It was there that I numbly learned of how Bobby had lain in an ever-widening pool of his own blood after he’d been shot by Sirhan Sirhan, a Palestinian who faulted Bobby for his avowed support of Israel after the previous year’s Six-Day War. I swayed in my limo seat to learn that Bobby had still been cognizant after he was shot, had clutched a rosary someone pressed into his hands and whispered to the ambulance attendants not to lift him onto a gurney before he finally lost consciousness. He was awake. Dear God, he was awake after it happened.
