American Pharaoh

by Adam Cohen

  The machine leaders were in a “demoralized state,” Arvey recalled, as they looked around for a candidate to hold on to City Hall. They wanted someone with strong reform credentials, who could help throw off the cloud of scandal that had settled on city government. And their casual polling indicated that they would be best off with someone who did not share Mayor Kelly’s politically unpopular views on race. The man they turned to was businessman and civic leader Martin Kennelly. Kennelly was a Bridgeport-born, Irish-Catholic bachelor who lived with his widowed sister in a luxury apartment on the North Side. He had made a considerable fortune founding a moving company, and was an active supporter of the Red Cross and DePaul University. The tall, silver-haired Kennelly at least looked like the part the machine was casting him for: A. J. Liebling would later observe that he resembled “a bit player impersonating a benevolent mayor.” The machine’s calculated attempt to embrace reform — or, at least, the appearance of reform — was a success. In the 1947 mayoral election, Kennelly beat a lackluster Republican opponent, Russell Root, taking 59 percent of the vote. 62

  Daley was by now a powerful force — perhaps the most powerful — in 11th Ward Democratic politics. As long as he lacked the title of ward committeeman, though, he had no standing in the machine hierarchy. Daley was eager to make the move up, but there was a problem. The 11th Ward already had a ward committeeman, Daley’s old patron, Hugh “Babe” Connelly. Daley and Connelly had been friends back when they both served as apprentices to Joe Mc-Donough. When Abraham Lincoln Marovitz was off fighting in World War II, Daley sent his old friend a letter assuring him that “Babe Connelly and all the boys from the Hamburg A[thletic] A[ssociation] wish you well and say hello.” Connelly had consistently supported Daley’s ambitions, slating him for the state legislature and promoting him for higher office. But now Connelly stood in his way, and he was weak. He had recently been defeated by a Republican when he ran for reelection to a fourth term as alderman, and he was in poor health. On October 24, 1947, Daley convened a meeting of the 11th Ward precinct captains at Saint John’s School Hall just up the street from his home. Connelly was too ill to attend. When the meeting was over, Connelly was out as ward committeeman and Daley was in. Romantics like to portray the Chicago Democratic machine as a political community in which people stood by their friends and loyalty was rewarded. But the reality was much harsher. “Babe was always pushing Daley out front,” Benjamin Adamowski said later. “He sent him to Springfield, pushed him for the better jobs. Then, when Daley got a chance, he squeezed Connelly out.” Daley was a shrewd vote counter, and one of his tactics in cobbling together his 11th Ward majority was striking a deal with the Polish precinct captains, who had been gaining influence in the 11th Ward. After he became ward committeeman, Daley repaid his Polish supporters by slating Stanley Nowakowski to run for alderman in the next election. Nowakowski won the seat back for the Democrats, and the hapless Babe Connelly — who had now been stripped of both his alderman and ward committeeman posts, along with his health — retreated to Florida. 63

  The Democrats’ national prospects in the 1948 elections looked almost as bleak as they had in 1946. Trying to build on his success with Kennelly, Arvey once again sought out candidates with an aura of reform. In a single election year, Arvey slated two little-known men who would go on to become among the leading statesmen of their generation. For governor, Arvey selected Adlai Stevenson, a civic-minded lawyer whose grandfather had served two terms as a U.S. representative before becoming Grover Cleveland’s vice president. To run for the Senate, Arvey slated Paul Douglas, a liberal alderman and University of Chicago economist. Knowing that the machine “had a tough fight,” Arvey said, he looked for candidates who would “enhance the image of the organization.” He found, he said, that “there was nobody that could question Douglas’s open-mindedness, his lack of subservience to the organization, his independence, his integrity. And the same with Stevenson.” Finding reform candidates to carry the Democratic banner worked as well for the machine in 1948 as it had a year earlier. Both Stevenson and Douglas won statewide and — more important for the machine — ran up impressive margins in Chicago. Arvey’s shrewd slating decisions may have provided reverse coattails for President Truman, who carried Illinois by only 33,612 votes in his come-from-behind victory over Thomas E. Dewey. 64

  The machine’s triumph in the 1948 elections turned out to be a victory for Daley. In the quid pro quo world of machine politics, he was suddenly in a strong position: Stevenson owed his election to Arvey, and Arvey needed the support of the powerful 11th Ward Democratic Organization to remain as boss. Daley prevailed on Arvey to sponsor him for state director of revenue, and on December 21, 1948, Governor-elect Stevenson made the appointment, declaring, “I need him in my show.” As in his past promotions, Daley’s rise was due not only to machine influence, but to his specialized knowledge of the workings of government. Daley had a solid legal and financial background, and brought with him the detailed knowledge of state budgets he had acquired in his years in the legislature. “Daley . . . is expected to be an ace on Stevenson’s staff in helping guide the legislative programs over the hurdles ahead,” the Chicago Tribune declared. 65

  The one drawback of Daley’s new job was that the governor’s staff worked out of the state capital of Springfield. Daley and Sis now had seven children, and he was reluctant to spend so much time away from home. He also could not afford to absent himself from the clubby political world of Chicago. Daley was by now forty-six, and if he was going to rise any further up the ranks of the machine, he would have to do it soon. The convenient arrangement Daley worked out with Stevenson was that he would work out of the State of Illinois building in downtown Chicago, diagonally across the street from City Hall. Daley got considerable political mileage out of being director of revenue. He was able to make some changes in how government operated, and then receive credit for them. One of his reforms was a new tax tabulation system that made it easier to catch delinquents, which was immediately praised in the newspapers. Daley also used his state office as a bully pulpit from which to speak out in favor of fiscal reform. Addressing the Business and Professional Women’s Club, Daley held forth on the need for tax reform to distribute the tax load more fairly. Daley’s prestigious position — in the cabinet of a respected reform-minded governor — also helped lift him above the mundane world of Chicago machine politics. The Daley that the public saw was Governor Stevenson’s innovative revenue chief — not Daley the ward committeeman, a position he held on to, who spent evenings in the 11th Ward offices doling out favors. 66

  In July of 1949, Congress enacted landmark public housing legislation. The new law provided funding for 810,000 new units of government-subsidized housing to be built across the country. The need for the new building was real. After ten years of depression and another four of world war, the nation’s housing stock was more depleted than ever. Chicago’s shortfall was particularly dire: it had 1,178,000 families but only 906,000 standard units available to house them. In some cities, like New York, local housing authorities began building public housing almost as quickly as funding could be secured. But in Chicago, the politics was more complicated. A political cartoon in the Chicago Sun-Times showed an Uncle Sam figure towering over Chicago with his arms filled with public housing, with the caption: “Where Do You Want It?” That was the critical question. To most white aldermen, the new housing looked like an invitation to Elizabeth Wood and the CHA to build public housing for blacks in white neighborhoods. To prevent this from happening, the chairman of the City Council housing committee convinced the state legislature to pass legislation in 1948 giving the Chicago City Council the power to approve or disapprove all sites selected by the CHA. 67

  The same day Congress passed the new act, the CHA delivered to Mayor Kennelly an ambitious proposal for building 400,000 new units of public housing over the next six years. The difficult part was deciding where to recommend that the new units be located. Wood and her staff kne
w by now that every project they tried to locate in a white neighborhood would set off a political firestorm. But they were too committed to integrated housing to propose that all of the new units be built in the black ghetto. On November 23, 1949, the CHA formally submitted its proposal for the first seven sites, which contained 10,000 units of housing. The City Council held hearings on the sites that raged on for four days, with 160 speakers squaring off for and against the proposed sites. When the fighting was over — one observer said that the seven hills of Rome had generated less discussion than these seven sites — the City Council handed the CHA a stern rebuff. The aldermen approved two sites located in black neighborhoods near existing public housing, but rejected the remaining five sites. Unwilling to trust the CHA to identify additional sites, the City Council established its own subcommittee to evaluate possible locations. These aldermen took a raucous bus trip across the city in search of sites. The subcommittee joked in its wanderings around the city about how many public housing units it would place in the wards of the few white aldermen who supported Wood and the CHA. Benjamin Becker, a Jewish alderman from the North Side, was a particular target of the anti-integration aldermen. They also floated the idea — which they eventually abandoned — of locating a housing project on the University of Chicago’s tennis courts, as a payback to liberal Hyde Park alderman Robert Merriam. The proposal that emerged from the bus tour turned out to be no more viable than the CHA’s plan. Where the CHA had taken too little account of politics, the subcommittee’s plan seemed to be concerned with nothing else. Civic groups and newspaper editorial boards assailed the “bus tour sites” as irresponsible, and accused the City Council of treating public housing as “a nuisance to be swept into odd corners here and there or hidden behind industrial ruins.” 68

  With the site-selection process at a standstill, Mayor Kennelly called on the City Council to negotiate directly with the CHA. Two leading aldermen, John Duffy and William Lancaster, seized on the opportunity to develop an alternative plan. Their proposal, which came to be known as the Duffy-Lancaster Compromise, included a mix of sites. Eight sites, representing 10,500 units of housing, would be built in poor black areas. Another seven sites, with about 2,000 units of housing, would be on vacant land outside the ghetto. To proponents of integration, the Duffy-Lancaster Compromise did not seem like much of a compromise at all. The Chicago Defender declared that it was “calculated to continue the ghetto and strengthen the spirit of segregation.” Elizabeth Wood and the CHA tried to block the Duffy-Lancaster Compromise, and Wood traveled to Washington to urge the Public Housing Administration to rule that it violated federal nondiscrimination requirements. But the federal agency approved the plan with only minor modifications. At the time, the Duffy-Lancaster Compromise was regarded as a substantial blow to the ideal of integrated public housing. But the truth was, despite its heavy use of ghetto sites, it was a compromise: a significant number of public housing units were actually built outside the black ghetto. In just a few years, the city’s anti-integration forces would not feel they needed to compromise at all. 69

  State director of revenue Richard J. Daley, freshly installed in his downtown Chicago offices, was already casting around for his next position. It would often be said of Daley, later in life, that he loved Chicago so much that the only job he ever wanted was to be its mayor. It paints an admirable picture, but it is not true. Daley spent most of his career looking for any job that would move him up another rung on the political ladder and give him more power. In May 1947, the newspapers were reporting that the “political grapevine” favored Daley for U.S. attorney. In December, they were saying that Daley was a likely candidate for Cook County state’s attorney if the incumbent’s health continued to fail him. And a year later, the Chicago Tribune was reporting that the “[s]oft-spoken but persistent Richard J. Daley” was angling to be slated for the powerful position of Cook County Board president. Daley was not alone in wanting the machine’s backing for the board presidency, which was coming open in 1950. Dan Ryan, a sitting member of the board, and Alderman John Duffy, of the Duffy-Lancaster Compromise, also wanted to be considered. 70

  Daley tried to rig the nominating process in his own favor. The machine’s slate-making committees were traditionally limited to sitting ward committeemen, but Daley argued that the rules should be changed to allow both Governor Stevenson and Mayor Kennelly to participate. Daley’s strategy was not hard to discern. He must have known that Stevenson, his employer, would support him. But the machine would not go along with this change in the procedures. “I know that the mayor and the governor don’t want to be pictured as political bosses,” Arvey said, speaking out against Daley’s proposal. Other machine leaders were more blunt in their insistence that high-minded reformers like Stevenson and Kennelly had no business helping to choose the machine’s candidates. “What the hell does Stevenson know about ward committeemen?” state senator William “Botchy” Connors asked. “You’re likely to get three or four members of the Chicago Crime Commission on the ticket if you let these guys name the candidates.” Daley also proposed that candidates should be allowed to serve on the slate-making committee, which would have allowed him to be present as a representative of the powerful 11th Ward. In the end, Daley was foiled in his attempts to stack the slate-making committee, and he lost the nomination to Duffy. He was “bitterly disappointed,” the Chicago Tribune reported, at being passed over. 71

  Daley’s disappointment did not last long. Just two weeks later, the machine slate-makers had the chance to choose a candidate for another powerful Cook County post. The county clerk died on January 3, 1950, and a successor had to be named. Once again, Daley campaigned energetically for the job. He managed to get Mayor Kennelly to call Jake Arvey in Miami Beach to urge the machine to slate him. Daley also got Governor Stevenson to announce his support. Daley made his pitch to the slate-making committee in machine headquarters at the Morrison Hotel, recounting his years of service as deputy comptroller, Senate minority leader, and state director of revenue — as well as his years of loyal service to the machine as precinct captain and ward committeeman. On January 9, 1950, Daley was slated for the job, filling the interim position until an election could be held. 72

  The duties of the county clerk were mundane. Daley’s main responsibilities were issuing marriage licenses, recording deaths and births, and maintaining vital statistics. But it was a good political stepping-stone for someone of Daley’s ambitions. As a candidate for county clerk, Daley would have to run countywide — a chance to redeem himself with the countywide electorate that had rejected him for sheriff. The county clerk also controlled hundreds of patronage positions. That gave Daley, as they said in the Chicago machine, clout. As county clerk, Daley immediately went to work mastering the minutiae of his office. Because he was serving as county clerk on an interim appointment, he would have to stand for election in a matter of months in order to hold on to the position. Daley implemented an array of improvements designed to curry favor with the voters. Some of his changes were low profile: he published the first calendar of law cases for the county court. Others were more visible. One of Daley’s most ingratiating innovations was his overhaul of the way in which his office dispensed marriage licenses. He installed microfilm machines for birth and marriage certificates, cutting the wait time for these documents from days to a matter of minutes. He also increased the number of staff devoted to processing marriage licenses, which both helped speed up the process and created new patronage positions for him to fill. And he ordered his marriage-license clerks to wear uniform beige jackets. “The new jackets should start altar-bound couples on their trip a little more cheerful,” Daley declared. Daley included a message from the county clerk with every new license: “May I very warmly and sincerely congratulate you on your marriage, and may it be a long and happy one.” 73

  The 1950 election, in which Daley had to run for his own full term as county clerk, was a grim one for Chicago Democrats. A few months before the voting
, U.S. Senator Estes Kefauver’s Committee to Investigate Organized Crime in Interstate Commerce arrived in town. The committee’s star witness was Captain Daniel “Tubbo” Gilbert, the Democratic nominee for Cook County sheriff — or, as he was dubbed by the newspapers, “The World’s Richest Cop.” Gilbert tried to explain how he managed to accumulate $360,000 in negotiable securities, among other holdings, on a modest police salary. He claimed to have been a successful gambler, wagering on everything from stocks and bonds to baseball games and elections. Asked by the committee’s counsel whether his gambling was legal, the police captain conceded that, “Well, no. No, it is not legal.” The Kefauver committee met in secret, but the Chicago Sun-Times got hold of a transcript and splashed Gilbert’s words across the front page. Predictably, Gilbert ended up losing to his little-known Republican opponent by 370,000 votes, and dragging down most of the Democratic ticket with him, including U.S. Senator Scott Lucas, the majority leader and a key congressional ally of President Truman. 74