Capone

by Laurence Bergreen

  As the rhetoric dazzled the public, private discussions proved more revealing of the extent of Capone’s involvement in the election. Shortly before the primary, Judge Lyle encountered Tony Cermak, the likely Democratic candidate, at a wake.

  “Notice anything strange about that fellow?” Cermak asked him afterward, meaning the corpse.

  “I think he was wearing a wig,” Lyle said.

  “Shotgun slugs took off the top of his head,” Cermak explained. “He used to work for the Genna brothers. Then he went out on his own as an alcohol cooker. He killed two Capone men who had been assigned to kill him.”

  Lyle considered this information and demanded that Cermak, his former boxing partner, get to the point.

  “John,” Cermak told him, “you were put on the spot at that wake. You were pointed out to at least eight members of the Mafia. They’re scheming to kill you. . . . My man says the Capone . . . leaders have been meeting to discuss what to do about you. They know the straw votes show you running ahead of Thompson 4 to 1 and in some places 8 to 1. They don’t want you nominated because they know that if you’re elected you’ll run ’em out of town.” Cermak advised Lyle not to travel anywhere without a full complement of bodyguards and expressed the hope that Lyle would defeat Thompson in the primary. Of the Capone organization, Cermak confided, “They don’t know how I feel about them. I think I can get some support from the mob in the campaign. I’ll take it. But after the election I’ll boot them out of town.”

  Lyle was astonished by Cermak’s remarks. First he had threatened the judge, then he had denounced Capone, and finally he had implied he had formed a secret alliance with Capone. “In effect he was announcing his intention to double-cross the Capone mob,” Lyle realized. “It was, I reflected, a dangerous game to play with cutthroats.”

  Despite Cermak’s prediction of a Lyle victory, Thompson swept the primary, much to Capone’s relief. The victory demonstrated that “Big Bill” Thompson and by extension Al Capone remained the dominant power in Chicago’s Republican machine, but at the same time the prospect of Thompson’s infesting City Hall for four more years inspired fresh public scrutiny of his racketeering affiliations. On that point, at least, the defeated Judge Lyle had been absolutely correct. And because the notorious Al Capone was involved, an obscure primary election in the American Midwest attracted not just national but international attention. Hours after declaring victory, Thompson was on the phone with the London Daily Express, defending his record, claiming he had nothing to do with Capone, in short, lying. It was all “newspaper talk,” he declared. “I don’t know anything about Al Capone. . . . I don’t know where you folks get that stuff, but I can tell you that the statistics published by the United States Government show that there are only sixty-eight other cities in this country with a population of more than one hundred thousand that have less crime than Chicago.” Did that make everything perfectly confused? If so, Thompson was happy.

  With his defeat, Judge Lyle’s effort to “get Capone,” which had always been driven more by publicity and emotion than by logic or the law, ground to a halt. The vagrancy case on which the judge had staked his reputation as a gangbuster (“Capone deserves to die like a reptile”) was quietly dropped because the assistant state’s attorney claimed he “was unable to find any policemen who would give evidence of illegal activities of Al Capone, public enemy No. 1, within the last 18 months.”

  Then there was the matter of the summons for Capone’s arrest. As the city went to the polls to vote in the primary, Capone appeared before Federal Judge James J. Wilkerson to face a charge of contempt of court. The accusation stemmed from Capone’s ignoring a subpoena in March 1929, shortly after the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, to appear before a grand jury in Chicago. At the time, Capone claimed that he was suffering from pneumonia and was too weak to travel all the way from Miami to Florida. The FBI subsequently gathered over a dozen affidavits from witnesses who saw Capone enjoying himself in Miami at the time he claimed to be deathly ill. The contempt trial was set for February 24, the day of the primary.

  Appearing on the steps of the Federal Building in a conservative blue suit, spats, the inevitable pearl-gray fedora, and a gold watch chain studded with countless diamonds stretching across his vest, Capone appeared preoccupied with politics. “The election?” he remarked, “I was the goat, but Judge Lyle made me look silly when he said I put up $150,000 for the mayor’s campaign.” Then he turned to the subject of his autobiography, claiming that someone—he did not say who—had bid $2 million for his life’s story, including “moving picture rights, serial rights and book rights.” However, he maintained that he refused the offer; he was not going into “the literary business” even at that price because, he said, “that would be cutting in on the work of the boys who are writing about me.” As for the Pasley biography, he said he’d read the first ten pages and decided the book was “about someone else,” not Al Capone. “I don’t belong in this book anymore than I belong in a book by Horatio Alger.”

  Concluding his diverting, if daft, remarks, Capone exchanged the early spring sunshine for the gloom of Judge Wilkerson’s courtroom, where the racketeer, in the words of the Tribune, “settled his porcine bulk—235 pounds—in his chair at the counsel table and presented the complacency of a milk fattened shoat lolling in a mud puddle.” To Capone and his lawyers, Nash and Ahern, this court date was a minor matter, a legal skirmish with no real consequences. They could not have been more mistaken, for James H. Wilkerson was a federal judge; unlike Lyle, he was not running for mayor, and he was not subject to Capone’s usual manipulation. He was determined to teach the racketeer a lesson about the federal courts. Adding to the intensity of the confrontation was the expectation that if and when Capone was indicted for income tax evasion he would be tried in Judge Wilkerson’s courtroom, and as a result Wilkerson inflated this initial encounter between gangster and magistrate into a dress rehearsal for the day of reckoning.

  One by one, the government’s witnesses told the court of seeing Capone in various locales throughout Miami, everywhere except at home, in bed, where he said he had been. As the hearing continued, it became apparent that Capone had in fact suffered from pneumonia; the only problem was that he’d been sick about six weeks earlier than he claimed and had exaggerated the length of his convalescence to dodge the subpoena. The hearing began on a Tuesday, and by Friday Judge Wilkerson was prepared to make his ruling. Summarizing the government’s case, he said, “The evidence shows . . . frequent attendance at the race tracks; it shows a trip in an airplane; it shows a boat trip, and taking all of the evidence it is perfectly clear that at least after the 2nd of February [1929] it could not be truthfully stated that the respondent [Capone] was confined to his bed.” Convinced that Capone had lied, Wilkerson proceeded to lecture him that he was not in a municipal courtroom this time, where he was able to bribe and intimidate everyone from the judge down to bailiffs; he was now in a federal court. “Now the Court deals with litigants, with witnesses, with jurors in only one way,” Wilkerson explained, “and that is through the process of Court. . . . It is to be respected, it is to be obeyed, it is not to be trifled with, it is not to be flaunted; and . . . when an attempt is made to interfere with the execution of the process of the Court, when an appeal is made to the Court to relieve a party from obedience to the process of the Court, the Court is entitled to the fullest, the fairest and most complete disclosure of all the facts.” As Wilkerson’s words reverberated throughout the courtroom, Capone, who had been placid during the week’s proceedings, anxiously fidgeted in his chair, and he appeared to be startled when the judge, to the surprise of no one, pronounced Public Enemy Number 1 guilty as charged.

  Silence fell across the courtroom. “And as punishment for the contempt,” the judge continued, “the respondent shall be confined to the Cook County Jail for a period of six months.” No sooner had the judge pronounced what he intended to be a harsh sentence that would make an example of Capone than the g
uilty party leaned back in his chair and smiled, and as the grin spread across his face it became apparent that he was chewing gum, for he realized that a sentence of six months was no sentence at all. His lawyers would appeal the ruling, he would post bail—$5,000 or some other inconsequential amount—and he would never see the inside of the Cook County Jail. For all his lecturing and his reliance on the powers of the federal court, Wilkerson had revealed himself to be a paper tiger, at least in Capone’s estimation.

  As he left the court, Capone was surrounded by reporters demanding to know how he felt about the onerous sentence the judge had just pronounced. Summoning a gravity appropriate to the situation, he said, “If the judge thinks it’s correct, he ought to know. You can’t overrule the judge.” Al went straight to the Lexington Hotel to celebrate both his deliverance from Wilkerson’s wrath and the victory of “Big Bill” Thompson at the polls. All in all, his first week back in Chicago had been hectic but exhilarating.

  • • •

  George E. Q. Johnson was also delighted with the outcome of the case. The U.S. attorney saw it as a victory for the federal court and a demonstration that Judge Wilkerson was capable of handling Capone when the time came to try the racketeer for income tax evasion. In a generous gesture, he immediately contacted the local FBI representative to express his appreciation for the work the bureau had done in preparing the affidavits proving Capone a liar, and the agent in turn reported the discussion to J. Edgar Hoover in Washington: “Johnson . . . stated that he was very much elated with the outcome of this case, and desired to congratulate this Bureau in connection with the obtaining of evidence and the work performed during the trial of this case.” But Hoover read this simple declaration of gratitude with a jaundiced eye, for he detested anyone, even a U.S. attorney, who dared to take credit for bringing criminals, especially famous ones, to justice. Although Johnson had specifically requested cooperation from the FBI and had been refused, Hoover rewrote recent history and claimed that he, not Johnson, had led the effort to get Capone. To make certain that his version of events was handed down to posterity, Hoover scrawled this startling comment on the bottom of the report from his agent in Chicago:

  The U.S. Attorney’s enthusiasm is rather amusing. It has taken us nearly two years to force him to bring this matter to an issue. 3/1/31 J.E.H.

  Three days later, a selection of newspaper clippings hailing Johnson’s early triumph over Capone landed on Hoover’s desk, further enraging the director. His pathological jealousy and reckless disregard for the truth is evident in the comment he wrote on this occasion:

  Well of all the bunk, this takes the prize. It took us 2 years to get him [Johnson] to try Capone & now he basks in the sunlight of the effort which he did everything to avoid. J.E.H.

  Both of Hoover’s statements were, of course, blatantly false. It was Hoover who had done all he could to avoid the task of bringing Capone to justice. And it was Johnson who had devoted more than two years to the effort, risking his life and those of his family. It was Johnson who had tried to get the FBI involved, and Hoover who had refused. In trying to thank the FBI for the limited assistance he had received, Johnson had inadvertently made himself a powerful new enemy—not a gangster, but J. Edgar Hoover himself.

  The episode marked the beginning of Hoover’s disparaging and subverting the entire government effort to bring Capone to justice. From this time forward, he saw to it neither Johnson nor anyone else involved in the case would have the benefit of the FBI’s assistance. More than that, he did his best to block the efforts of Johnson and his men (such as Eliot Ness) to further their careers. Long after Johnson and the others had forgotten they had once rubbed Hoover the wrong way, Hoover would remember. The director never forgot a slight, even when it was purely imaginary.

  • • •

  “Hell, Colonel, I’d know you anywhere—you look just like your pictures.”

  “Hell, Al, I’d never have recognized you—you are much bigger than you appear to be in photographs.”

  The scene was the Lexington Hotel, “Al” was naturally Al Capone, and his guest this wintry day was an unusual one: Colonel Robert Isham Randolph, the head of the Secret Six, the vigilante organization comprised of some of the wealthiest men in Chicago to be found outside the rackets. The reason for the meeting was simple: the colonel wanted to see Public Enemy Number 1 in the flesh, and Capone, convinced he would prevail over the Secret Six, was happy to oblige.

  “May I use your telephone?” Randolph inquired. “You see, your name has been used to frighten women and children for so long that Mrs. Randolph is worried about me.”

  After Randolph called home to reassure his wife, Al presented him with a beer and a question: “What are you trying to do to me?”

  “Put you out of business,” Randolph explained.

  “You know what will happen if you put me out of business?” Capone asked. “I have 185 men on my personal payroll, and I pay them from $300 to $400 a week each. They’re all ex-convicts and gunmen, but they are respectable businessmen now, just as respectable as the people who buy my stuff and gamble in my places. They know the beer, booze, and gambling rackets. . . . If you put me out of business, I’ll turn every one of those 185 respectable ex-convicts loose on Chicago.”

  “Well, Al, to speak frankly, we . . . are burned up about the reputation you have given Chicago.”

  “Say, Colonel, I’m burned up about that, too. Chicago’s bad reputation is bad for my business. It keeps the tourists out of town. I’ll tell you what I’ll do: If the Secret Six will lay off my beer, booze, and gambling rackets, I’ll police this town for you—I’ll clean it up so there won’t be a stickup or a murder in Cook County. I’ll give you my hand on it.” Randolph refused the offer, preferring to imbibe another forbidden beer. As the meeting drew to a close, Capone turned the topic of conversation to politics, specifically, April’s mayoral election.

  “Should I come out for Cermak or ride along with Thompson?” Al inquired.

  “I think you had better stick with ‘Big Bill,’ ” said Randolph. As Capone considered the advice, the colonel requested the pistol that he had yielded on entering the hotel. When it was returned to him, Al remarked as they parted, “So even respectable people carry those things?”

  The next respectable person to visit Capone at the Lexington Hotel was the socialite and journalist Cornelius Vanderbilt Jr., who boasted that he had met and dined with “every major crowned head of Europe” by the time he turned sixteen. Now he had come to call on the royalty of the Chicago rackets. Like all visitors to the Capone headquarters, he was thoroughly searched, and after waiting in what appeared to be a large office, he was startled when a man approached him and stuck out his hand to introduce himself. “I was taken aback,” Vanderbilt wrote of the encounter. “He was much taller than I had expected. There was nothing noisy in his attire: a conservative single-breasted blue suit, plain blue tie, white soft shirt. And his voice was quite pleasant: well modulated and clear. Only the famous scar gave him away. Otherwise he could have passed easily for a substantial merchant of Greek or Italian descent.”

  After they entered Capone’s office, and Vanderbilt had an opportunity to study the view and the portrait of Lincoln, his host began speaking. “Here I am, Public Enemy No. 1, the meal-ticket of shyster lawyers and bum reporters,” Capone told the young man, “and who am I with all of it? Just a piker. The real graft goes to the bankers, to your dad’s friends. Isn’t it true?”

  “It depends on what you call ‘graft,’ ” the young Vanderbilt replied, noting that Capone, despite his lack of formal education, sounded more like a left-leaning politician than a gangster, especially when he challenged his wealthy guest.

  “Why should you live on Fifth Avenue and sail a yacht while millions of Americans sleep on benches and in flop-houses?” Vanderbilt groped for words. “Do you know how many people there are on my payroll?” Capone inquired.

  “I suppose quite a few.”

  “Over five t
housand.”

  “All in the beer-running business?”

  “Beer, beer and beer. That’s all I hear. Why, hardly five percent of my income comes from beer.”

  “And the rest?”

  “From the rackets. All sorts of rackets.”

  “You are very frank,” Vanderbilt said, and Capone proceeded to deliver an hour-long denunciation of corruption and hypocrisy in the federal government. “They are only trying to scare me. They know very well there’d be hell in this city if they put me away. Who else can keep the small-time racketeers from annoying decent folks.”

  When Capone finally fell quiet, Vanderbilt asked one final question: “Do you have to kill many people?”

  Capone threw his head back and roared. “I knew it was coming,” he said. “Well, believe it or not, I personally never killed nor wounded a single person.”

  “And your men?”

  “They kill only the rats and they do it on their own. I find out about it from the papers. . . . Let me explain to you how I work.” Whereupon Capone pressed a buzzer on his desk and instructed an office boy to bring in “the documents.” Within seconds a pile of ledgers, bills, receipts, and correspondence—all the records of a sophisticated, large-scale business—landed on his desk. Capone, who had worked briefly as an accountant when he was about Vanderbilt’s age, began to thumb through the documents, studying the columns of figures, until the phone interrupted him. He scowled as he listened to the message, then handed the receiver to Vanderbilt. “Police headquarters. They think I kidnapped you.” After assuring the police that he was safe, Vanderbilt took his leave with the greatest reluctance, for he had been “having the best time of my life” chatting with that charming tycoon, Al Capone.

  • • •

  As Colonel Randolph had advised, Capone stuck with “Big Bill” Thompson right up until the election, on April 8, when his candidate was soundly beaten by the underdog, Democrat Tony Cermak. The changing of Chicago’s political guard reflected the transformation wrought by the Depression throughout the nation, and it meant the beginning of the end of Capone’s stranglehold on City Hall. At first, a sense of euphoria overtook the city freed at last of a mayor who was not only corrupt, which was understandable given the nature of Chicago politics, but a national laughingstock, which was not. The morning after “Big Bill” ‘s humiliating defeat, the Tribune, his longtime adversary, published a furious denunciation of the Thompson legacy: