Boardwalk Empire: The Birth, High Times, and Corruption of Atlantic City

by Nelson Johnson

  They heard her, but no one was listening. They were used to Lea and tuned her out the instant she opened her mouth. When she was finished one of the commissioners asked her to be patient and promised he’d speak with the police. He told her there were no easy answers but that the long-term solution was to rebuild the resort’s economy through casino gambling. A second referendum was being prepared, and after it passed, the streets would be safe for everyone. Rather than hurling insults, she was told to organize her friends to support gambling. Lea was unimpressed and left grumbling in disgust.

  For those people serious about rebuilding Atlantic City, there never was a thought of abandoning the quest for casino gambling. While the first referendum was a debacle, it was a valuable learning experience for the pro-casino forces. The months following the 1974 defeat were spent analyzing the campaign, and in a short time most people realized what had gone wrong. Joe McGahn and Steve Perskie had misread the voters’ fears about gambling. They were overly sensitive to the public’s perception of Atlantic City, concerned that singling out the resort as the only community to be permitted gambling would appear to be greedy. Nevertheless, polls taken shortly after the election revealed that was what the voters feared most, namely, the potential of gambling everywhere. The voters had visions of slot machines in drugstores and gas stations in every community and they were turned off to the idea. They wanted gambling restricted to Atlantic City.

  Another misconception dealt with the private ownership of casinos. It was thought that by proposing state-owned and -operated casinos, voters would have more confidence that they’d be run honestly and efficiently. But the voters knew better. They didn’t want bureaucrats running casinos and believed the only people who would invest any serious money in Atlantic City were private developers. Thus, by narrowing the focus of their new question to Atlantic City alone, and permitting private development of casinos, it was felt that the resort would be able to face the state’s voters a second time on more favorable terms. But McGahn and Perskie knew these changes weren’t enough.

  For several months prior to the 1974 referendum, New Jersey’s clergy went to their pulpits each Sunday and preached against the evils of gambling. The ministers and priests were tough adversaries and their dire warnings of moral decay had a heavy impact, especially among the senior citizens, most of whom went to the polls to oppose casinos.

  In a stroke of genius, as clever as anything conjured up by Nucky Johnson, McGahn and Perskie wrote language into their proposal that would not only win the support of senior citizens, but eventually neutralize the churches’ opposition as well. The language of the second referendum required the tax revenues generated from Atlantic City’s new casinos to be earmarked for a special fund. The money would be used exclusively for subsidizing the payment of utility bills and property taxes of New Jersey’s senior citizens and handicapped persons. On the second time around, a vote against casino gambling would be more than a vote against moral decay and special treatment for Atlantic City; it would be a rejection of aid to the elderly and the disabled. The old and the handicapped would be used as a rallying cry in the campaign. Atlantic City couldn’t have anyone better to run interference.

  There was a sense of urgency to the second gambling referendum from its inception. It was like nothing else in the Atlantic City’s history. When the pro-casino forces proposed a second run at New Jersey’s voters, long-time residents viewed it as a life or death proposition, and it was. This was their town’s last hope to keep from sinking into oblivion. If Atlantic City failed again, there wouldn’t be a third chance.

  Packaging and timing are everything in politics. McGahn and Perskie decided 1976 would be the year to make another pitch to the voters. Presidential elections traditionally draw more people to the polls, and the pro-casino forces were confident that a larger turnout would benefit their cause. Politicians know there is a class of voter who typically abstains from state and local elections, choosing to vote only for national office. This voter is generally uninformed, having no real grasp of most campaign issues, the kind of person who probably didn’t even know about the ’74 Casino Gambling referendum. A well-delivered message to such an unsophisticated group could make a difference in the outcome of the next election. In 1976 this block of voters totaled nearly three-quarters of a million persons. When combined with more than one-quarter million senior citizens and handicapped voters, the pro-casino forces had the basis for a turnaround on the second referendum.

  The only other ingredients needed for success were money and a well-engineered campaign. By reframing the issue from government-operated to privately owned casinos, financing was no longer a problem. In the ’74 campaign there were only eight large contributors of $5,000 or more. In 1976 there were 33 such contributors. More importantly was the amount of new money coming from outside of Atlantic City. The total of out-of-town contributions exceeding $100 in the first referendum was a mere $10,150. In the second referendum drive that class of contributors donated more than $518,000. Some 43 percent of the money raised came from out-of-town businesses speculating on what casino gambling could do for them.

  The largest single financial source was a little-known firm based in the Bahamas, Resorts International, which contributed more than $250,000. In all, the pro-casino forces more than doubled their campaign fund, from less than $600,000 in 1974 to more than $1.3 million in 1976. With that kind of money available, there would be no difficulty finding a slick promoter to peddle Atlantic City’s new package to the state’s voters.

  The search for a professional campaign strategist began in earnest once the legislature approved the final wording of the ballot question in early May. With commitments for the necessary financing assured, a steering committee was appointed. Within a week’s time it evolved into the Committee to Rebuild Atlantic City. There were no dilettantes among the members of “C.R.A.C.,” as it became known. It was a talented group, which quickly became a potent force.

  In addition to McGahn and Perskie, some of the people included in this bipartisan alliance were James Cooper, a respected attorney and the president of Atlantic National Bank; Murray Raphel, a former county freeholder and merchandiser par excellence; Charles Reynolds, publisher of the Press and a shrewd and capable person, whose newspaper was the second-largest contributor at nearly $50,000; Mildred Fox, a long-time hotel operator and one of the original proponents of casino gambling; Pat McGahn, the senator’s brother, who had contacts of his own in Democratic circles statewide; Frank Siracusa, an insurance broker who could hold contributors by the ankles and shake loose every last dollar; and finally Hap Farley, who had been shut out of the ’74 campaign.

  Hap became involved with C.R.A.C. in an unlikely manner. Steve Perskie reached out to Atlantic County Republican Chairman Howard “Fritz” Haneman, son of Farley’s friend and ally, retired Supreme Court Justice Vincent Haneman. A date and time for a meeting between the three politicians was scheduled by Fritz Haneman. At the last moment, Haneman was ill and, knowing the importance of getting Farley involved in the campaign effort as early as possible, Perskie went to meet with Hap on his own. Farley received Marvin Perskie’s nephew better than Steve Perskie had hoped. “He was most gracious and advised me that we should let him work where he could help the most—behind the scenes, working privately with his contacts throughout the State.” Perskie and C.R.A.C. were only too happy to have Hap’s help. This time around, Farley hosted dozens of private meetings, placed scores of phone calls, and made many one-on-one visits with political leaders of both parties from throughout the state, calling in IOUs he had built up during 34 years in the legislature.

  The ’76 effort would be led by a powerful nucleus. Once the key players were assembled, C.R.A.C.’s first job was a national search for someone to manage their campaign. Their choice was right on target.

  Sanford Weiner was a modern-day Captain John Young. Like Young, he could sell anything. Rather than pandering to the tourist trade, Weiner made his living packag
ing candidates and causes. Located in San Francisco, he had been introduced to C.R.A.C. by Pat McGahn, who knew of Weiner through his efforts for Congressman Paul McCloskey of California. McGahn and McCloskey were old Marine buddies. It was Weiner who engineered McCloskey’s upset victory over Congresswoman Shirley Temple Black. Now, rather than destroying a fantasy, Weiner was being called on to create one.

  At the time, there were few people equal to Sanford Weiner at manipulating the electorate. In 18 years as a political consultant he had orchestrated 172 campaigns, all but 13 of which were successful. On 54 political referenda his record was perfect. An incessant chain smoker, his speech was rapid but deliberate. Weiner was a brilliant strategist capable of pushing aside generalities and focusing on what it took to get his message across to the masses. Sanford Weiner was the professional needed to tie everything together for C.R.A.C. A reporter who covered Weiner’s role in the 1976 referendum campaign observed:The challenge, when Weiner took it on, was a heavy one: to repeddle a tired and unpopular cause—tainted still further through its image as a loser—and to present it somehow as fresh and palatable. But this is where Sanford Weiner has earned his stripes: in altering attitudes, manipulating appearances, reshaping realities to reflect the positive. He is a master of the science of collective persuasion. His success at it suggests a modern axiom: that the public can be induced to swallow any pill, so long as it is skillfully coated.

  Sanford Weiner began his work by getting the lay of the land. He directed a team of volunteers and paid staff workers in compiling a vast amount of knowledge on the entire state, including financial information, demographics, and traditional loyalties among the voting public. From this research he made statistical overlays and ran them through a computer to analyze voting patterns in past New Jersey elections, i.e., what the turnout was and how various areas tended to vote. These facts plus Census Bureau information for individual regions gave him a generalized voting profile of every county and city in the state. Finally, through the use of sophisticated telephone polling techniques he learned the general attitude of the public toward the legalization of gambling. Financed by money from Resorts International, these polls were conducted throughout the campaign up to Election Day, and were relied on in the formulation of a week-by-week campaign strategy.

  Weiner had to know what the voters were thinking prior to making his sales pitch. The ordinary person votes his prejudices; an effective campaign is one that appeals to what the voter already believes in, rather than trying to reshape his opinion through educating him. By early summer, weeks before he began his media blitz, Weiner learned that 34 percent of New Jersey’s voters supported the idea of casinos in Atlantic City; 31 percent opposed it, with the remaining 35 percent undecided. The first group would vote YES no matter was type of campaign was waged. The second group was a lost cause and there would be no effort wasted on them. It was the undecided voter who was the target.

  Generally, it’s easier to get people to vote against someone or something than for a particular candidate or issue. When it comes to political elections, people are more strongly motivated by negative feelings. The voter who has made up his mind to oppose a person or question is more likely to get to the polls than someone who supports a cause. The only thing pro-casino forces were running “against” was Atlantic City’s poverty, hardly an issue that inspired strong feelings outside of the immediate region. Weiner knew he had to get to the undecided voters before someone else gave them a reason to vote NO. Thus, the appeal couldn’t be made to a negative attitude. If the campaign was to be successful, it had to be based upon a preconceived notion of the electorate strong enough to make the undecided voter go out and vote YES.

  Weiner found what he was looking for in his early polling surveys. In reviewing his telephone polls Weiner learned that nearly eight out of 10 New Jersey voters believed that casinos had the potential to generate large amounts of revenue for state government. While the average voter didn’t know just how much revenue gambling would produce, they felt strongly it had to be a lot of money. After all, didn’t Nevada have one of the lowest tax rates in the nation? This was the core attitude upon which to build a sales campaign. The voters already believed gambling could be a positive thing to their wallets by minimizing the taxes they would have to pay to state government. Weiner had a ready-made audience. All he had to do was to bolster the voters’ faith with the right numbers.

  One of several consulting firms hired by Weiner to reinforce his strategy was Economic Research Associates of Washington, D.C. Their study projected the economic impact casinos would have on Atlantic City. It didn’t matter that the figures could possibly have been different—they were good ones, and Weiner ran with them. According to the study, were gambling approved, the first five years would see $844 million on renovation and new construction in the resort, 21,000 permanent new jobs, 19,000 construction-related positions, and $400 million new wages. Equally important was the estimate that gambling would generate $17.7 million for senior citizens and the disabled by 1980. Having the numbers he wanted, Weiner proceeded to weave a wonderful tale: With the approval of casino gambling, Atlantic City would be reborn and the state treasury would overflow with money for the aged and the handicapped. The campaign was off and running.

  By mid-summer Weiner moved into high gear, and C.R.A.C. was right in step. When the national political parties held their presidential nominating conventions, the resort’s politicians seized on the opportunity to court New Jersey’s power brokers. A contingent screened and prepped by C.R.A.C. was sent to each convention. There was a series of lavish receptions sponsored by Resorts International where the state’s leading politicians were stroked. The message delivered to Democrats and Republicans alike was the tack Hap Farley had used for years: “I need your support, but if you can’t help, whatever you do, please don’t hurt me.” Typifying the gains derived from such contacts was an exchange for benefit of the media between Pat McGahn and State Senator Anne Martindell. McGahn: “She said she’s made her last speech against casinos.” Martindell: “I didn’t say that.” “Then you said you would be too busy working for Jimmy Carter to campaign against it.” “That’s it.”

  The state’s political leaders weren’t the only ones wooed by C.R.A.C. One of Weiner’s criticisms of the 1974 failure was that it was an elitist campaign. He decided to create a troupe of more than 100 average citizen volunteers from every walk of life and train them in public speaking. They were briefed on the campaign statistics, which Weiner wanted them to use in their talks to ensure every audience got the same message. Engagements were made for these people throughout the state to speak to groups of their peers: construction workers spoke to construction workers; teachers to teachers; doctors to doctors; accountants to accountants, and so on. In addition to getting out the message by ordinary people on common terms, Weiner had regional campaign headquarters established with primary emphasis on the populace in urban areas of northern New Jersey. Paid campaign workers, assisted by busloads of Atlantic City residents, hit the streets giving out literature and recruiting supporters. In many instances they had the help of the local political organizations who made casino gambling part of their campaigns. Weiner’s troops were on the move.

  As Election Day approached, Weiner launched a media blitz that surpassed anything ever done in support of a referendum in New Jersey. From mid-October to November 2, C.R.A.C. bought more than $750,000 worth of advertising. High-powered commercials were placed on the area television networks, and airtime was bought on nearly every local radio station. During the last two weeks of the campaign, Weiner prepared 14 different television commercials and scheduled more than 1,200 spots on the Philadelphia and New York stations that covered New Jersey. As for radio, during the final 14 days there were nearly 4,500 ads on 70 different stations. In a typical radio spot a sincere voice described the plight of a 72-year-old woman. “Although old and alone, she can still be helped if only you vote YES for casino gambling in Atlantic City.” Th
e announcer explained how the money raised by casinos would help this poor old woman with her rent and utility bills. Everyone had an aging mother, grandmother, aunt, or neighbor. It would cost the voter nothing to lend her a hand with her utility bills and prescriptions. It was Atlantic City marketing at its best.

  In addition to the electronic media there were thousands of billboards, posters, and bumper stickers saturating the state’s highways and shopping centers. The main pitch was to the voters’ pocket-book—what casinos in Atlantic City will do for people all over New Jersey. The campaign slogan was “Help Yourself—Casinos Yes.” The telephone polling continued in order to gauge the campaign’s impact. Where the results showed a large percentage of undecided voters, television and radio spots were increased to saturation levels and campaign workers were sent door-to-door to distribute C.R.A.C. propaganda.

  As a final measure of insurance, $170,000 in “street money”—the amount reported—was paid out on Election Day. Street money is a tradition in New Jersey politics; without it, voters in some areas don’t get to the polls. In many neighborhoods it takes paid Election Day workers to knock on doors, drag people out of their homes, drive them to the polls and, when necessary, buy them lunch, give them a bottle, or slip them a few dollars. C.R.A.C. saw to it that there was enough money on the streets of every major city in the state to guarantee that when these voters finally did get to the polls, they pulled the right lever.

  Sanford Weiner left nothing to chance. By the end of the campaign, New Jersey’s electorate had been massaged to vote for the casinos. The election was a mere formality. The referendum was approved by more than 350,000 votes. Several days later Weiner returned to San Francisco. In less than four months he had played a major role in reversing Atlantic City’s fortunes.