The Epic of New York City (96 page)

As LaGuardia had predicted, O'Dwyer suffered a perpetual headache. A tugboat strike paralyzed the port, caused a fuel shortage, and frightened the new mayor into declaring an emergency, which almost resulted in panic. War veterans complained about the difficulty of finding a place to live. There was a smallpox scare in 1947, and
6,350,000 New Yorkers were vaccinated. O'Dwyer couldn't even see all his department heads every day because there were so many of them. Finally, his rugged Irish frame bending under his burdens, the mayor was hospitalized for a fortnight, suffering “almost complete nervous and physical exhaustion.”

Many years later O'Dwyer told Philip Hamburger of
The New Yorker
magazine, “There were times when I was mayor when I wanted to jump. . . . You know, the city's too big. It's too big for one government. . . . You would look out over the city from some high place above it, and you would say to yourself, ‘Good Jesus, it's too much for me!' . . .”

In 1949 O'Dwyer hesitated about running for reelection but finally entered the race. This time his only major opponent was Newbold Morris, who now had the endorsement of the Republican, Liberal, and Fusion parties. Morris warned the voters that if New York were to be saved from “plunder and corruption,” O'Dwyer must not be reelected. In spite of this, Bill O'Dwyer trounced him at the polls.

Before taking office a second time, O'Dwyer flew to Florida for a rest. He also took this opportunity to marry Sloan Simpson, a beautiful model. His first wife had died. Like O'Dwyer, Miss Simpson was a Catholic and had been married before, but because the Catholic Church had never recognized the validity of her marriage, she was free to wed again. New York reporters flew to Stuart, Florida, to watch the fifty-nine-year-old mayor and the thirty-three-year-old model join hands in wedlock. O'Dwyer came back to Manhattan to be sworn in as mayor for the second time on January 1, 1950, and twelve days later returned to Florida, suffering from nervous exhaustion and a virus infection.

All his previous municipal headaches throbbed faintly by contrast with the Harry Gross scandal, which now rocked the city. The Gross case began in September, 1949, when Ed Reid, a Brooklyn
Eagle
reporter, overheard a man say at a bar, “A new boss has taken over the bookie joints in town. Guy called Mr. G. They say he was put in business by three top coppers.” Reid began digging. He thought it curious that thus far in 1949 not a single bookmaker had been sent to jail from gambler's court in Brooklyn. He found there were 4,000 bookies in the entire city. One had been arrested 50 times in 12 years but had never served a day in jail. It became increasingly clear that bookies were buying police protection. Reid wrote an 8-article exposé
that began running in the
Eagle
in December, 1949. It touched off one of the greatest shake-ups in the history of the police department.

Miles F. McDonald, the Brooklyn district attorney, and his assistant, Julius Helfand, launched a probe of gambling and police corruption. They used forty young policemen fresh out of the police academy, reasoning that the rookies had not had time to establish friendships in the force or to become a part of the corrupt system. Of course, veteran policemen soon realized the department was being investigated. Among the old-timers called in for questioning was Captain John G. Flynn, who later shot himself to death in a Brooklyn police station.

O'Dwyer resented McDonald's probe. Although the mayor didn't denounce it publicly, he let word get around that he disliked the idea. Once he offered to help McDonald, but the Brooklyn district attorney said he could work better alone. O'Dwyer now expressed his resentment by making a public display at Flynn's funeral.

Unofficial word filtered through the police department that the mayor wanted as many cops as possible to take part in the ceremony. More than 6,000 policemen, one-third of the entire force, marched in a silent demonstration against McDonald's probe. They were led to the church by the mayor and his appointee, Police Commissioner William P. O'Brien. Referring to the policeman who had killed himself, O'Dwyer said, “Nobody had the guts to say he was a clean man, but six thousand policemen walked by his children to tell them so. I am not opposed to the gambling investigation in Brooklyn. I have aided it when asked. But I am opposed to witch-hunts and the war of nerves made popular by Hitler!” Newspapers denounced the demonstration as a farce, and O'Dwyer squirmed.

He was taken off the hook by Edward J. Flynn, Democratic boss of the Bronx and a national Democratic committeeman. Flynn hurried to Washington and conferred with President Truman. Soon it was announced that the President had nominated O'Dwyer as the new American ambassador to Mexico. In February the mayor had declared, “As God is my judge, I shall serve the four years to which I was elected.” In August he announced his imminent departure for Mexico, saying, “My reasons for going are good. Although I am in no position to say what they are now, when the true story is told you will understand.”

Columnist Robert Ruark wrote:

Before resigning, O'Dwyer handed out $125,000 in raises to his close friends on the city payroll. To James J. Moran—the first deputy fire commissioner who was known as the mayor's alter ego—went a $15,000-a-year lifetime appointment as a commissioner of the city's water supply board. Moran was later convicted of conspiracy and extortion for heading a shakedown racket involving fire department permits for fuel-oil installations.

On September 2, 1950, O'Dwyer sent the city clerk this note: “Dear Sir: I hereby resign as Mayor of the City of New York. . . . Very truly yours, William O'Dwyer.”

Thirteen days later Harry Gross was arrested. The flashy young gambler said to the arresting officers, “I gotta hunch there're going to be a lot of worried people in the city soon.” This was a Gross understatement. He masterminded a bookmaking ring extending from Brooklyn to other nearby counties, bribed policemen up and down the line, handled more than $20,000,000 a year, and made an annual net profit of $2,000,000.

He said that in 1945 and again in 1949 he had contributed $20,000 toward O'Dwyer's campaign expenses. He said that he paid these sums to James J. Moran and accused Moran of soliciting funds for O'Dwyer from all the bookies in town. Later it was disclosed that when O'Dwyer had been in the army, Moran had handled his personal finances. Gross also said Moran had invited him to a gathering to meet O'Dwyer, but Gross had been unable to attend because he was sick. Gross declared that the mayor had met with seven or eight of the city's leading bookmakers.

When Gross's confession was made public, more than a dozen civic and political groups demanded that O'Dwyer be recalled from Mexico, but the new ambassador wrote that he was busy with “highly secret, restricted matters.” Police Commissioner O'Brien, for his part,
charged that the Brooklyn gambling probe was inspired by Communists. This was at a time when Communists were attacking the Brooklyn prosecutors as “Fascists.” The investigation O'Dwyer had denounced as a “witch-hunt” now boiled over like a witch's stew.

Some policemen were corrupt, and O'Dwyer had failed to do much about this situation. The F.B.I. no longer trusted crime statistics compiled by the New York police department. O'Brien resigned under pressure, as did his two top aides. Nearly 200 police were implicated in the investigation, more than 100 resigned, many were dismissed from the force, and a few were convicted of taking graft. Harry Gross was sent to jail for 12 years.

The Gross case helped set the stage for New York sessions of the Kefauver Committee. On May 10, 1950, Vice-President Alben Barkley organized the Senate Crime Committee, which soon came to be called the Kefauver Committee for its chairman, Democratic Senator Estes Kefauver of Tennessee. The committee, which embarrassed Democrats in Washington and New York alike, consisted mainly of Democrats. It focused on the infiltration of criminals into politics and business and held sessions in many cities across the land.

In the spring of 1951, the Kefauver Committee came to New York. Forty-nine witnesses were heard in private sessions, and forty testified at open hearings. They were gangsters, politicians, public officials and law enforcement officers. Of the eighty-nine witnesses, by far the most important were William O'Dwyer and Frank Costello.

The first open hearing of the Kefauver Committee began on the morning of March 12, 1951, in a third-floor courtroom of the Federal Building on Foley Square. The room had a lofty ceiling, tall narrow windows, blue velvet drapes, and marble walls. With a thump of his gavel, Senator Kefauver launched one of the most unusual spectacles ever seen in New York. Actually, it was seen far beyond the confines of this city because the committee allowed the open hearings to be televised.

Frank Costello had been described in newspapers as “the Prime Minister of the Underworld,” so his appearance in the courtroom caused a sensation. He stared around the brilliantly lighted chamber with slit-eyed arrogance and mumbled, “A damn moom pitcher set!” Of medium height, with a short neck and wide shoulders, Costello was proud of the deep tan on his narrow forehead, carrot-big nose, and heavily lined face. His attorney objected to T.V. cameras on
his client's face; but nothing was said about keeping the lens off the rest of his person, so millions watched in fascination as his fingers diddled with papers or poured water into a glass.

He was questioned by Rudolph Halley, chief counsel to the committee. Costello emphatically denied that he was a leader of a national crime syndicate and insisted that he was only a businessman. But, according to the subsequent Kefauver report: “There is no question that he has been a strong and evil influence in New York politics. . . . Costello reached the height of his power in New York politics when he unquestionably had complete domination over Tammany Hall. . . . His sinister influence is still strong in the councils of the Democratic Party organization of New York County.” Hugo Rogers, the boss of Tammany Hall from July, 1948, to July, 1949, told the Kefauver probers in a private session, “If Costello wanted me, he would send for me.”

Rogers had been succeeded by Carmine De Sapio, the first man of Italian descent ever to become Tammany boss. Costello admitted that he knew De Sapio very well. Costello also said that he knew leaders, co-leaders, or both in at least ten of the sixteen districts in Manhattan. Asked how he was able to influence them, Costello said, “I know them, know them well, and maybe they got a little confidence in me.” Interestingly, he had entertained James J. Moran, who was O'Dwyer's confidant. Also interesting was Costello's friendship with shirt manufacturer Irving Sherman, another O'Dwyer favorite. After committee members trapped Costello in a lie, he walked out on them, returned the next day, refused to answer further questions, and walked out a second time. The Kefauver report said that Costello's testimony reeked of perjury, and he was sent to prison for contempt of the Senate.

O'Dwyer flew from Mexico City to New York and appeared before the committee on March 19, 1951. So many people wanted to see him in person that extra chairs were brought into the courtroom, and standees squeezed into every empty space. Erect of bearing, his face more rutted than ever, his broad black eyebrows emphasized by his whitening hair, Bill O'Dwyer, wearing a pinstripe suit, was an affable Irishman who turned on the charm. He received permission to make an opening statement. Gesturing toward microphones on the table before him, O'Dwyer said, “I need these mikes to talk to the people.” Then, twiddling a paper clip in stubby fingers, he launched into a rambling account of his life and his accomplishments as mayor.

O'Dwyer said that he had worked hard to bring the United Nations headquarters to New York. He had reorganized and improved the welfare department, created a traffic department, established a smoke control bureau, made progress in city planning, and given city employees a pay raise. Although it was politically dangerous to do so, he had raised the subway fare from five to ten cents. He had created a division of labor relations to help prevent strikes. He had set up a management survey committee to look into the city's management needs. The Kefauver Committee later declared that “unquestionably he accomplished many noteworthy achievements.” Its report added, “Certainly it would be unfair to give the impression that the matters in which this committee is interested give anything like a complete picture of O'Dwyer's accomplishments in public office.”

Senator Charles W. Tobey of New Hampshire, who wore a green eyeshade and spoke with a twang, finally interrupted O'Dwyer's monologue. The Republican Senator wanted to pin the Democratic witness down to cases. This was the start of a searing cross-examination, which lasted two days.

Did O'Dwyer agree that Costello was a sinister influence in Tammany Hall? Yes. Hadn't O'Dwyer told a 1945 grand jury that he wouldn't be surprised to learn that his good friend Irving Sherman was a collector for Costello? Yes. Hadn't Sherman helped in his 1945 campaign? Yes. While O'Dwyer was in the army, hadn't he kept in touch with Sherman by long-distance phone from all over the country? Yes. What did Sherman want from O'Dwyer? Nothing. Hadn't O'Dwyer called McDonald's probe of police corruption a “witchhunt”? Yes, but that was because O'Dwyer regretted that a few grafters on the police force might be considered typical of the 18,000 men in uniform. Had O'Dwyer talked with McDonald before making his “witch-hunt” remark? No, because O'Dwyer was so certain that the police department was clean that he couldn't believe the things McDonald's probe was disclosing. From the witness stand O'Dwyer admitted that later events proved McDonald was right and said that he had apologized to McDonald. Then O'Dwyer agreed that book-making was rampant during his administration? Yes. And wasn't it true that widespread bookmaking couldn't exist without police protection? Yes.