Battling the spin generated by Elliot Mintz, Yoko, and Ono stalwarts Bob Gruen and Alan Tannenbaum (photographers both) was the counter-myth that emerged in the 1980s, infamously disseminated by necro-biographer Albert Goldman (The Lives of John Lennon), but also by Yoko's tarot card reader, John Green (Dakota Days); writer Robert Rosen (Nowhere Man: The Final Days of John Lennon); and most notoriously of all, John's last personal assistant, Frederic Seaman (The Last Days of John Lennon). The portrait that emerged from their tellings depicted a drugged up, strung out, physically abusive depressive, fiercely jealous of Paul McCartney's achievements while seemingly incapable of defying the will of his occultist wife, who—naturally —stayed married to him to control his millions and attach herself, leech-like, to her famous husband in order to fulfill her rock star ambitions, like an updated (and thoroughly warped) Lucy Ricardo.

Unlike Goldman or Rosen, Seaman was a bona fide insider, employed by the Lennon's as an all-purpose gofer. He came with the most sterling of credentials, being the nephew of Sean's nanny, Helen Seaman. Helen had achieved her position as wife of an old Yoko crony, Norman Seaman who, together with his brother, conductor/pianist Eugene, booked concerts in New York, including some pre-Lennon Ono performances in the early sixties. In any event, Fred began work in February 1979. His duties, often spelled out in long, hand-written notes from John, ranged anywhere from looking after Sean to running out to get groceries to acting as photographer on special occasions. Given such intimate contact with the family inside their domicile, Seaman would have been privy to their private goings-on; as such, he was required to sign a confidentiality agreement as a condition of employment. His detractors asserted that he never intended to honor the document.

Seaman was on hand when John began to demo material in earnest in the summer of 1980, flying down to meet him in Bermuda and acting as sounding board, roadie, and accompanist (banging out percussion) as John laid down the sketches of what became Double Fantasy and Milk and Honey. By his account, it was an idyllic trip, one that reignited John's passion to make music. (John had been wary of listening to current pop music, fearing if it was bad, he would hate it, feeling he could do better; if it was good, he would become angry, because it wasn't him making it.) Hearing Paul's “Coming Up” finally spurred him to action, though it took him some time to shake off the insecurity that perhaps his time had come and gone.

Things were only bound to get more interesting with the Lennon's resuming a musical career, but John's murder just weeks after the release of his comeback triumph brought things crashing down. Unbeknownst to Yoko or anyone else working for the couple, Fred—after asking for and getting time off for bereavement—formulated a plan. He began by removing certain items surreptitiously from the Dakota's Studio One offices. In addition to minor things like articles of clothing and electronic gear (John was constantly being gifted the latest gadgets by manufacturers, more than he could ever take the time to learn to operate; reportedly he'd frequently told Seaman to take home whatever he wanted, an invitation he did not act upon until after John's death), he also removed the entire lot of Lennon's personal diaries, covering the years 1975 until his death.

In his defense later, Seaman said that John had instructed him to make sure that Julian got them in the case of his demise. Apparently this brief extended to cassettes of unpublished songs (as well as the manuscript to John’s third book, Skywriting By Word of Mouth, eventually made public in the 1980s). The spiriting away of Lennon materials from the Dakota might have continued indefinitely had not Yoko, upon catching Fred taking a bath during working hours (as well as wearing John's clothes—not simultaneously) fired him in 1982. Not long after, she was tipped off about the thefts: when efforts to recover the items failed, Yoko
notified police and Seaman was arrested.

What emerged from his trial was a tale so bizarre that it could scarcely be imagined. First, Seaman had (per the prosecution) been plotting to secure a deal for a tell-all book (expected to sell millions) practically before John's body was cold. Two weeks after John died, a notarized contract was signed between Seaman and the aforementioned Robert Rosen, a college friend who held the materials Fred began gathering and agreed to collaborate on the book. “Project Walrus,” as the enterprise was dubbed, grew to include a retired New York City diamond dealer (introduced to Seaman by his psychiatrist) as well as Rick DuFay, a journeyman guitarist (who played with Aerosmith in the early '80s until the return of Joe Perry). There was no love lost among the members of the cabal: Rosen recorded that each one wondered “who is the most contemptible among us.”

Bankrolled by the diamond merchant, Project Walrus entailed establishing Fred Seaman as the heir to John Lennon’s legacy while simultaneously tearing down Yoko as a fraud and seeding “the gossip market” with the most damaging and salacious tidbits they could contrive. Seaman embezzled from Lenono's petty cash to pay Rosen a retainer, delivering grocery bags of purloined documents and materials weekly, while the Lennon journals—ostensibly removed to fulfill John's wish that Julian get them—somehow never seemed to find their way to England. Rosen worked at transcribing them and generating a manuscript for over a year, until – after Seaman's dismissal—he was declared dispensable by the plotters and, while on an expenses paid trip Jamaica, unceremoniously cut from the conspiracy. His apartment was looted of all Lennon materials, a development that did not sit well with him.

Rosen contacted Rolling Stone publisher Jann Wenner and spilled all he knew; Wenner in turn put him in touch with Yoko and from there, Project Walrus quickly unraveled. Rosen exchanged information for immunity while Seaman attempted to extort cash for the return of the materials—failure of the negotiations landed him in court. Whatever self-righteous bravado he'd possessed until then evaporated in the face of massive legal bills and protracted litigation. On May 7, 1983, Seaman pleaded guilty to grand larceny in the second degree and received five years probation. Simon and Schuster canceled a book deal (that included a $90,000 advance), whereupon Seaman took his gathered materials, insider info, and axes to grind over to Albert Goldman. The result of their joining forces was the second assassination of John Lennon in less than a decade.

All material copyright 2010 by Robert Rodriguez. No unauthorized reproduction permitted without the express written permission of the author.

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