by John Buntin
Wallace’s interviews looked spontaneous, but in fact, Wallace and his production team deliberately shaped each interview into a dramatic encounter. The responsibility for researching guests and preparing a “script” of likely questions and probable answers fell to Wallace’s researcher, Al Ramrus. Ramrus typically started by calling retired journalist Bill Lang, who maintained his own personal “morgue” of newspaper articles on a remarkable variety of subjects. Ramrus then checked out the three major newsweeklies—Time, Newsweek, and Life—at Hunter College and, in the case of performers, the film and theatrical division of the New York Public Library. Finally, he did a preinterview with the guest. Afterward, he drew up the “script” for Wallace. Of course, it wasn’t a real script in the sense that a program like Dragnet was scripted. Wallace often kept the toughest questions to himself so that guests, lulled into complacency by the preinterview, would be caught off guard. Guests sometimes changed their answers. In general, though, most programs played out as Ramrus indicated they would.
Cohen presented special challenges from the start. Lang’s New York-centric newspaper morgue didn’t have much on Mickey, and Ramrus didn’t have access to a West Coast newspaper morgue. While the national newsweeklies had plenty on Mickey during his “vicecapades” period and immediately afterward, they were sketchier on his recent activities. Nor did Ramrus have much success in talking with Cohen’s associates in crime. When he reached Bugsy Siegel’s ex-mistress Virginia Hill in Switzerland, Hill told him she didn’t know the man.
Then there was the problem of dealing with Mickey himself.
When Ramrus contacted Mickey in Los Angeles, Cohen wasn’t exactly up to speed on what a media sensation Mike Wallace had become. However, at the coaxing of the Graham camp, he eventually agreed to sit down with Wallace during his trip to New York for the campaign. Cohen let Ramrus know that in doing so he was taking a big risk. New York was full of enemies. Cohen would travel under an alias—Mr. Dunn. Ramrus himself would need to meet him at the airport—in a limo—and then take him to his hotel; the luxurious Essex House would be fine. The entire operation would have to be hush-hush. With some trepidation, Ramrus agreed to these arrangements.
On the night of May 2, 1957, Cohen’s reason for caution became abundantly clear. That evening, a burly ex-boxer named Vincent “Chin” Gigante walked into the foyer of the Majestic Apartments at 115 Central Park West and followed its most famous resident, Manhattan crime boss Frank Costello (widely known in criminal and law enforcement circles as “the prime minister of the underworld”) toward the elevator. As Costello was preparing to enter it, Gigante whipped out a .38 caliber pistol, yelled, “This is for you, Frank!” and shot Costello in the temple at what appeared to be point-blank range. As Costello fell to the ground, Gigante ran past the horrified doorman and leapt into a black Cadillac idling outside, which then sped away. Astonishingly, Costello lived. Startled by Gigante’s cry, he had jerked away at the last moment, and the bullet had merely grazed his scalp. But the underworld was badly shaken. So, no doubt, was Ramrus. He would now be risking his life by stepping into the free-fire zone around Mickey Cohen.
WHEN COHEN FLEW into Idlewild Airport, Ramrus and the limousine Mickey had requested were there to meet him. Ramrus was nervous. He was relying on an old photo to spot the notorious gangster. To complicate things further, Ramrus had been informed that Cohen would be traveling “incognito.” What that meant Ramrus could hardly guess. Moreover, Ramrus had been warned that if and when he did identify Cohen, he was under no circumstances to greet the former gangster as “Mr. Cohen” or—heaven forbid—“Mickey.” Ramrus was eager not to make that mistake. On the drive from Manhattan out to Idlewild, Ramrus repeated Mickey’s cover name over and over: “Mr. Dunn, Mr. Dunn.” Worriedly, Ramrus awaited the arrival of the Los Angeles flight. Anxiously, he scanned the arriving passengers for the disguised gangster. Finally, a short little man dressed “in a garment district kind of way”—pudgy, broken nose, balding, “a tough little face”—walked off the jetway. It was Mickey Cohen. He was accompanied also by a far tougher looking traveling companion, whom Cohen identified only as “Itchy.” Nervously, Ramrus approached the traveling duo.
“Um, Mr. Dunn?” he said. “Hi. Mr. Dunn?”
Cohen gave him a look that made it clear he took Ramrus for some kind of dunderhead.
“I’m Mickey Cohen, kid,” he replied, in a distinctly audible tone. With that the three of them were off to the Essex House on Central Park South. Ramrus had booked a one-room suite there for Mickey’s use. But when Cohen arrived, he took one look at the (smallish) bathroom and declared, “This ain’t gonna do.” Panicky lest his odd guest depart, Ramrus rushed down to the lobby and secured a larger suite for Cohen, which met with his grumbling approval.
One task remained—conducting the preinterview. “Listen,” Ramrus said, pleadingly, as Cohen and his henchman ushered him out of their room. “I need to talk to you before the interview.”
“Come up later tonight, and we’ll talk,” Mickey replied amiably.
Ramrus returned several hours later—to a wild party. The suite was jammed with friends of Cohen, male and female, some of whom Ramrus recognized as fixtures of the New York and New Jersey underworlds. Mickey himself seemed to have secured the attention of “a young blonde girl,” though, truth be told, he seemed more interested in the pineapple cheesecake from Lindy’s, the famous showbiz deli on Broadway. Ramrus could see his point. The blonde looked tasty, but the cheesecake was scrumptious. Cohen waved Ramrus over. They could do the preinterview then and there, Cohen told him. Ramrus had never attempted to interview a guest in a room full of broads, wiseguys, smoke, and cheesecake, but it was clear that there was no point arguing with Cohen. So he did his best—and ate as much of the cheesecake as he could. The next day he turned over the material he had gathered to Mike Wallace. The Cohen interview was in Wallace’s hands.
The next evening, on Sunday, May 19, Cohen presented himself at the ABC studios. The half-hour interview was broadcast live, with no delay. That left Wallace with no margin for error.
The interview started slowly. Wallace pressed Cohen about his “friendliness” with Billy Graham. Mickey was reticent—and somewhat incoherent. (“I just hope and feel the feeling is likewise between Billy and I.”) Things picked up when Wallace turned to Cohen’s criminal background. When Cohen piously claimed that he’d never been involved in drugs or prostitution, Wallace pressed him about the criminal activities he clearly had been involved with:
Wallace: Yet, you’ve made book, you have bootlegged. Most important of all, you’ve broken one of the commandments—you’ve killed, Mickey. How can you be proud of not dealing in prostitution and narcotics when you’ve killed at least one man, or how many more? How many more, Mickey?
Cohen: I have killed no men that in the first place didn’t deserve killing.
Wallace: By whose standards?
Cohen: By the standards of our way of life.
Wallace was pleased with how the interview was going. But when he urged Cohen to name the politicians whom Cohen had paid off, Mickey once again balked.
“That is not my way of life, Mike,” Cohen replied firmly.
Then Wallace asked him about the LAPD. It was as if Wallace had touched Cohen with a hot iron. Suddenly, Mickey erupted. Police harassment was making it impossible for him to run his floral business, and Mickey made it clear whom he blamed.
“I have a police chief in Los Angeles who happens to be a sadistic degenerate,” he said provocatively, before wandering to other topics. Wallace picked up on the statement and returned to the subject of the “apparently respectable” Chief Parker a few minutes later.
“Now, Mick,” began Wallace, “without naming names, how far up in the brass do you have to bribe the cops to carry on a big-time bookmaking operation?”
“I’m going to give him much to bring a libel suit against me,” replied the fuming florist. He then named Chief Parker. “He’s nothing but a
thief that has been—a reformed thief.
“This man here is as dishonest politically as the worst thief that accepts money for payoffs,” Cohen continued. “He is a known alcoholic. He’s been disgusting. He’s a known degenerate. In other words, he’s a sadistic degenerate of the worst type…. He has a man underneath him that is on an equal basis with him.”
Wallace interrupted to ask the name of this underling. After being asked several times, Mickey finally answered the question. “His name,” snarled Cohen, “is Captain James Hamilton, and he’s probably a lower degenerate than Parker.” Cohen described the intelligence division as the head of “what I call the stupidity squad.”
Caught up in the excitement of the moment, Wallace pressed Mickey to expand upon his charges against “the apparently respectable Chief William Parker”: “Well, Mickey, you’re a reformed thief just as he’s a reformed thief. Isn’t it the pot calling the kettle black?”
Cohen scowled at this description before the conversation moved on to other subjects.
AFTER THE INTERVIEW was concluded, everyone agreed it had been an astonishing performance. Cohen had been raw, exciting, and revelatory. He had admitted on the air to killing people, to grossing anywhere from $200,000 to $650,000 a day through illegal bookmaking and gambling operations, to securing protection from someone “higher than the mayor of chief of police.” Ramrus and the other people on set were excited about having pulled off such a dramatic interview. The feeling of euphoria didn’t last long.
Mickey Cohen wasn’t the only Angeleno in New York City that May 19. It just so happened that LAPD intelligence head James Hamilton was also visiting Gotham. (Parker would later deny sending him east to shadow Cohen, insisting instead that his intelligence head was in New York on vacation.) Hamilton tuned in to the evening broadcast. What he saw appalled him. The American Broadcasting Company was allowing—no, encouraging—Mickey Cohen, a known criminal, to slander Chief Parker and himself on national television. Moreover, despite concluding the interview with a statement that Cohen’s views on the LAPD were exclusively his own, Mike Wallace had made comments that seemed to endorse Mickey Cohen’s assessment of the police. An angry Hamilton immediately called Chief Parker in Los Angeles to tell him what was happening. He also called ABC to deliver a warning: Pull the program from your Los Angeles station or prepare to be sued.
The Mike Wallace Interview was scheduled to air on the West Coast in less than three hours. ABC had only a short interval of time during which to make a decision. Executives immediately contacted Wallace producer Ted Yates, who in turn told Wallace about the problem they’d run into. Together, Yates and Wallace hurried over to Cohen’s suite at the Essex House to confer with him about Hamilton’s threats. Mickey had just stepped out of the shower. He greeted his visitors calmly, clad in nothing but a towel.
Wallace and Yates explained their problem as Cohen listened calmly. At the end of their presentation, Cohen made his pronouncement.
“Mike, Ted, forget it,” he said decisively. “Parker knows that I know so much about him, he wouldn’t dare sue.” So instead, the producers called Parker in Los Angeles and invited him to come on the show next week to defend himself. Parker indignantly refused, saying he had no intention of debating “an irresponsible character like Cohen.” He further warned ABC that if it proceeded with airing the show on the West Coast, it would open itself up to charges of criminal slander. The network disregarded this warning. Instead, a few hours later, Wallace’s interview with Cohen aired on the West Coast. At a news conference the next day, Chief Parker announced that he and Captain Hamilton were considering a lawsuit against ABC.
Cohen was unfazed. Soon after the interview with Wallace, Cohen went on the WINS radio station. There he repeated his charges and dared Parker to file suit. Executives at ABC were more worried. Unlike Mickey Cohen, ABC possessed legitimate income and assets, and Cohen’s vituperative comments looked rather shaky in the light of day. The next day ABC offered its “sincere apologies for any personal distress resulting from this telecast.” It also decided to withhold the show from the handful of stations that had not yet aired it. Parker was not mollified. He, Hamilton, and ex-mayor Fletcher Bowron responded that they would continue to explore their legal options.
A week later, ABC vice president Oliver Treyz went on the air. With a chastened Wallace standing by his side, Treyz allowed as to how something “profoundly regrettable occurred while Mr. Wallace was questioning Mickey Cohen.” ABC, he continued, “retracts and withdraws in full all statements made on last Sunday’s program concerning the Los Angeles city government, and specifically, Chief William H. Parker.”
ABC’s apology did little to assuage the anger of Parker’s supporters. From Washington, D.C., Senate investigations subcommittee staff director Robert Kennedy delivered a stinging rebuke to ABC.
“Gentlemen,” the letter began.
A week ago Sunday, I watched the Mike Wallace show and his guest, Mickey Cohen. I was deeply disturbed.
In the investigation that this Committee has been conducting, we have to work closely with police departments throughout the country. I want to say that no department has been more cooperative or has impressed us more with its efficiency, thoroughness and honesty than Mr. Parker’s in Los Angeles.
Although I do not have a transcript here in Washington, it was my impression that Mike Wallace urged Mickey Cohen to name Captain Hamilton as a degenerate. In my estimation, I would consider Captain Hamilton as the best police officer we have worked with since our investigation began….
To allow such serious and unsubstantiated charges to be made on nationwide television is grossly unfair and unjust.
Very truly yours,
Robert Kennedy
Chief Counsel
Cohen was enraged by ABC’s backtracking. From Los Angeles, he issued a statement of his own: “Any retraction made by those spineless persons in regard to the television show I appeared on with Mike Wallace on A.B.C. network does not go for me.” Implicit in this response was a challenge—sue if you dare.
Parker dared. On July 8, he sued ABC, Mike Wallace, and The Mike Wallace Interview’s sponsors for $2 million. (Captain Hamilton and former mayor Fletcher Bowron also filed million-dollar libel lawsuits.) He did not file suit against Cohen, on the grounds that Mickey claimed to have no assets and was already deeply indebted to the federal government. ABC’s attorneys sought out Mickey, hoping to discover some substance that would support his allegations. But now that ABC was calling on Cohen to show his hand, Mickey abruptly folded. Later, he would mutter only that he’d had incriminating information about Parker pinching a prostitute’s ass on a yacht during a policing convention in Miami. Even if this were true, it hardly established that Parker was a bagman for the Shaws in the 1930s. ABC’s attorneys realized that it was time to seek a settlement.
COHEN, meanwhile, was dealing with another problem: the wrath of his coreligionists. Ever since the idea had surfaced in the press that Cohen would convert to Christianity, Jews from across the country had been calling Michael’s Greenhouses to urge Mickey against betraying his people. On the evening of Wednesday, May 22, Cohen attended the Graham campaign. But he did not come forward to be harvested for Christ, meeting privately instead with W. C. Jones and Jimmy Vaus after the rally. The meeting reportedly was stormy. Jones berated Mickey for continuing to associate with his gangster friends. Cohen responded by angrily declaring, “If I have to give up my friends to be a Christian, I’m pulling out. I renounce it right now.” Then he stormed out. With that, Mickey’s Manhattan adventure came to an end.
Just days after his anticlimactic appearance at Madison Square Garden, Cohen was served with a subpoena by the FBI and flown to Chicago, where he was forced to testify at the trial of Outfit leader Paul Ricca, whom federal authorities were attempting to deport to Italy. Cohen had nothing to say. While he was more than ready to talk about himself, the old taciturnity reasserted itself when the topic turned to other gangsters. Eve
rywhere he went, Cohen was shadowed by officers of the LAPD intelligence division. But Cohen professed to have nothing but scorn for Chief Parker’s efforts to shadow and intimidate him. When, at some point the evening before his flight back to Los Angeles, Mickey slipped his LAPD security detail, he personally telegrammed Chief Parker to inform him of his flight number and arrival time in L.A. It was Cohen’s personal little “fuck you.”
MICKEY arrived back in Los Angeles in late May. In an attempt to stem the tide of bad news, he immediately announced that Ben Hecht had begun work on his life story, now titled The Soul of a Gunman. It was clear that Mickey intended to do everything he could to continue his PR blitz (despite a report from Walter Winchell that Cohen’s compatriots in the underworld were getting fed up with Mickey “The Louse” Cohen’s clamoring for public attention). But back in L.A., Cohen found that an unpleasant new reality awaited him. Where previously Mickey had been shadowed, he was now actively harassed. His first weekend back, two alert patrolmen saw Cohen stop his car at the corner of Santa Monica Boulevard and Western and walk over to a newsstand to buy a paper. A line of cars behind him started honking as the light changed. So the two officers went over and gave him a ticket. Cohen protested that he’d simply stopped behind a stalled car and stepped out to get a paper while the lady in the car in front of him tried to restart her engine. He refused to sign the citation. So the two officers hauled him in and booked him, on charges of causing a traffic jam. Cohen vowed to fight the charges.
“They can’t get away with stuff like this,” he fumed to the reporters who had rushed over when they heard that Cohen had been arrested (in riding breeches and full equestrian attire). “This is some more of Bill Parker’s stuff.”
