He didn't even need public opinion any more.
"That's a slender reed to lean on," Al Smith had said. Now Robert Moses had something more solid: the firm, precise, unbreakable covenants of the bond resolutions.
Robert Moses still had all his old, immense, popularity. But were he, one day, to lose that popularity, the loss would no longer be nearly as disastrous as it would have been in the past. For no one—not the people, not the people's elected representatives, not the people's courts—could change those covenants.
The institution over which Robert Moses had waved his magic wand was one uniquely suited to be the fairy princess that would bring his dreams to life. It dovetailed neatly with his philosophy and personality.
Moses was driven by the need for tangible, indisputable evidence of accomplishment and achievement—evidence such as a public improvement. He was driven by a need to build. Building—building a public improvement —was an authority's primary function; apart from operating and maintaining that improvement, its only function.
Moses had what amounted almost to a horror of ceasing to build; of finishing a bridge, say, and then having nothing to do thereafter but keep it clean and collect tolls on it, of being forced, as he put it, "to be a caretaker, to have nothing to do but sit around and collect nickels and dimes for the rest of my life." If an authority ceased to build, it would die; if all it did was collect tolls, the tolls would pay off its bonds and when the bonds were paid off it would have no choice but to go out of existence. Only by continually embarking on new projects—which would require new bond issues—could an authority remain viable.
Moses' vision was on a scale so grand that it transcended the tangled network of boundary lines of the 1,400 cities, boroughs, counties, townships, villages, sewer districts, fire districts, police districts, water districts in the New York metropolitan area. As he had once seen Long Island entire, now he saw the metropolitan region as a single whole, and as he had once wanted to shape the whole Island, now he wanted to shape the whole region. Of all the region's governmental institutions, only an authority could transcend those boundary lines. The jurisdiction of every one of the 1,400 governmental units ended at that unit's borders, and any attempt by one of them to initiate a development which crossed its borders was jealously—and, invariably, successfully—resisted by its neighbor. The sacred right to "home rule" could not be tampered with even by a county; only by obtaining the consent of every incorporated hamlet that would be crossed by a proposed highway could the Board of Supervisors of Nassau or Suffolk or Westchester County build one. Even the state government violated "home rule" only at its peril. Only an authority could with impunity build a project across or through several jurisdictions.
Moses' methods of Getting Things Done were dictatorial, peremptory, arbitrary, arrogant—"authoritarian," an observer addicted to puns might conclude. An official of a conventional governmental agency had difficulty in employing such methods. An official of an authority did not. Many of the restrictions which gave the public recourse from the decisions of old-line agencies did not even exist for public authorities. The symbol was the public hearing, the exemplification of everything Moses detested about normal democratic processes. Under law and custom, conventional governmental agencies could not embark on any large-scale public improvement without holding public hearings. An authority could.
Moses' methods—the methods with which he swayed politicians to his side—required secrecy. An authority gave him secrecy, for unlike the records of conventional governmental agencies, which were public, subject always to inspection, an authority's records were corporate records, as private as those of a private corporation.
Moses' image—the image he had so painstakingly cultivated—was precious to him, not only because it helped him achieve and accomplish, but because of reasons rooted in the murky depths of his personality. The image could not help being reinforced by his identification with public authorities, for public authorities had the same image.
The image was of the totally unselfish and altruistic public servant who wanted nothing for himself but the chance to serve. A key element in it was his disdain for money—a disdain which he made certain was well publicized and which was symbolized by his refusal to accept a salary for his services. Authority officials were traditionally unsalaried (the tradition had begun in England, where it had been believed that authorities would get better officials —men above polities—if they were not paid), and Moses had eagerly followed the tradition with his authorities—and had made certain that the public knew he was serving as authority chairman "without compensation."
The image was of the fearless independent above politics. The public
believed authorities—entities outside the normal governmental setup, entities whose members were unsalaried and appointed to terms long enough in theory to insure their independence from politicians—to be "nonpolitical."
The image was of the relentless foe of bureaucrats, the dynamic slasher of red tape. A key rationale for the creation of authorities was their freedom from the red tape involved in old-line governmental agencies and their ability to function freely and efficiently because they were established outside the governmental bureaucracies.
The image was of the man who Got Things Done, who produced for the public tangible, visible, dramatic achievements. The great bridges, tunnels and piers created by authorities were tangible, highly visible monuments to their achievements.
In short, Moses had discovered a governmental institution that was not only uniquely suited to his purposes but was, in institutional terms, an embodiment of his personality, an extension of himself. "An institution," said Ralph Waldo Emerson, "is the lengthened shadow of one man." The institution named "the public authority" was, in the form it took after Moses' eyes focused on it in 1937 and 1938, the lengthened shadow of Robert Moses.
He himself seemed to understand this. His remarks and, sometimes, his published statements, reveal a striking identification of himself with authorities, which he defined as "nonpolitical" organizations headed by "unsalaried" trustees in which "the speed, flexibility and absence of red tape, traditionally associated with private industry," could be used for public purposes. Composing the introduction to a brochure—expensively bound, wide-margined, printed in full color on paper of a weight and sheen suitable for an invitation to a royal wedding—that he issued in 1941 to mark the fifth anniversary of the opening of the Triborough Bridge, he wrote:
If I may be permitted a personal note, I would say that it has long been a cherished ambition of mine to weave together the loose strands and frayed edges of the New York metropolitan arterial tapestry. . . . The Triborough Bridge Authority has provided the warp on the metropolitan loom, the heavier threads across which the lighter ones are woven.
"The warp on the loom": the public authority, this new institution—new at least to America—at whose birth he had been present, to which he had served as prescient nursemaid and which he, more than any other individual, had raised to a maturity consonant with a major role on America's urban scene, would be the vehicle which would make his dreams come true.
A series of decisions Robert Moses took in 1937 symbolized his realization of this fact.
Two were financial. Previously, realizing that his dreams would never be funded by state and city governments, he had, through intricate and ingenious financial devices, arranged wherever possible to have revenues collected by the state commission and city department he headed paid not into state and city treasuries but into special "revolving funds" that in effect let him add them to the regular commission and department budgets. Now,
in another series of maneuvers, he circumvented his circumventions—and when he had finished, the revenues of the Jones Beach parking fields no longer went to the Long Island State Park Commission but to the Jones Beach State Parkway Authority, and the revenues of the Jacob Riis Park parking field went not to the City Park Department but to the Marine Parkway Authority. He still had the m
oney to spend—but now he could spend it through the authorities.
One was physical. Previously, he had had four offices: the State Council of Parks office at 80 Centre Street; the Long Island State Park Commission's offices at Belmont Lake State Park; 270 Broadway (the New York State Office Building), selected for its proximity to City Hall; and his nominal office in the headquarters of the New York City Park Department in the Arsenal in Central Park.
Four might have seemed adequate, but now he built a fifth, and told his aides it would be "the main office from now on." And this office was located on Randall's Island.
Geographically, Randall's Island was near the center of New York, but the water which surrounded it was a moat which separated it from the rest of the city. Moses' "amendments" to the Triborough Act made that separation more than physical. No inhabitant of the city could use the lawns or stadium or other facilities on Randall's Island—could even drive across it—without paying the Triborough Bridge Authority a tribute in coin, a tribute which Moses exacted from even the highest city officials, generally refusing to give free bridge passes even to borough presidents and sometimes, angry at La Guardia, withholding them from the Mayor. Once on the island, visitors were subject not to the city's laws but to Triborough's—Authority rules and regulations enforced by Triborough's Bridge and Tunnel Officers. Moses' decision to build his main office there was, intentionally or not, symbolic of his independence of the city.
If, moreover, Moses' authorities were becoming an independent empire, the heart's blood of that empire was money: tolls. The bulk of those tolls were collected at the huge Triborough Bridge toll plaza. If the empire had a heart, that was it. Moses built his new office in the very shadow of that toll plaza.
Not only the location of Moses' headquarters but its height was symbolic. Although the squat, gray three-story structure was built directly adjacent to the Triborough toll plaza, its roof was just enough below that plaza so that the building could not be seen by drivers on the plaza or on the bridge roadway. Although tens of thousands of drivers used the bridge day after day, year after year, none but a handful ever realized that there was an office building there. Moses' headquarters was concealed almost completely from public view.
He no longer needed the support of the city's mayor—and he wasted little time letting him know it. Exactly one month after La Guardia, on the
strength of his trust in Moses' earnest representations, had assured Governor Lehman that the city was retaining ample control over Moses' authorities, thereby persuading the Governor to sign one of Moses' new authority bills, a dispute arose over the Authority's hiring practices, and Moses wrote the Mayor, "It is silly to force a court test of such a matter, but I shall have to take this up with attorneys for the bondholders and with the trustees unless the matter is adjusted."
The Mayor thought he knew how to handle so outrageous an attempt at intimidation. "Now, there is one matter I want to make absolutely clear," he replied.
The Authority bondholders have absolutely nothing to say and have no control over purely administrative matters of the City of New York. So, don't talk about a court test on such matters or taking up anything of this nature with the Authority's attorneys or the stockholders. The Mayor establishes the policy for the City as well as the selection of the commissioners of the Authorities, and the Authority bondholders have absolutely nothing to say from the Commissioner down to the last line of attendants. You are a city official and will take matters up with the Corporation Counsel of the City of New York and not with "attorneys for the bondholders."
Moses' reply was more succinct. "I think you had better read the agreements and contracts," he wrote.
As poor Trubee Davison had done years before, Fiorello La Guardia sat down, too late, to study documents drawn up by Robert Moses which he had approved because he had relied on Moses' word as to what was in them. Then he called in his legal advisers to read them.
"Well, that was the day of the great awakening," recalls Windels, who, having resigned as Corporation Counsel, had not previously seen Moses' "amendments." He and Reuben Lazarus told the Mayor that, as Windels was to put it, "of course, under the bond resolution, the Authority did have the power to employ its own counsel, and it had all these enormous other powers as well." The Mayor, of course, had powers, too. On some of his authorities Moses served ex officio because he was the City Park Commissioner. The Mayor could fire Moses as Park Commissioner, and thereby divest him simultaneously of his membership on those authorities. But this power existed in theory only; political realities made it meaningless. Remove him from the authority undertaking the Rockaway Improvement and he might use his influence with the State Legislature to have state funds cut off from the state-financed part of the project, the Atlantic Avenue grade elimination; the Legislature had agreed to finance the elimination in the first place only because he was heading both city and state agencies involved. The city had no funds to further the work itself; it would have to remain uncompleted; Atlantic Avenue, already torn up, would remain a three-mile-long stretch of rubble. La Guardia would find himself in the same untenable position in which President Roosevelt had found himself when he had attempted to oust Moses as head of another authority—that of sacrificing a great public improvement for the sake of personal revenge on a faithful and immensely popular public servant. La Guardia might, of
let that the u not personal. e
public understand that public authorities d
00 much But the Ma ; >nly too well aware of e
(utility rf attempting to explain the technicalities of bond resolution c -
I to an electorate that idolized the Man Who Got Things Done.
More important, while the Mayor could remove Moses from some i-thoritief, he could not remove him from the Triborough Authority—he d no charge! of ipecific wrongdoing to bring against him—until his term exp j in three years. During those three years. M would still have imnu e
powers in the city. He would still be in charge of huge public works bt g constructed within the city's border g an open enemy of M s
would lead to an immensely embarrassing situation, a situation, wh moreover, would continue to be embar for what was, in poli 1
terms, a lifetime.
And these considerations combined with the others that always h -strung La Guardia in his dealings with M nmense popula ;
Moses' immense influence with a Governor and State Legislature f ] whom the Mayor constantly needed fav< ability to ram thn i
the great public works the Mayor, as sculptor of metropolis, despera y wanted rammed through. La Guardia knew th mid ram
through—scandal-free and in time for the next election. With good rea . he doubted if anyone else could. The powers that the Mayor possessed < r Moses' authorities in theory he did not possess in practice. Political real s gave him no choice but to allow Moses to remain at their head. And e knew it.
Moses knew it, too. After reading the bond agreements and contn . La Guardia dropped all further discussion of the authorities' powers. Mi s never raised the matter again. But thereafter he treated La Guardia no 5 his superior but as an equal. In the areas o transportation and recreat . Robert Moses, who had never been elected b the people of the city to y office, was henceforth to have at least as much of a voice in determit g the city's future as any official the people had elected—including the Ma .
reception was chilling; RFC Chairman Jesse Jones said that, cousin on the Tunnel Authority or no, he would not consider sinking a cent more than $39,000,000 in another New York tunnel; Ickes, from whom the Mayor attempted to raise the balance as an outright PWA grant, said that New York's share of PWA funds was already so disproportionate that he would not give the city more than $5,000,000 for any purpose. And when La Guardia raised the subject of money with the only other source he could think of—Robert Moses—the chill over the whole situation turned to ice. For while Moses told the Mayor that the Triborough Bridge Authority did indeed have money to spare—to t
he Mayor's utter astonishment, Tribor-ough's chairman revealed that the Authority could, by capitalizing its surpluses, raise immediately more than $30,000,000—and was willing to use that money for the circumferential project, he also told the Mayor there would be a price for its use: the Mayor would have to allow him to do what two years earlier he had prevented him from doing. He would have to allow him to take over the Tunnel Authority.
To a man who valued power as highly as did La Guardia, the price— which would give Moses a monopoly over all new intracity water crossings, tunnels as well as bridges—was outrageously steep. In his files can be found a memorandum from Moses giving details. Across it is scrawled, in huge letters in the Mayor's handwriting, a single word: LOUSY!
But the Mayor found that, if he wanted to build the great project, he had no choice but to pay that price. Repeated pleas to Ickes won from the Old Curmudgeon one concession—the PWA had previously approved grants for $7,000,000 for New York schools and hospitals on which construction had not yet begun; if La Guardia so desired, Ickes said, he was welcome to use that money for the tunnel instead. But the limit on new PWA contributions remained firm at $5,000,000, so the PWA's contribution would total only an inadequate $12,000,000. Trekking back and forth to Washington, Stetson in hand, La Guardia told the RFC the city would somehow scrape up a few millions to provide a greater margin of safety for tunnel bonds, but this persuaded the RFC to raise the amount it would buy only from $39,000,000 to $43,000,000. With the total federal contribution thus frozen at $55,000,000, the Mayor could see no way to a thaw. He appears for a time to have contemplated building only the tunnel and highway, hoping that when Moses saw the rest of the bypass going ahead, his passion to complete it would persuade him to build the parkway with Triborough money, but the tunnel and highway alone cost $77,000,000, $19,000,000 more than he could raise. La Guardia then contemplated delaying the project until the Queens-Midtown was open and earning, but that opening was two years away—by that time, the way things were going in Washington, the PWA might no longer have any money to give. The Mayor explored the possibility of making Moses—through legislative or some other action— contribute the Triborough surpluses, but found that plan balked by the unalterable bond covenants. Trapped between his dreams for the city and the city's utter inability to pay for them, he had no choice. If he wanted New York to have the great belt system, he would have to hand over to
The power broker : Robert Moses and the fall of New York Page 97
