Acting quickly, Rocco went to his brother’s aid, helping him with his little pink pills.
After a few days of legal wrangling, Charley and Rocco Fischetti were flown from Acapulco to the Miami Airport, where—barely having stepped off the plane—they were served with subpoenas to appear in Chicago in front of the Kefauver Committee. Custody was transferred from the Narcotics Bureau agents to federal marshals, with whom Charley got into an argument.
One of Charley’s residences, after all, was in Miami—actually, a mansion on Allison Island—and he demanded to be able to return there, to speak to his wife, and to call his attorney, and generally make arrangements. Even the United States government should have the simple courtesy to treat a taxpaying American citizen with a little goddamn fucking dignity.
The refined collector of modern art, that bon vivant whose nickname not so long ago had been Trigger Happy, blew his top when he was informed he and his brother would be transported directly to the county jail, in “protective custody.” He ranted and raved, and was hauled into a waiting van. The affront of subjecting a connoisseur of the finer things to ride in a paddy wagon was simply too much: Charley exploded.
So did his heart.
And Charley Fischetti got his way: he never had to set foot in that county jail, having died of a heart attack, en route.
Which meant he also avoided testifying in front of the Kefauver Committee, and avoided the wrath of the Outfit, for having disobeyed their collective ruling not to hit Bas and especially Drury.
Brother Rocco did testify—saying “I refuse to answer that” so many times he may have set the record in all of the Crime Committee hearings. (Joey was not called.)
An all-star rogues’ gallery testified in a hearing room at the Federal Building, and I—as a paid investigator on staff, now— heard a lot of it, one of a select handful of insiders allowed to sit in on the hearings, including Virgil Peterson and a few other civic leaders involved with the Chicago Crime Commission, as well that lawyer Kurnitz, who’d been working with the senator’s staffers.
“Why aren’t you up on the dais,” I asked Kurnitz, in the hallway between witnesses, “with Kefauver and his other lawyers?”
The handsome if bug-eyed Kurnitz replied in his courtroom baritone, “Well, of course you understand I’m not really a part of the senator’s staff.”
“I understood you were working for the committee.”
“With the committee, Mr. Heller—not for the committee. I’m a sort of liaison between them and a number of my clients. Friendly witnesses—and confidential sources. Like your friend Bill Drury, rest his soul.”
“And Jack Ruby?”
“Yes, him too.”
The mob all-stars (and in many cases, their lawyers) were kept in a little room fourteen foot square, blue with cigarette smoke, off a hallway that echoed with the chatter of typewriters and office machines, an unsettling symphony for the unlucky witnesses, who had been casually informed by a U.S. marshal that this was the IRS checking their tax records.
The straightback wooden chairs, primly lined along all four walls, were filled with some of the most celebrated criminal backsides not only in Chicago, but America. Be cause most were ex-cons, two chairs were left vacant between the parties, since associating with one another would be a parole violation. Short, square-shouldered Louie Campagna—a minor hoodlum from Capone/Nitti days who’d risen to some power—sat next to (that is, two empty seats away from) big, silver-haired, movie-star handsome Johnny Rosselli, the former’s baggy, slept-in-looking suit contrasting with the latter’s natty Hollywood threads.
Rosselli—and major L.A. mob boss Jack Dragna—were flown in from the coast, because of their connection to the race wire racket.
A small radio was playing the World Series—and the rapt attention of these sports fans was fixed upon the action of the Yankees clobbering the Phillies…almost as if money were riding on the outcome.
For the several days of the hearings, the room—littered with cigarette butts, candy wrappers and newspapers—was mostly filled with men, and famous ones at that: Paul “the Waiter” Ricca; Tony “Joe Batters” Accardo; Al Capone’s brother Ralph; Murray “the Hump” Humphries; Charlie “Cherry Nose” Gioe. The lone woman was Mrs. Charles Fischetti— Anne—a slender, pretty blonde flown up here from Miami; wearing widow’s weeds, she appeared with an attorney, and she rivaled Rocco in the number of times she said, “I refuse to answer that.”
Though these were closed sessions—excluding the public and press…no TV this round!—Kefauver himself would brief the press at the end of the day, giving them a thumbnail description of the testimony. An exception to this procedure, however, was part of the unusual courtesy paid to one witness, Captain Dan “Tubbo” Gilbert.
Under fire from Senator Lucas and other Democratic big-wigs, Kefauver agreed not to subpoena sheriff’s candidate Tubbo—merely extending an invitation to him to appear, on the eve of the election, to give him an opportunity to address the press feeding frenzy over Gilbert’s questionable finances and dubious police practices.
But Kefauver was not entirely caving in to political pressure, because he announced the invitation to the press, which put pressure on Tubbo to comply, though at first the esteemed chief investigator of the State’s Attorney’s office refused the invite.
Then, one afternoon, unannounced, wearing a three-piece tailored brown tweed suit, silk gold-and-yellow tie, and his ruby stickpin, the jovial Tubbo—without an attorney at his side!— just showed the hell up, and expressed a willingness to answer questions. The decks were cleared, and a seat at the witness table made available.
The hearing room was wide and narrow, the gallery consisting of a dozen seats on one side with an aisle and another dozen seats on the other—very few filled, just Peterson and a couple of his people, and Kurnitz and myself. A courtroom atmosphere prevailed: the witness table faced a long bench on a dais in a room made somber by the institutional green plaster walls with dark-oak wainscoting and gilt-framed prints of Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and FDR (other than Illinois’s own Honest Abe, no Republicans, of course—maybe next administration).
Behind the bench on the dais, framed by windows with their blinds drawn, Lincolnesque Kefauver was flanked by his youthful, moon-faced chief counsel, Rudolph Halley, and fiftyish, professorial George Robinson, their associate counsel. All three men wore dark suits and ties and glasses, quite a contrast to Tubbo’s jaunty, dapper attire. No microphones were necessary, and a court recorder sat off to one side, a businesslike young brunette with dark-rimmed glasses and flying fingers.
From private conversation with him, I knew the senator was embarrassed and, well, pissed-off that the other members of the Crime Committee—even Senator Charles Tobey, a Republican who relished castigating thugs for their immorality and misdeeds—had chosen not to come to Chicago and share the political risks.
“Let the record show,” Senator Kefauver said, “that Captain Gilbert was not subpoenaed to come before this committee. You came of your own free will and accord, is that correct?”
“Yes, and let me say at the outset,” Tubbo replied cheerfully, his chin held high (anyway, his first chin), “that I will cooperate one hundred percent. My reason for appearing is the fact that the press has been carrying some malicious stories about me…and, of course, as chief investigator of Cook County, I felt as though I would be doing my duty to come here.”
For several minutes, Kefauver posed background questions—about Tubbo’s age (sixty-one), his family (grandfather of four), his rise to power in law enforcement (swift), and the nature of Captain Gilbert’s job (buck-passing). Tubbo was relaxed and breezy in his responses. When Kefauver shifted gears, it wasn’t immediately apparent.
“The man you work for, State’s Attorney John S. Boyle, has described you as…” Kefauver adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose, as he read from a yellow pad. “…‘one of the hardest-working police officers I have ever known.’”
&n
bsp; Tubbo shrugged, smiled contentedly. “That’s generous of him.”
Halley was already smirking, as he introduced the voluntary witness to his high-pitched, lispy, sarcastic vocal style: “Mr. Boyle also admits you have a reputation as a gambler, and of playing the stock market heavily.”
Another shrug. “Well, I guess you’d say I’m a gambler at heart.”
Robinson chimed sternly in: “And what do you think about a sheriff being a gambler, Mr. Gilbert?”
“I don’t feel it’s any violation of my oath of office—if a fellow wants to bet against me, I am willing to bet.”
“What sort of bet?”
“Well, I bet on football games. I bet on prize fights…but mostly on elections.”
“Elections,” Halley cut in. His upper lip twitched in a sneer. “And how big are these election bets?”
“Oh, in 1936 I think I won around $10,000 or $12,000. In the last presidential election, I picked up around $1,500 by taking odds of seven to one that President Truman would be reelected…. I haven’t lost an election bet since 1921.”
The three men on the dais were clearly amazed by the pride of the last statement.
Finally, Kefauver said. “Your income tax returns, Captain, indicate considerable yearly profits from gambling.”
Yet another shrug. “I never denied doing a little honest gambling on the side.”
Halley leaned forward. “What would you say is your net worth today?”
“Oh…I would say if I sold everything, half a million dollars, something in that neighborhood.”
“Half a million dollars,” Kefauver said, staring at the witness, as if having trouble bringing the chubby, well-dressed cop into focus. “Working as a law enforcement officer on a ten-thousand-dollar-a-year salary—half a million dollars.”
Tubbo seemed neither embarrassed nor defensive—just matter of fact, as he replied, “Mostly it was done through investments—in stocks, bonds, from market tips that friends give me.”
“Friends. Could you give us an example of these friends?”
The big man leaned back in his chair, folding his arms, searching the ceiling for facts. “Well, let me see…. I believe I got my first important stock tip from George Brennan—I was his chauffeur, and a kind of bodyguard, oh, twenty-five, thirty years ago.”
That was Boss Brennan, who had then controlled the Democratic machine in Chicago.
Halley’s shrill voice sliced the air like a scalpel. “Captain Gilbert, getting back to your net worth—can you understand how difficult it is to comprehend how a public servant like yourself got hold of all that money?”
Gilbert then explained, in some detail, how he was trying to invest for his son, how he was worried that on a public servant’s salary he couldn’t provide well enough for his family…and how he had “pyramided” his holdings to $100,000 in the bull market, losing all but $15,000 in the crash of ’29. But he had rebuilt—speculating in grain, diversifying by purchasing shares of Pepsi Cola, Union Pacific, and AT&T.
Halley seemed spellbound by this recitation of financial legerdemain, but finally blurted: “Captain Gilbert, may I ask a question?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“When do you find time to take care of your law enforcement duties?”
“Why, every day—sometimes twenty-four hours when we are working cases.”
“To me, you have quite an active financial business that would have to be watched very closely.”
Shrug. “The telephone is all that does it. The broker I’m dealing with will call me up.”
Halley’s expression might be seen at a car wreck—a bad one, involving fatalities. “You don’t think this interferes with your law enforcement duties?”
“No.”
“It hasn’t cut in on your time and energy?”
“Not whatsoever, no, sir.”
Halley’s eyes behind his round lenses were huge. “You’ve been able to amass this fortune in just your spare time—a hobby, so to speak.”
“That is right.”
“But you also find time for betting.”
“That’s the telephone.”
“That’s the telephone, too?”
“All I do is pick up the phone and make the bet. Doesn’t take five minutes.”
“When you’re betting on sporting events, Captain, where do you place your bets?”
“With a handbook at 215 North LaSalle.”
“Is this legal betting?”
“Well…no sir, it is not. Not in the strictest sense, not legal, no.”
“In your job, as the chief investigator for the State’s Attorney, would one of your duties be to raid handbooks— bookie joints, like the one you frequent?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever done so?”
“Certainly!”
“When was the last time?”
“…1939, I believe.”
As Halley was digesting that juicy tidbit, Robinson asked, “Do you think a person with a ‘gambler’s heart’ can take the right approach in putting down bookmaking?”
“Yes.”
“And other forms of gambling?”
“Yes.”
“What is the difference between your betting on sporting events and elections, and betting on a horse race in a handbook?”
“Well…of course I don’t know what the difference is.”
“Then how can you make a distinction on whether to raid a place or not?”
Tubbo thought about that; then he offered, in what sounded like a question, “If you make a bet in a gambling place on a horse race, it is against the law.”
That one left Robinson reeling, as Kefauver leaned in and took over the questioning, starting with: “Do you know these so-called gangsters, Captain? The Fischettis and Guzik and Accardo?”
“Yes, I know them from seeing them.”
“I mean, have you ever had any relationship with them?”
“No sir. I never did.”
“No business dealings whatsoever?”
“No, sir. None whatsoever.”
“Are you under any obligation to them?”
“No. I am not.”
“Well, what do you think the problem is, here in Cook County? Our own investigators have noted numerous gambling operations running unimpeded.”
Tubbo held his head high. “There are no gambling operations now in the city of Chicago. There have been some in the county, of late, but I am satisfied, should I be elected as sheriff, that we will drive that evil element out, the same as we have driven it out of Chicago.”
Halley—properly astounded by having so outrageous a load of horseshit dumped before him—cleaved the air with that whine of his. “The charge has been made that in all your time as chief investigator, Captain Gilbert, you have not sent any major gangster to jail.”
Tubbo seemed hurt by this suggestion. “That is simply not so—besides, there is no other officer who has done that, either.”
Not bothering to stop to make sense of that, Halley pressed on. “And of course there are numerous unsolved murders in Chicago.”
Another shrug. “There’s numerous unsolved murders all over the United States.”
Halley nodded, as if that were a reasonable response. “Then, Captain, let’s talk about one unsolved murder in particular.”
“All right. If I know anything about it.”
“What can you tell us about the murder of William Drury?”
“Terrible. A terrible thing.”
“You’ve been investigating this murder. Have you uncovered anything?”
“Mr. Halley, there is no police officer gifted with a supernatural mind…. You have to understand, when these gangsters go out and kill they are as precise and detailed in their work as an architect. If a murder is committed by a mobster or gangster element, they leave no traces.”
Halley answered that speech with one of his own: “Wouldn’t the man in the street say to himself, if only Captain Gilbert weren’t concentrating o
n whether or not to buy and sell stocks and bonds, wouldn’t he have given just a little more thought to finding out who killed Bill Drury?”
The chin went up again. “Any time a crime is committed in the city of Chicago and I work on it, I give my wholehearted effort.”
“And that includes the murder of William Drury?”
“Mr. Halley, I have done good work. I have sent thirty-one men to the electric chair, thirteen for killing police officers. In none of those cases was one finger of criticism pointed at my conduct, other than the fact some would say, he has a lot of wealth…. Well, I haven’t bought a car since 1918, and I have no maids.”
The stupidity of that caught Halley off guard.
But Kefauver, referring to a file, picked up the thread. “We have a letter written by the late Mr. Drury, in which he makes certain charges against you to John E. Babb, your opponent in the upcoming election.”
“I’ve seen that letter. Pack of lies.”
“In it, you are described as a ‘menace’ to law enforcement. Is it true that during the period Lieutenant Drury served under you from 1932 to 1937, many topflight gangsters he arrested were speedily released or dismissed in court?”
“With all due respect to the deceased, that’s nonsense, Senator. It just shows that arresting these alleged ‘gangsters’ without any evidence to convict them is irresponsible law enforcement.”
Kefauver sighed; his long droopy face seemed very tired indeed. “Captain Gilbert—would you acknowledge that it would be natural for the public to lose confidence in a police officer who amassed such great wealth?”
Tubbo shook his head, sadly. “The failure of human nature, Senator, is that we are prone to believe evil about our fellow man…especially about a police officer.”
That gem of folk wisdom seemed to stun his inquisitors, and after a few more questions, the executive-session interrogation of the World’s Richest Cop came to a close.
As disingenuous as he’d been, Tubbo—thoroughly incompetent witness that he was—had revealed more than anyone might have expected; but—because of the closed nature of the session, designed not to embarrass the Democratic Party—the transcript would be confidential until the committee’s eventual report. Kefauver’s usual frank press summary of witness testimony would be suspended in the captain’s case. The public would not be privy to Tubbo’s testimony until weeks, perhaps months, after election day.
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