It was a night and a time to remember in 1960 for a young man coming of age - a new job, a bright outlook of good things to come, and a presidential candidate who inspired many of his generation. Sean Cummings, a promising senior at Fordham University, could hardly contain himself as he walked up Central Park South towards one of New York’s premier hotels, the Essex House, and his first night as the front desk cashier. His political idol, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, a Navy veteran like Sean, who he resembled physically, had bested Vice President Richard Milhous Nixon the previous Friday night in their first debate.

In a matter of weeks, Sean had begun a relationship with a fellow worker, Claire Pringle, a beautiful aspiring actress.
“Sean, we shouldn’t be doing this in the hotel. We’ll be fired if they catch us.”
He drew back from her slightly. Jesus, I have to go through this every time with her. Smiling, he pushed her brown hair back with both of his hands to the nape of her neck, and cradling her head said, “I live with my mother upstairs from her aunt. You live in the Rehearsal Club. Where else can we be alone?”
“We can get married – we can get a place.”
He swallowed hard. Shit, here we go again. He leaned back away from her and paused. “Claire, I’ve got to finish school. You’ve a singing and acting career you’re pursuing. You can’t give up on yourself so soon.”
“It’s not going to happen, Sean. It’s so discouraging. I’m in this horrible rut. Since I’ve been working nights, I can’t even do workshops or dungeon theatre.”
“Dungeon theatre – what’s that?”
“It’s not even off-Broadway. Its stuff you do in coffee houses or bars. One act plays – things like that. Work that can help you develop your talents, maybe even get you noticed.”
“You can still do that – talk to them downstairs – you could work the graveyard shift.”
Claire’s head dropped and then, she winced. “I’m not even sure I’ve the energy to keep this up anymore.”
His feelings were drifting about. He liked her – liked her a lot. He wanted her physically, but he wasn’t sure if he loved her. In fact he never loved any of the women he had been with. He bit into his upper lip as tears formed in both of their eyes. “We both want to be somebody. You came all the way from Missouri to pursue a dream. I’m flattered, you’d even consider the thought of marrying me, but, neither of us should put aside our dreams – cause if we do, we’ll both be miserable for the rest of our lives.”
She began to cry and fell into his arms. The tears came freely. She pulled back and looked up into his grayish-blue eyes. “It’s just so hard. I can’t take the rejections any more. Day after day, I go from one casting call to another. It’s always, ‘thank you Miss – keep working on your range – you’re only a year away.’ It’s been two and a half years since I’ve left Kennett. It’s either acting or voice training every working day. By the time I get here each night I’m dead on my feet. My throat is raw from vocalizing or emoting all day and my jaw is sore from smiling at guests all night. Listening to the girls at the Rehearsal Club every morning – it’s so depressing. None of us can get a break – it’s so discouraging. Sean, marriage would make my life so much easier.”
“Easier?”
“I’d have you. Isn’t that what life is all about?”
His eyes misted as he nodded with each of her words. “You make it sound like it’d be easier,” he said.
“Do you love me?”
He hesitated and swallowed hard again. “Of course I do?”
“Will you commit to me if I get in trouble?”
“You know I will.”
She began to unbutton her blouse. Sean turned and began to pull back the bed spread in one of the bedrooms of the General Motors’ Suite on the 35th floor.

The following day, Sean was arrested as he entered the hotel lobby.
Two burly men approached him and asked if he was Sean Cummings. Baffled by the question, and suddenly concerned, he responded with a hesitant, “Yes.”
“You’re under arrest for the murder of Claire Pringle.”
“Huh – Claire – murder – Claire’s dead?”
“Yes,” the detective said. “Now, come with us.”
“Wait a second. What’s going on here? I love Claire. What’s this all about? I’d never harm Claire. Is this some kind of joke?”
“It’s no joke. Now, come along. We can discuss it at the station house.”
“But, I loved Claire. This makes no sense,” Sean said, his eyes bulging as if ready to explode from their sockets. Then, his head dropped as the blood ran out of his face. He began to collapse in shock. The detectives caught his fall and braced him between them. The next thing Sean knew, he was handcuffed, perp-walked through the lobby, and placed in a car that made a U-turn in front of the exclusive Essex House Hotel and headed west on Central Park South.
The words, “murder of Claire Pringle,” reverberated through his confused mind as the unmarked police sedan raced through the late afternoon traffic up Broadway to 82nd Street and the 20th Precinct. He was taken to the second floor and placed in a cage-like holding cell at the poorly-lit far end of the squad room, where a few feet away detectives were typing reports or talking into telephones.
Sean was allowed one phone call, he left word with his bewildered Aunt Charlotte that he had been arrested and was being held in the 20th Precinct. The detective standing next to him was shaking his head, “Better tell her the Tombs, kid, because that’s where you’ll be living for the next few months.”