Once Upon a Time in New York

by Herbert Mitgang

  Smith, however, was busy shooting himself in the foot. Strangely, the man who once boasted that he was a product of the sidewalks of New York now wore the mantle of a big businessman. While Governor Roosevelt, the one born into wealth, made speeches urging help for the “forgotten man,” Smith in his speeches said that Roosevelt should “forget about the forgotten man” because such talk could only lead to class warfare: “Let us not stir up the bitterness of the rich against the poor, and the poor against the rich.”

  In his most truculent style, Smith referred to Roosevelt not by name but as a “prominent Democrat” who sounded like a “demagogue.” Smith announced that he would attend the Chicago convention as a delegate; Roosevelt’s close advisers feared that Smith might try to create a deadlock for his own benefit or to block Roosevelt.

  So the investigation was at a temporary standstill as Walker, Seabury, and Smith prepared to entrain for Chicago. By tradition, Roosevelt, as the leading candidate, would not even appear.

  In an installment of his “Today and Tomorrow” column that appeared before the convention, Walter Lippmann added more powder to his cannonades against Roosevelt by bringing up the Jimmy Walker case:

  “There has been something distinctly queer in Franklin D. Roosevelt’s mental processes throughout this affair. He seems to be mostly deeply irritated at the fact that the Seabury investigation has been producing testimony which compels him to choose between condoning corruption and striking it. He has displayed a singular petulance toward everybody who has had any part in putting him in a position where he might have to make a decisive choice between breaking with Tammany and surrending to it.

  “Governor Roosevelt has lost his moral freedom. He is so heavily mortgaged to Tammany that he must prove his independence of it. Yet at this late date there is no way of proving his independence except by a procedure which must outrage everyone’s sense of justice. For to try James J. Walker before a man who stands to profit enormously by convicting him is a revolting spectacle. But the problem is entirely a consequence of Governor Roosevelt’s indecision during the last year.”

  As the convention opened at Chicago Stadium on June 27, 1932, Roosevelt was the clear front-runner. From his command post in Albany, where he waited to depart for Chicago at a time when he could make a triumphant entrance, he listened to the radio and consulted over a private telephone line with his Brain Trust (he also liked to call his group of wise men the Privy Council). In addition to Sam Rosenman, its first recruiting officer, the original Brain Trusters included five Columbia University professors—Raymond Moley, Adolf A. Berle, Jr., Joseph P. McGoldrick, Rexford Tugwell, and Lindsay Rogers. These experts in the social sciences and economics stood in sharp contrast to the Tammany hacks who occupied seats as Manhattan and Brooklyn delegates.

  Al Smith sat with the New York delegation. The Tammany delegates were so hostile to Governor Roosevelt that Jim Farley, his campaign manager, had difficulty finding a seat during the roll calls.

  “I do hope that Al Smith will not make a bitter or a mean fight,” Roosevelt told a friend. “It does nobody any good and, though he may block the convention and raise Cain generally, it would be much better for the country if he would forget self and work primarily for the country itself.”

  After the nominating and seconding speeches and maneuvering over the voting rules by the state delegations, the first roll call was taken on July 1. Mayor Walker took his seat with the Tammany delegates from New York just before the official tally began. He then asked to be recognized.

  “Who is the gentleman who addresses the chair?”

  “Walker, a delegate from New York.”

  “For what purpose does he address the chair?”

  “The delegate was not here when his name was called, and his alternate voted in his stead. The delegate requests permission to cast his own vote.”

  “The request is granted.”

  “I desire,” said Walker dramatically, “that my vote be cast for Alfred E. Smith.”

  Suddenly, the faithful Smith delegates awoke from their torpor. Could it be 1928 again, but this time with a victory? They cheered and applauded and danced in the aisles. Many of them were aware that Walker’s future rested in the hands of Governor Roosevelt.

  Smith, his hopes raised, got caught up in the excitement. Even though he and Walker had their differences over the years, he exclaimed:

  “Good old Jim! Blood is thicker than water!”

  However, it was too little too late.

  The main contenders stacked up just as had been expected, with Roosevelt immediately gaining a long lead, 666 votes against Smith’s 201. John Nance Garner of Texas received his predicted 90 votes. Roosevelt was about a hundred votes short of the needed two-thirds. Jim Farley began working the floor; he had the vice-presidential nomination to offer.

  On the second roll call, Roosevelt picked up only 11½ more votes. William Randolph Hearst now became a player. He had a big say in the California delegation, hated Smith and Tammany. (The reason for the Hearst-Smith animosity was that in 1922, when Smith was running for Governor, Hearst would have received the nomination for U.S. Senator from New York had Smith not refused to run with him.) That feud was another card in Farley’s deck to deal votes toward Roosevelt.

  As an isolationist, Hearst was in a quandary. He wasn’t particularly a Roosevelt fan; he feared that F.D.R. would come under British influence. Furthermore, his isolationist editorials continually spread fears about the “yellow peril” of Asian immigration. Jim Farley called the San Simeon newspaper lord and reassured him that Roosevelt’s “internationalism” was exaggerated.

  A key figure at the convention was William Gibbs McAdoo, who had married President Wilson’s daughter. He had emerged as a power in the western states. As a California resident and delegate, he served as Hearst’s bargaining agent. Through McAdoo, Hearst helped swing the California delegation toward Roosevelt. F.D.R.’s tally edged up to 677¾ on the second ballot and to 683 on the third.

  Texas, and “Cactus Jack” Garner, held the final key to a Roosevelt victory. Al Smith tried to reach Garner, who was in Washington, in an effort to keep him neutral for a few more ballots. But Garner, knowing the score, wouldn’t take Smith’s phone calls.

  A deal was quickly made, supposedly with Hearst’s approval: Roosevelt’s running mate would be Garner. Now the Texans released their Garner votes and the Roosevelt avalanche began. The shift of Texas brought California around, too. Garner, Speaker of the House of Representatives, was Hearst’s conservative choice; he would get the vice presidency if Hearst swung California and Texas to Roosevelt. When California was called on the fourth ballot, McAdoo got up and announced that his “sovereign state” (the sovereign being Hearst) had democratically decided to support Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Cheers and stamping broke out in the broiling convention hall.

  “It’s a kangaroo ticket,” said a disappointed Texas delegate, still loyal to Garner. “Stronger in the hindquarter than in front.”

  While the Smith forces booed, Roosevelt made it on the fourth ballot as the delegations fell into line behind the certain winner. Roosevelt had 945 votes and Smith only 190¼. But Smith’s diehard supporters—including Jimmy Walker—refused to make Roosevelt’s nomination unanimous or to join in the victory parade.

  Not every New York City newspaperman was happy about the outcome. Heywood Broun, an outspoken liberal, was a Smith man. He so far forgot his journalistic detachment as to grab a banner and march in a Smith demonstration. Broun thought of Smith as a martyred liberal; he began his post-convention column, “I’d rather be right than be Roosevelt.” (Unsurprisingly, in the next presidential campaign, Broun recanted and came out in favor of Roosevelt’s reelection.)

  Defying those who advised a front-porch campaign, Governor Roosevelt flew from Albany to Chicago in a trimotored plane (it was buffeted by headwinds) to accept the nomination in person. With him were Eleanor Roosevelt, their son, John, and F.D.R’s close confidant and favori
te phrasemaker, Sam Rosenman. During the flight Roosevelt polished his acceptance speech, then fell asleep. The political scientist and respected Roosevelt biographer James MacGregor Burns later wrote that the long and rambling speech was essentially an appeal for an experimental program of recovery that would steer “between radicalism and reaction” and would “benefit all the people.”

  In Chicago the band greeted the nominee with “Happy Days Are Here Again.” Cheerfully addressing the delegates on July 2, 1932, Governor Roosevelt said:

  “I appreciate your willingness after these six arduous days to remain here, for I know full well the sleepless hours which you and I have had. I regret that I am late, but I have no control over the winds of Heaven and could only be thankful for my Navy training.”

  It was in winding up this speech that Roosevelt first used the phrase “new deal”: “I pledge you, I pledge myself, to a new deal for the American people. Let us all here assembled constitute ourselves prophets of a new order of competence and courage. This is more than a political campaign; it is a call to arms. Give me your help, not to win votes alone, but to win this crusade to restore America to its own people.”

  Afterward, Al Smith became an embittered, unhappy warrior. When he was asked by reporters if he would support Roosevelt during the presidential campaign, Smith famously remarked: “Don’t you know what Senator David B. Hill said after Grover Cleveland won the nomination? ‘I’m a Democrat still.’ But the rest of that quotation from Hill, which some of you reporters may not have remembered, was ‘Very still.’ ”

  Now, in the months before election day, a fundamental fact remained: Walker could only lose the mayoralty; but if how he handled the scandal became the issue in the campaign, Roosevelt stood a chance of losing the presidency. Facing Walker, F.D.R. was on trial, too.

  TEN

  F.D.R. vs. the Boy Friend

  The packed Executive Chamber in the Hall of Governors in Albany, buzzing with excitement, suddenly fell silent. At 1:40 P.M., there was a rap on the door of the governor’s office. A hush fell over the chamber as the tall, erect figure of Governor Roosevelt appeared, framed in the doorway. Hovering behind him was his secretary, Guernsey Cross. Roosevelt looked around the room, his chin in the air, confident. Then, on his secretary’s arm, he began what seemed an interminable walk of only a few feet toward his desk.

  As he moved through the dead silence, the creak of his leg braces could be distinctly heard. After years of practice, he had mastered what his physiotherapist called a two-point walk—right cane thrown forward and left foot forward together, lift right leg and left arm comes down with pressure. To the breathless onlookers, every step seemed a strained, endless effort.

  When he finally reached the desk, his powerful hands gripped the arms of the high-backed leather chair. He tried to lower himself quietly, but his frail limbs, encased in the braces that were concealed beneath his trousers, demanded a long moment’s adjustment so he could unsnap the knee locks and get into a seated position. At last, he dropped into the armchair and raised his eyes, studying the familiar faces in the crowded chamber. The nervous tension in the chamber eased. A faint smile crossed Roosevelt’s face. In the true-life drama that was about to unfold, the most important Democratic figure in the nation had now taken his place at center stage.

  The date was August 11, 1932. In his capacity as the chief executive of the Empire State, Roosevelt had called a “trial” to hear Seabury’s charges and Walker’s defense. Under the charter of the City of New York, the governor had the power to remove the mayor, but only after charges had been examined at a hearing. Pending the disposition of such accusations, the governor could suspend the mayor “for a period not exceeding thirty days.” If that were ever to happen, of course, the mayor’s administration would be weakened by his absence and his future political prospects would be dimmed.

  The whole country was watching. For not only was Roosevelt the governor; he was now also the Democratic nominee for president of the United States.

  Franklin Delano Roosevelt was running for president. James John Walker was running for his way of life.

  Accompanied by his lawyers, Walker quietly entered the Executive Chamber of the Hall of Governors in the Capitol. For once, he was on time—and sartorially subdued, in a blue suit, white shirt, quiet cravat, black shoes. Judge Seabury and his assistants were already at the long counsel’s table. Seabury sat quietly, looking out across the elm-shaded lawns leading down toward the Hudson River. A state trooper stood at either side of the governor’s chair.

  During the late mornings and afternoons, sunlight streaked across the tables; in the evening, chandeliers cast a pale light over the room, intensifying the deep maroon of the carpeting.

  The chamber opened off Roosevelt’s private office on the second floor of the statehouse. Here, he and his predecessors had heard appeals for executive clemency in pardon cases and presided over cabinet meetings. Upon the chamber’s cherry-paneled walls hung paintings of all the governors of the Empire State, forgotten and famous; among them were two former presidents, Grover Cleveland and Theodore Roosevelt

  On the east side of the chamber, before cathedral windows that ran from floor to ceiling like castle doors of glass, there was a great desk where the governor and his legal advisers sat To the left, facing the governor, were the tables and chairs for the accused and his defense counsel; to the right, a table and chairs for the accuser and his assistants.

  A waist-high brass rail, borrowed from the Assembly chamber, separated those at center stage from the audience. Looking at the rail, Walker offered an aside: “I hope that they’re not preparing to ride me out of town on it.” Sixty newspapermen sat at press tables on the south end of the room. Along the north and west sides, there was a double row of folding chairs for friends and partisans of the parties involved in the hearing.

  Earlier, at the end of July 1932, Jimmy Walker had finally responded to the charges brought by his nemesis Seabury. In a letter to Governor Roosevelt calling for Walker’s removal from office, the intrepid anti-Tammany prosecutor had made these accusations:

  • That the mayor had been guilty of “gross improprieties” and had given explanations of his acts “unworthy of credence.”

  • That Russell T. Sherwood, the mayor’s agent, had received $22,000 more than the market price for certain stock from a concern interested in taxicab securities.

  • That the mayor caused his financial transactions to be conducted through Sherwood, now missing; that Sherwood deposited nearly a million dollars, of which $700,000 was cash, in a secret safe-deposit box, and that the mayor failed to explain the source of this money.

  • That the mayor accepted $26,000 in securities from brokers interested in taxicab legislation.

  • That the mayor used his influence to obtain the award of a bus franchise to benefit his Mends, including State Senator John A Hastings of Brooklyn, and that he received a $10,000 letter of credit from the bus company.

  • That the mayor accepted substantial “beneficences” from Paul Block, newspaper publisher and businessman.

  • That the mayor failed to produce financial records and failed to testify frankly before the legislative committee.

  Addressing “His Excellency Franklin D. Roosevelt,” Mayor Walker offered a 27,000-word answer to Seabury’s bill of particulars. The mayor maintained that Seabury’s entire investigation was politically motivated—“conceived, born and fostered in politics.” He attributed it to “the desperation growing out of the necessity to offset the failures of the present Republican organization.” He explained that the administration was designed “to divert public attention from those responsible for the dreadful condition of affairs throughout the nation.”

  “I have been the special target of this hostility and misrepresentation,” Walker replied. “Malice and slander and rancorous ill-will took the place of proof. Throughout the investigation, the counsel and his staff sought out and obtained all sorts of information on my pe
rsonal and private life as well as my official acts. I was quizzed about my personal affairs and about the private affairs of others. I was asked very little, and only incidentally, about my conduct of the government of New York City.”

  These were Walker’s main responses to Seabury’s charges:

  • That ten of the fifteen allegations of misconduct should be “outlawed” because they involved his “previous term of office.”

  • That the mayor “never accepted rewards” in return for “favorable taxi-cab legislation.”

  • That the mayor “never profited” from the Equitable Bus franchise, but acted only “in the interests of keeping the five-cent fare.” (In campaign speeches, Walker had opposed raising subway and bus fares.)

  • That the mayor “knew nothing” of the bank account of Russell T. Sherwood, the missing auditor, who was wrongly called his “financial agent.”

  • That the “beneficences” he received in the form of stock account profits from Paul Block “were not given for an improper consideration.”

  • That the mayor “testified fully” before the Hofstadter committee.

  Walker underscored his popularity and criticized Judge Seabury’s own electoral campaigns in the past. He was a master at talking directly to the emotions of the average New Yorker and—in a presidential election year—to an even wider constituency, if possible.

  “Mr. Seabury would set up his opinion of my fitness for the office of Mayor as against the decision of 867,522 citizens who did me the honor of voting for me in the last City election, representing a plurality victory of 499,847 votes. Judge Seabury’s own repudiation at the polls in 1916, when a candidate for Governor, probably explains his loss of confidence in popular elections. This distrust that he manifests for popular government he wants you to assume and, in spite of the votes of the people who supported me, to remove me from office.”