there on the site of the Academy which I and the rest of my Police Science Class really enjoyed. -- The guy with glasses next to the red asterick was the person who
lectured us during this phase of the tour. He is identified in these photos as Jack Moffett. He was a forensics specialist of sorts and we spent a most of our tour time there with him at his workshop on the Sheriffs Academy grounds as he explained what he did, how he did it and why.

The whole class were very interested in what Moffett had to say and it was the high point of this field trip of my Police Science / Introduction to Public Service Class, thereon that hot and smoggy overcast Thursday, April 15th 1971.

-- These photos of Moffett were apparently taken in the late 1970's or posssibly 1980, sometime and prior to the publication of this L.A. Sheriffs Commemorative book in 1981.