City Hall and Beyond
GOVERNMENT & POLITICS
Who really governs New York? For generations, the city’s power structure was controlled by old-time political bosses.
They filled patronage jobs with supporters and brokered city contracts for business associates. They were just following in the footsteps of the nineteenth-century Tammany retainers who believed in what one loyalist famously called “honest graft.” No one explained this better than the ward boss of Hell’s Kitchen, George Washington Plunkitt, who declared, “I seen my opportunities, and I took ’em.”
It took another larger-than-life character to topple the last Tammany leader: Edward I. Koch ended the long reign of Tammany’s Carmine De Sapio as the Democratic leader in Greenwich Village in 1961. Koch—a combative, opinionated dynamo who could happily outtalk anybody—was elected mayor sixteen years later, only to be undermined by an old-fashioned patronage scandal involving officials he himself had appointed. (Koch claimed he was unaware that corruption reached into his administration, and was never implicated in the parking-ticket and taxi-meter scandals that contributed to his downfall).
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How innocent New York’s first mayors seem by comparison. They were British appointees, so they could not get the job by buying votes. The city’s first mayor was Cambridge-educated Thomas Willett, a seventeenth-century sea captain who had made his reputation as magistrate of the Plymouth Colony in Massachusetts. He served one year and was appointed again two years later.
After the Revolutionary War, New Yorkers elected a parade of Clintons, Livingstons and Schuylers. But these bluebloods also had competition from a new political organization, Tammany Hall, whose founding principle called for asserting the rights of the middle class.
From that egalitarian beginning Tammany became synonymous with big-money municipal corruption. When William Magear Tweed became Tammany’s chief just after the Civil War, its stranglehold on city government was already apparent. The New York Times soon rocked Tammany with its first major exposé. Simply by printing ledgerlike lists of expenditures, The Times confirmed the worst of the public’s suspicions: Tammany was on the take in a big way. The “Tweed Courthouse” cost between $11 million and $12 million—more than $230 million in today’s dollars. Construction dragged on for twenty years. The longer it took, the more the Tammany bosses took. Tweed’s own trial was held there in 1873, and the courthouse still wasn’t finished.
Neither was Tammany. It unquestionably controlled Democratic politics in the city until 1932, when Mayor James J. Walker resigned in yet another corruption scandal. Summoned to appear before then-Governor Franklin D. Roosevelt, Walker, a ladies’ man and fancy dresser whom the tabloids had nicknamed “Gentleman Jimmy,” simply quit.
That left Tammany foundering. Walker’s successors more closely reflected the ethnicity and awareness of New York in the twentieth century: Irish, Italian, Jewish, black. City Hall had its white knights. In the 1930’s, crime-busting, graft-hating Fiorello H. La Guardia was elected after Walker had resettled himself in Europe, beyond the reach of prosecutors. La Guardia, the son of Italian immigrants was probably New York’s most successful and colorful mayor since Peter Stuyvesant. In the 1960’s a dashing East Side congressman, John V. Lindsay, could have been the most successful mayor since La Guardia (and also the first Republican). But Lindsay was no match for the racial unrest, antiwar protests and municipal strikes that began days after he took office.
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Organization man Abraham D. Beame, a Democrat, followed Lindsay and presided over a fiscal crisis that all but forced the city to declare bankruptcy in 1975. Koch defeated Beame in the Democratic primary in 1977 and went on to serve three terms before he, in turn, lost the Democratic primary to David N. Dinkins in 1989. Dinkins, the city’s first black mayor, defeated the Republican nominee, Rudolph W. Giuliani, the United States Attorney in Manhattan, just as population shifts made non-Hispanic whites a minority in the city. Racial tensions erupted in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, and quickly engulfed Dinkins’ administration. The 1993 election was a rematch between Dinkins and Giuliani, but this time Giuliani won. In his eight years in City Hall, crime declined and the city prospered under pro-business policies that spurred real estate development, particularly in Manhattan.
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Giuliani tried to delay his exit after the 9/11 attacks. But not even “America’s mayor,” as Giuliani was nicknamed, could undo a law that blocked mayors from running for more than two terms. That took a million-dollar campaign by his successor, Michael R. Bloomberg, a billionaire businessman and Democrat-turned-Republican who had been in search of a mission beyond making money. He found it at City Hall, where Bloomberg achieved two milestones that had eluded his immediate predecessors. He won control of the public school system, and he undid the term-limits law. He couldn’t have been more different from his Tammany predecessors, but they certainly would have been impressed by how much he spent—from his personal fortune—to achieve his political goals.
City Hall Cornerstone Was Laid 125 Years Ago—Winning Design Cost $350
May 20, 1928
WHEN THE CORNERSTONE OF NEW YORK’S City Hall was laid on May 26, 1803, 125 years ago, there were but 17 states in the Union and Jefferson was president. The population of the entire country was about 5.5 million, considerably less than that of the city today. Lewis and Clark were preparing to penetrate the wilderness of the Rockies. Travel was still by horse, boat and wagon; the invention of the steamboat was yet four years in the future.
The Council selected the plans submitted for a marble structure in Italian Renaissance style by the architectural firm of Mangin & McComb and instructed the controller to pay $350 for the successful design. For more than a decade the work was under way, hindered from time to time by dilatory resolutions of overcautious councilmen.
Delays were also caused by epidemics among workmen and by dislocation of city finances due to corruption or mismanagement. On Dec. 1, 1807, work had been completed up to the second floor at an expenditure of $207,000.
With the exception of the roof, temporarily shingled while awaiting copper from England, the outside work was finished in 1810. The interior was so far completed as to furnish a room for the City Council, but it was not until August 1811, that the city fathers moved into their new quarters. The total cost of the structure had been almost $500,000.
Not the least interesting part of the City Hall is the cupola. The original plan, admired for its classic chasteness, provided for a single clock in the front window. Public sentiment had a good deal to do with the change from one to four dials.
These changes detracted from the simplicity of the cupola, and there began to be requests that the original be restored. An opportunity to do that came in 1858, when the cupola was destroyed by sparks from fireworks used in the celebration of the laying of the Atlantic cable; but instead a duplicate of the burned cupola was erected and the beautiful conception of the architect neglected. Another fire in 1917 offered a second opportunity. This time the world of art as well as the public successfully insisted on a return to the classic prototype.
The Secret Treasure Of City Hall; Significant Art Collection Goes Mostly Unnoticed
By DAVID M. HERSZENHORN | August 10, 1999
ARCHEOLOGISTS KEEPING A STEP AHEAD OF the bulldozers churning the earth during renovations to City Hall Park have found all sorts of historic artifacts. But far more valuable treasures are secreted away inside City Hall itself: the city’s little known but extensive collection of 19th-century portraits and other artwork, which is rarely seen by the public that owns it all.
There are portraits of revered Americans—presidents, governors and, of course, the city’s mayors—but the crown jewel in the collection is a portrait of a Frenchman, Marie Joseph Paul Yves Roche Gilbert du Motier—the Marquis de Lafayette—who was beloved by Americans for fighting valiantly in the Revolutionary War. The Common Council, predecessor to the City Council, commis
sioned the portrait in 1824 and paid Samuel F. B. Morse somewhere between $700 and $1,000 to paint it.
Most days, it sits unseen in the dark, empty chamber. Even when there are Council meetings, few eyes turn away from the politics long enough to notice the painting.
“To be really honest with you, the tours that we give are really dealing with the government,” said Katharine Hicks, one of the sergeants at arms who leads the tours.
When it comes to where paintings are placed, as with everything else at City Hall, the mayor is ultimately in charge, which can make for some interesting arrangements. Mayor Rudolph W. Giuliani, for instance, has the portrait of Mayor Fiorello H. La Guardia, his hero and a fellow Republican, hanging in his office, over his desk.
Last year, the Giuliani administration sparked a small controversy when it renovated the Blue Room, where the Mayor holds his news conferences, and removed the portraits of his immediate predecessors, David N. Dinkins and Edward I. Koch. The two former mayors may compete with Mr. Giuliani for attention on the airwaves, but not in City Hall: their portraits now hang in a hallway near a bathroom.
Old Building, New Finances; Lean Times Don’t Stop Renovation at City Hall
By ANDREA KANNAPELL | December 30, 1994
SOME 180 YEARS AGO, NEW YORK’S NEW City Hall, with its gracious French Renaissance facade and elegant Georgian interior, was considered one of the most handsome buildings in the country.
Today, after 56 mayoral administrations, several technological revolutions and multiple fiscal crises, City Hall is a mixture of the grand, the pedestrian and the crumbling. Gawky metal coatracks line graceful corridors. A grandfather clock insists it is 2:35, 24 hours a day. The rotunda’s white marble is chipped and discolored.
The Giuliani administration would like to see City Hall returned to splendor, and then kept that way with a self-perpetuating maintenance budget. It has set about devising, for the first time, a long-term renovation and maintenance plan for the building.
But in these days of private-sector financing, city officials have found themselves looking at some admittedly novel ways to foot the bill.
Today, City Hall is a mixture of the grand, the pedestrian and the crumbling.
John S. Dyson, the deputy mayor for finance and economic development, has already altered one longstanding city policy to raise money, allowing the building to be used for filming in exchange for a fee. Castle Rock Entertainment paid what Mr. Dyson called a “small honorarium”—reportedly $50,000—to get its cameras inside recently to shoot a new movie, “City Hall,” starring Al Pacino.
Officials are also considering renting out, for receptions, two stately City Hall chambers—the Committee of the Whole and the Governor’s Room. “I could imagine somebody might pay $5,000 to welcome somebody,” Mr. Dyson said.
Other ideas include installing vending machines in the lobby and putting carts out front to sell food and drink. Or paid tours of City Hall on weekends. “We could show the mayor’s office,” Mr. Dyson said. “He’s usually out at a parade or something at those times.”
Drab Setting, But Joyous Work: Making 2 Into 1
By FERNANDA SANTOS | October 5, 2008
Martha Batalha, 35, and Juan Suarez, 30, tied the knot at the Municipal Building on October 4, 2008.
RUMMAGING BACK THROUGH THE THOUSANDS of weddings he has performed at the Manhattan Marriage Bureau, Walter Curtis can find a wealth of vivid memories: The bride who showed up in a princess costume one Halloween. The 126 couples who came before him over the course of a single Valentine’s Day. The former Balkans freedom fighter who, when instructed to kiss the bride, turned and planted a smooch on Mr. Curtis’s cheek.
He has a harder time finding anything colorful to say about the setting: a warren of offices on the second floor of the Municipal Building, where city employees like him have been giving true love a brief, secular send-off since 1916.
“I love my job,” said Mr. Curtis, who is in charge of the marriage records room, as he rested his large frame on a creaky chair in the bureau’s conference room. “But I don’t think I’ll miss anything about this place.”
The bureau will soon move to new quarters—a grand hall lined in marble and lighted by chandeliers—in a city office building nearby. The move is an idea that Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg has nursed for almost as long as he has been in office.
City officials see in the revamped marriage bureau an opportunity to market the city as a wedding destination, offering it as a more tasteful alternative to Las Vegas, where a bride can be led down the aisle by an Elvis impersonator or married in a drive-through chapel.
There will be none of that in New York. But, for the first time, the city will offer conveniences like a dressing room where brides can touch up their makeup. And couples will not have to endure the metal detectors or X-ray machines that greet visitors to the Municipal Building.
Fancier quarters will probably lead to higher prices. A ceremony now costs $25, and though the first deputy city clerk, Michael McSweeney, said it was unlikely the fee would go up by the time the new bureau opens, he did not rule out an increase soon after that.
No, 311 Is Not Her Telephone Number
By JAMES BARRON | July 16, 2003
IN THE UNIVERSE OF CALLERS, MISS UNIVERSE sounded less querulous than some who have dialed New York City’s 311 number. But her question? Asked, with help from a cue card, and answered, with help from a computer. In two languages.
Miss Universe—Amelia Vega, from the Dominican Republic—was promoting 311. To demonstrate that the call takers can field questions in Spanish, Ms. Vega walked through the 311 center on Maiden Lane in Lower Manhattan and picked up a phone, and someone held up the cue card.
Aides to the city’s information technology commissioner, Gino P. Menchini, explained that she believed that her English was not up to par, so she had thought up the question ahead of time to make sure she got the wording exactly right. They had printed it on a cue card—a piece of paper, actually, but the type was very large. The question was, “What time does the Highbridge pool in Washington Heights close tonight?”
A citizen service representative came on the line. First Ms. Vega asked her question about the hours at the pool—in Highbridge Park at West 173rd Street in Washington Heights, an area she said she knew well—in Spanish. The call taker replied in Spanish.
Then she hung up, dialed 311 again, reached a different call taker and asked the question again, this time in English.
“O.K., I have here it’s open till 7,” the service representative told her.
Ms. Vega smiled as she hung up. Mr. Menchini was asked if he had been trying to impress her as he showed her around the 311 center’s newsroomlike quarters.
“I’m not sure middle-aged, balding, chubby men on Civil Service salaries impress her,” Mr. Menchini said. “What could I possibly say? There are some times you don’t even bother to try. She’s Miss Universe, for crying out loud.”
Trouble Big or Small? New York Has a Number to Call: 311
By JENNIFER STEINHAUER | April 23, 2003
THE TELEPHONE OPERATORS AT THE CITY’S 311 center had the alternate-side-of-the-street parking rules down pat. They knew what to do with a complaint about a broken traffic light. Marriage license issue? Loud car alarm? Recycling laws? Check! Check! Check!
But then there was the chicken. A woman in the Bronx had one living in her hallway, and she was not happy about it. It seems she and her landlord had divergent views on rent and heat, a dispute that culminated in the landlord placing a rather menacing bit of fowl at her front door.
The operator typed into the computer: “Chicken on stoop.” The results were quickly forthcoming. What the lady had was an agricultural problem, and she was referred to the Department of Health.
Of the changes undertaken by Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg since he took office, few are as ambitious as his insistence on overhauling the way city residents receive information from their government.
Appalled
to learn during the campaign that there was no central clearinghouse where residents could call—there were over 40 call centers and help lines connected to dozens of different agencies—Mr. Bloomberg decided after he was elected that he would set up a single line to give answers and take complaints.
City Council members have complained frequently and bitterly about the $25 million start-up costs for 311, but Mr. Bloomberg is undaunted.
Just yesterday, when confronted with a newspaper article detailing the city’s many potholes, Mr. Bloomberg shot back. “If you see a pothole, what do you do? 311. It’s very easy. That’s the whole idea of it. Call 311. They’ll give you a number so that you can call back the next day and see when the pothole is going to get fixed. It works, and I’m tired of people complaining about it.”
TAMMANY HALL
City Thrilled 50 Years Ago By Exposure of Boss Tweed
August 26, 1923
IT IS HALF A CENTURY SINCE A PAUNCHY MAN, bearded and slightly bald, stood in the registration office of the penitentiary on Blackwell’s Island, and, in answer to the questions of the recording clerk, gave his name as William Marcy Tweed and his occupation as statesman.
The conviction of Boss Tweed, late in 1873, and his sentence to 12 years’ imprisonment and a fine of $12,000, was a pivotal point in the story of the greatest graft case America has ever known. Today the name of Tweed is a symbol and his figure is legendary: he stands as an archtype, a political bogeyman—and occasionally, here and there, a Colonel Bogey of corruption.
The crisis came two years before, and it came through The New York Times. On July 22, 1871, the readers of The Times found upon the front page what was for that day a great news display. It was little more than an itemized list of accounts, set three columns wide, and the heading read: “The Secret Accounts.” The aggregate figure of the items listed on that day alone was $5,663,646.83. The story was a direct transcript from the city’s books, showing up unprecedented corruption. For 14 months The Times had attacked the Tweed ring, meeting much opposition and gaining little support except from the cartoons of Th. Nast. The revelation of the secret accounts—copied from books which had been literally withheld from scrutiny—turned the tide.
The New York Times Book of New York Page 36
