Categories
From The Archives NEW YORK CITY ARCHIVES NEWS NYC ARCHIVES Uncategorized

Thugs in Blue

THE BEAT GOES ON … AND ON
Once Again, Police Pummel a Plan for Reform

Last Wednesday, an enormous mob surged out of control, menaced citizens, pushed through police lines onto city hall steps, and blocked traffic on Broadway and the Brooklyn Bridge. But uniformed cops stood by, smiling—for the maraud­ers were fellow cops, thousands of them. Yelling profanities and racist slurs, they rocked and dented cars; some kicked a New York Times reporter in the stomach, others chanted “asshole, asshole” at a be­wildered photographer and at stalled driv­ers who talked with journalists. One such driver, Virginia Santana, was near tears at the blockade; she was trying to get her kid to the hospital for chemotherapy. Vicky Cohen, standing beside her car, was en­raged. “All they care about is them­selves,” she said. Two cops, looking like frat pranksters, shimmied up the bridge exit sign to suspend a banner declaring: “Support US in Blue not the ACLU.”

Over on Murray Street, Rudy Giuliani addressed another police crowd. “The New York Police Department is the very finest in the United States,” he declared, then went after David Dinkins for being anti-police. He criticized the idea of creat­ing an all-civilian complaint review board. “In the words of my good friend, Guy Molinari, BULLSHIT.” The crowd roared.

Next was introduced Molinari’s daugh­ter Susan, a congresswoman from Staten Island, a big police booster, and a single woman. “Homo,” yelled one cop.

Over at city hall, chief David Scott had tried to urge the cops to clear out, since they had no permit to be there. He was met by a sea of flying middle fingers. “Retire! Retire!” chanted the crowd, many of whom were openly drinking alcohol.

This week, New York City launched yet another effort to bridge the precipitous gap between police and public with a proposal for a new, fully independent Civilian Com­plaint Review Board. Police replied with a Bronx cheer, turning out for one of their largest protests in years. Doubtless tons of time, money, and ink will be devoted to the slugfest, and it’ll be tough to beat the pow­erful Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association, which has already launched a radio blitz targeting the mayor.

The argument for an all-civilian CCRB is politically sexy; it sounds like a good anti­dote to reams of stories of police abuse. But a closer look suggests the proposal on the table is well-meaning but inadequate—for instance, it still leaves the police commis­sioner with the power to decide what, if any, discipline out-of-control cops should get.

Indeed, some reformers doubt that this is even the right battle to wage. Brutality ex­perts warn that the most efficient and fair ex-post-facto investigations of errant cops won’t remedy a more deep-seated problem. To do that requires a fundamental recali­brating of the police department: how it chooses officers, trains them, and what it tells them about their responsibility to the public.

Best solution or not, the CCRB proposal got new life after policeman Michael O’Keefe killed Jose Garcia in Washington Heights last July. Although a grand jury cleared O’Keefe and concluded he acted in self-defense, Garcia’s death galvanized the Latino community, which often finds itself on the business end of a nightstick. But it’s not just minorities who feel the police oper­ate with impunity—as Jeffrey Wassen and Jeffrey Bergida found out.

[related_posts post_id_1=”721023″ /]

CHELSEA: THE JEWS

It was 1:50 a.m. on December 20, 1989, when Jeffrey Wassen’s car hit a taxi near 23rd Street and 8th Avenue; he and his passenger, Jeffrey Bergida, suffered head injuries. Police officers Steven Cruz and Timothy Vandenberg arrived on the scene and asked Wassen if he’d been drinking. Wassen replied that he wanted the advice of Bergida, his friend and lawyer.

That’s when the officers got nasty, ac­cording to a sworn deposition from Dean Burney, the emergency medical technician on the scene. Besides arresting Bergida for interference, they disparaged “Jew law­yers” (Bergida wore a chai) and repeatedly declared, “Maybe Hitler was right after all.” They also taunted: “I don’t think much of Jewish men, but I like Jewish women, they take it up the ass real good,” and “This is what happens when Jews have too much money and they don’t know what to do with it.” They called the two men “fag” and “Jew fag.” Later, when Bergida’s head had been bandaged, officers joked that with the red hospital markings, Ber­gida looked like a character from the TV series Alien Nation.

That episode was kids’ stuff compared with the pain of a fellow in Washington Square Park who was bitten in the testicles by a police dog. Or when cops doused an accused fare beater, Fernando Huerta, with ammonia—then held a lit match close to his head.

[related_posts post_id_1=”718566″ /]

JUST ANOTHER STATISTIC

No one would dispute that policing is a stressful, dangerous profession or that good cops deserve esteem. But with the power, the gun, and the nightstick goes a heavy responsibility which is too often shunted, and when it comes to malevolent, dis­turbed, or violent cops. New York City has a case of terminal denial. Virtually no poli­tician or powerful figure will publicly acknowledge what many privately maintain: that police brutality and abuse in New York City are much more than a blip on an otherwise placid screen.

“The police are given incredible leeway to do whatever they want when faced with a street encounter,” says Legal Aid attorney Scott Ciment. “There is absolutely no gov­ernment oversight to rein in police abuse.” For Ciment and his colleagues, brutality is common as potholes.

Nobody actually knows how many people are threatened, insulted, intimidated, or groundlessly whacked by cops every day. That’s because the system designed to track brutality is hobbled by fear, disillusion­ment, and the self-interest of the data col­lectors. Oddly, in a field in which statistics are churned out like buttermilk, the NYPD won’t release figures for the number of offi­cers disciplined for brutality, the number dismissed, or even which precinct has the most repeat offenders.

All we have to go on are the figures recorded by the Civilian Complaint Review Board, which is staffed entirely by Police Department employees: From January to June of this year, 1854 complaints were filed, surpassing the number filed during that time last year, 1557. Since 1987, the numbers have generally declined, which the New York Civil Liberties Union says does not necessarily mean there’s less police abuse; just that fewer people are filing complaints.

James Fyfe, a noted criminologist and former NYC cop, says no matter how thoroughly most citizens’ complaints are in­vestigated, the majority are fated to be found unsubstantiated. The reason: They come down to swearing contests between cops and citizens. Of all complaints received in New York, only 3 percent are substantiated, far lower than other cities.

As Koch did before him, Dinkins down­plays the possibility of a systemic problem; Lee Brown, by many standards a progres­sive cop, did too. However, with more offi­cers than any other city, New York is unique: Even if 90 percent of the local cops did not engage in misconduct, that would still leave a staggering 3000 abusive cops. That group alone would constitute one of the largest police forces in America. And specialists say 10 percent is a conservative guess.

Polls may be a more accurate measure of the scope of the problem: In 1991, Gallup found that 43 percent of New Yorkers think the police department uses too much force, a big jump from the 29 percent who said so in 1989. Even the tepid CCRB, in a 1990 report, worried: “If the willingness to resort to unwarranted violence demonstrat­ed at Tompkins Square … is a reflection of the altitudes of the members of the police service, there is reason for concern about what is occurring when police supervisors, journalists, and other citizens are not present.”

Public attitudes sometimes exacerbate the problem. “A lot of people in this city believe cops should be able to kick a little ass,” says Dan Johnston, an attorney and ex-CCRB member. “I believe it’s very harmful to the city and to public safety for the police to treat people in a way [that] they lose respect for the law. But many believe the way to police is by fear.”

[related_posts post_id_1=”4736″ /]

QUEENS: THE POLE 

“Why they attacked these kids I don’t know,” says Joseph Karpinski, whose son spent his 18th birthday being beaten by city police. Karpinski makes an interesting ag­grieved party, since he’s a retired NYC cop.

On the night of February 22, 1989, Abi­gail Mullins happened to glance out her window as she waited for her daughter to come home. Just then, she saw a small group of teens standing in front of her house. One reached to light a cigarette for another, and missed. Both friends fell. Their companions were reaching to pull them out of this Keystone Kops predica­ment when a sedan squealed around the corner, nearly hitting the youths. Then, says Mullins, the car’s two occupants attacked the youths. Immediately, a different car ar­rived from the opposite direction, and its occupants, too, ran over and began beating the group. Mullins didn’t realize the at­tackers were police—in fact she thought she was witnessing a mugging—and called 911.

One of the four, a young woman, screamed, and an officer grabbed her, an­other grabbed her boyfriend, a third grabbed Chris Karpinski, and a fourth knocked down Steve Devaney. The young woman says she and her boyfriend spotted a shield around one man’s neck, and, real­izing they were police, stopped struggling. The officers warned them away—”get outta here”—and concentrated on Karpinski and Devaney. Another witness says that after the plainclothes officers had pummeled Karpinski, they threw him on a car, and he rolled over unconscious. While his body lay on the ground, the witness says, a uni­formed cop arrived and started kicking him. They also smacked the youths with their flashlights and radios. Chris lost one tooth; two to three others were cracked, and his face was seriously lacerated above his eye. He now suffers from severe jaw problems. (His father took snapshots; the offi­cial photos, according to the family, disappeared.)

The incident set off a domino chain of litigation; ultimately, criminal charges against Karpinski were thrown out and civ­il suits on both sides dropped. As for the CCRB, it decided there was no evidence to warrant disciplining the officers. Yet, since a judge decided Karpinski hadn’t prompted the attack by assaulting cops, as police al­leged, who was responsible for his injuries seen in the photographs?

In suing the cops, the Karpinskis were hardly alone. A report by Comptroller Eliz­abeth Holtzman shows that in 1991, 659 people filed civil actions against the cops for misconduct, a 25 percent increase from four years earlier. During that time, the city paid out $44 million to victims of police brutality.

Faced now with mounting demand that something be done, the city council last Thursday began discussing a bill to grant independence to the NYPD-controlled Ci­vilian Complaint Review Board, in hopes it will more aggressively investigate police abuses. An angry Mayor Dinkins, still reel­ing from the cop “Mutiny” the day before, reasserted his strong support for Intro 549, sponsored by Ronnie Eldridge, Virginia Fields, and Victor Robles, along with 15 cosponsors, and endorsed by 17 communi­ty boards.

Although revamping the CCRB to give it real power would be a step toward restoring some public confidence, it won’t even begin to address the underlying issues. Councilmember Sal Albanese of Brooklyn who, perhaps more than any other council mem­ber, knows police issues, calls it “a red herring. It doesn’t address the real issues.” The department, he feels, must require that cops be city residents, do better training, and upgrade detection systems to get rid of bad cops early on.

“The screening mechanism is not good enough, there are some white cops who never came into contact with the minority commu­nity before enlisting,” Albanese says.

[related_posts post_id_1=”725990″ /]

THE BOYS DOWN AT THE PBA

Nobody is more attentive to the police bru­tality debate—and no one takes it more personally—than the PBA, which stands ready to battle any reform.

“I want to welcome you to Fort Scape­goat,” PBA president Phil Caruso told a crowd of cops demonstrating in Brooklyn against “unfair treatment of police offi­cers.” Caruso is the Mary Matalin of police reps—always on the offensive for his mem­bers. Caruso groused: “There’s a pattern emerging in this city where the police offi­cers are getting scapegoated and the crimi­nals are getting royal treatment.”

Not so, says Dan Johnston, the ex-­CCRBer. Reviewing complaints was like listening to a broken record: Time and again, police had overreacted when a citi­zen challenged their authority. Johnston re­calls: “They would allow things to escalate instead of trying to keep the peace.”

That habitual overreaction may be in part because officers are so disconnected from the city and people they guard. After the Tompkins Square melee in 1988 in which police pummeled scores, Police Commissioner Ben Ward complained that many of the demonstrators at Tompkins Square were from outside the city—but so were the police. In fact, 40 percent of NYC cops live outside the city, and many others live in “cop neighborhoods” in Staten Is­land and other outer boroughs, often with­drawing into all-cop social lives that only emphasize the “us-versus-them” mentality.

PBA spokesman Joseph Mancini dis­agrees: “Most cops still live in the city. Even those who live outside the city were born here. Once they started earning decent incomes and raising families, they decided they wanted to be in a suburban setting. It doesn’t make them less committed to the city.”

But it’s indisputable that city cops suffer culture shock when they go from their ho­mogenous communities into unfamiliar ter­ritory. Fyfe, the former NYPD officer, grew up in “lily white” Bay Ridge, then found himself plopped into downtown Brooklyn, with its heavy concentration of blacks and Latinos. Fyfe might as well have been in Kathmandu. He learned how to deal with these cultures, but too late: “For a Hispanic man, looking an authority figure in the eye is a sign of disrespect,” he says. “For an Anglo, it’s the opposite. So I’d get angry at a Puerto Rican guy who didn’t look me in the eye, and start yelling at him.” And, too often, from small misunderstandings come larger consequences.

For cops, racial and ethnic strife begin at home—right inside the precinct house. The heads of the black and Latino officers’ asso­ciations say that intolerance permeates the department. “If you expect police to be equitable with people on the street, you won’t get it until they treat their own ranks properly,” says Detective Walter Alicea, head of the Hispanic Officers Association of the NYPD.

Detective Robert Rivers Jr., president of the Guardians Association, the black offi­cers’ group, has had his own brushes with the issue, outside of work. Once when off duty, he tried to speak with a uniformed officer. “I called out and he immediately reached for his gun. What did he see? A bald-headed black man.”

Margaret Fung of the Asian American Legal Defense Fund says her group has seen a large increase in abusive cops. Language is a key difficulty—many Asian immigrants can’t understand police orders and few offi­cers speak their languages. And though Asians make up 7 percent of the city’s population, they make up less than 1 percent of the police force.

Cyril Nishimoto of Japanese American Social Services was pleased when the Mid­town South precinct invited him to come in and offer some “Sensitivity Training.” But Nishimoto says he came away feeling angry because officers ignored his presentation, actually turning their backs on him as he spoke.

[related_posts post_id_1=”731235″ /]

MIDTOWN: THE ITALIAN

According to the CCRB, the most common complaints—40 percent of those regis­tered—concern excessive force, with “dis­courtesy” second at 30 percent. The re­maining complaints are classified as “abuse of authority” (20 percent of grievances), and “ethnic slurs” (5 percent to 8 percent).

Depending on how you look at it, Greg­ory Garguilo drove into at least two and maybe three of these categories as he head­ed home from his job as a parking atten­dant on March 28 of this year.

It was 1 a.m and Garguilo, 28, was sitting at a light on Tenth Avenue, his car pointed north, he recalls. Another sedan, crawling along 59th Street, turned south on Tenth. Then, suddenly, it screeched a U and roared up behind the bewildered Garguilo. Mysterious men came running at his car, one with a gun drawn, yelling “get the fuck out of the car.” Garguilo recalls. The terri­fied Garguilo immediately complied. The men, who still had not identified them­selves, demanded, “Where the fuck did you steal the car?” “Asshole” and “fuck” he says, were part of every sentence. “They were very angry. I kept saying I was the owner. The one holding the gun said if I opened my mouth again he was going to bash it in.”

Garguilo says the plainclothes cops false­ly accused him of running a red light, and he mentioned so in the complaint he filed at the police station. Yet when a revised version of his report was mailed back to him, his claim had been deleted. Garguilo, a clean-cut, serious young man who drives into Manhattan every day from his home in Tappan (where many cops live), can only guess why the police even stopped him. “The cops had a hunch,” he says with a shrug, “and their adrenaline gets going.”

[related_posts post_id_1=”724399″ /]

SPARRING PARTNERS

When citizens complain about cops, PBA lawyers know how to counter. Legal Aid attorney Scott Ciment says when a citizen is charged with assaulting a police officer, its a good bet in many cases that police are covering up their own abuses. “Often as­sault will be the only charge,” Ciment says. “Why were they arrested in the first place? Not that many people go around assaulting cops.” Indeed, many people who have brought civil brutality suits say that when they filed a complaint, the police filed a cross suit, alleging assault. Attorneys famil­iar with such cases say the strategy is com­mon to defuse the original suit, hoping both parties will agree to drop charges.

Sometimes, cops move to protect them­selves well before anyone’s day in court. Another Legal Aid attorney, David Roun­tree, was at the Transit District 3 precinct last year, inside the subway station at 145th Street and St. Nicholas Avenue, waiting for a lineup. An officer brought in a hand­cuffed suspect with a badly bloodied face. Rountree alleges that the desk sergeant, who appeared to know the suspect, re­marked to him that he “must have fallen down the stairs.” The officers present chuckled. After they’d locked him up, the arresting officer came out, and, according to Rountree, the sergeant said, “What do you think you’re doing? I don’t think we can send that guy downtown looking like that.” Then, the EMS arrived and stitched him up.

On a separate occasion, Rountree repre­sented a man who’d been arrested with one or two vials of crack and a small amount of marijuana—misdemeanors—in Times Square. At his arraignment, the man—who had no prior arrests, lived with his parents and worked in a music instrument store—sported a classic shiner. When the judge inquired where it came from, Rountree ex­plained that his client had been thrown to the ground by a rookie officer and kicked in the face with a boot. The D.A. then inter­jected, in an on-the-record comment, that he had been prepared to charge the defen­dant with a noncriminal violation, but based on these allegations of police brutal­ity, he would not make that offer.

Ciment says the D.A. will interview someone who makes allegations of police brutality, but can turn those statements against the defendant at his trial. Further­more, he says that even if defendants are acquitted, confirming that they were indeed victims of brutality, the D.A. will frequent­ly drop all interest in the brutality charge.

Most people won’t sue. If they do any­thing, they will seek redress from the CCRB. But brutality cases slip through like fine grains in a large-bore sieve. Even in the coarsest, most publicized cases, the com­plainants are rarely satisfied. For the enor­mous number of people who feel they’ve been unjustly insulted, humiliated, slurred, intimidated, terrorized, beaten, etc., the bottom line is low indeed: almost no cop is ever meted “serious justice” when citizens charge them with abuse. (The police depart­ment’s Internal Affairs Division simply doesn’t deal with most abuse situations.) “Even when officers are found guilty of using excessive force,” Newsday found in 1991, “the penalty many receive is a one­-week suspension—the same punishment given to an officer who accepts two free doughnuts from a restaurant, wears a turtle­neck while in uniform, or is discourteous to a supervisor.”

Even in well-publicized, outrageous cases like Judith Regan’s, getting justice is not easy. In 1990, Regan, a pregnant Simon & Schuster editor, told officers to stop taunt­ing her cab driver. She was yanked from the vehicle, thrown against the side, hand­cuffed and taken to a police station. There, she was held—still manacled tightly—for five hours and barraged with threats and lewd and anti-Semitic remarks. Cops asked Regan, an Irish-Italian Catholic, what her name was. “Judith,” she replied. No, said a cop, “Jew bitch.” The rough treatment threatened Regan’s pregnancy; she suffered internal bleeding.

“The CCRB, which is one of the biggest jokes in the world, cleared them of any wrongdoing,” she recalls. The D.A.’s office wasn’t much better. “They have to get along with the police. It’s all political. They issued a press release saying basically that they did not have enough evidence to pros­ecute me so they were dropping the charges, implying that I must have done something wrong. The D.A. didn’t want to help me, they wanted me to go away.”

“I was a very bad example: a mother, in a nice outfit, in a nice job. They couldn’t call me a menace, or a drug addict.” Regan says she was harassed afterwards for a long time; a retired officer even called her husband, thinking he was an ex-husband, digging for dirt.

Regan sued, and the city recently paid her a six-figure amount in settlement. How­ever, not a single officer was publicly disciplined.

[related_posts post_id_1=”725362″ /]

CCRB: CIVILIAN COMPLAINT REJECTION BOARD?

Judith Regan’s “joke,” the Civilian Com­plaint Review Board, is made up of six civilians appointed by the mayor, and six NYPD civilian staffers. A majority of its investigators are uniformed cops. William Kuntz, a CCRB appointed member from 1987 until he resigned five months ago, found the coziness troubling. For example, he didn’t much like the board relying on legal opinions from NYPD attorneys, or its deference to the department.

The Tompkins Square report shows the rift between civilian and police members of the CCRB. “You should have seen the Tompkins Square report before I got my hands on it,” says Kuntz, now a Wall Street lawyer. “If I and some other civilian mem­bers of the board hadn’t been as forceful in putting out that what happened in Tomp­kins Square Park was disgraceful, it would have been very different.”

The most devastating evidence of CCRB’s failure came in a 1990 report on the Tompkins Square “Incident,” issued by the New York Civil Liberties Union. NYCLU reviewed the cases of several bystanders who were shown on videotape be­ing bludgeoned by police: fewer than one dozen were charged. but not one was convicted.

Of 143 allegations of abuse and brutality in the park. CCRB substantiated 29, but was unable to identify the cops involved. One reason: the NYPD refuses to take pro­file shots of its officers. After the Tompkins Square report came out, the CCRB recom­mended that the department snap full fron­tal, left and right profile shots of all officers. The NYPD, however, rejected the advice, arguing that the shots would essen­tially treat cops like criminals. (Another proposal, that I.D. numbers be painted on riot helmets, was accepted.)

Worse, though the board recommends, the police commissioner chooses the pun­ishment. Of 143 allegations, only one offi­cer received internal discipline by the de­partment of more than 30 days suspension. To boot, on that rare occasion when the CCRB dared whimper, the cops simply ignored it: Commissioner Ward let her off with a one-year suspension, instead of fir­ing her, as the board recommended. The board’s sleuths themselves leave something to be desired when it comes to investigating their buddies’ behavior. One Legal Aid at­torney recalls an interview between CCRB investigators and her client: “They sounded more like they were grilling a suspect than taking a report.”

Johnston, a former CCRB commissioner and ex-Des Moines district attorney now in private practice in Manhattan, agrees there’s a problem: “There’s nothing about being a street police officer that qualifies anyone to be an investigator.”

Under mounting pressure, the review board has begun to make wheezy, but slightly discernible adjustments. Only two months ago did it publish a brochure in Spanish. And members are for the first time starting to emerge from their cocoon to attend community board meetings.

[related_posts post_id_1=”724782″ /]

LIFE IN THE BLUE BUBBLE

Nothing moves a cop into high gear like a Code 1013 call, Officer Needs Assistance. But mutual support extends to what many call the Blue Wall of Silence, the unwilling­ness to rat on a fellow officer. Some equate it to the Mafia’s omerta, a blood oath.

Based on his trial experiences, attorney Meyerson breaks the bulk of officers into three groups: Those who don’t see what they see, others who tell a half-truth, and still others who outright lie about what they see. “Any police officer’s word is no more intrinsically credible than anybody else’s word,” says Meyerson. “Police officers will lie as readily as anybody else.”

“Coupled with the 10 percent of cops [who may be regularly abusive], you have an excruciatingly difficult problem that can’t be resolved by the most progressive police commissioner,” says Meyerson.

Cops are encouraged to see themselves as different from everyone else. “Because of the aura assigned to police officers by American society, officers have trouble un­derstanding police work is a job, not a way to spend an entire life,” says Guy Seymour, chief psychologist for the city of Atlanta, which is noted for its progressive policing. Seymour, an expert on police behavior, says cops often have trouble separating the rest of their existence from their work.

”People say, ‘I’m a police officer 24 hours a day, 365 days a year,'” notes Sey­mour. “But that’s not true, it’s just that society sees them that way. If we could get police to look at their work more dispas­sionately, the way a good carpenter looks at his handiwork, I think we’d have a lot few­er problems.”

Anger and aggression, which build when cops feel they’re not accorded all the re­spect they deserve, spill over from their work to their personal lives, spawning a pattern of divorce and domestic violence.

“It comes from being accustomed to having people do what you say, and living your life so that you always want to be in control,” Seymour says.

Interestingly, much of the aggression takes place after a suspect has been sub­dued, suggesting that cops are not trained to deal with the adrenaline rush that comes from the chase. Andrew Vachss, who had broad experience with police as chief of a maximum security institution for violent youth and as a probation officer, cites the Rodney King case, in which King was im­mobilized before cops beat him. Vachss says that whenever cops have a confronta­tion involving physical injury to either par­ty, cops are always treated for ‘trauma.’ “That’s an attempt to decompress them.”

Seymour believes police need to learn how to be negotiators and mediators—the opposite of the police academy, where the emphasis is on getting and maintaining control at all costs.

[related_posts post_id_1=”724516″ /]

PBA: POLICE BREASTBEATERS ALLIANCE?

Besides better training, Seymour says police need closer supervision—by bosses who are not their buddies. Supervisors and line cops are both members of the PBA, which vocif­erously opposes independent controls. PBA successfully waged a fear campaign in 1966 that transformed the newly created CCRB from an all-civilian to an all-cop board. David Garth, the consultant who co-chaired the pro-civilian side, recalls the onslaught.

“We had everybody from the entire es­tablishment, but it didn’t make much dif­ference,” he says. “We got killed.”

Attorney Meyerson, who handles police abuse cases, blames outfits like the PBA, and its head, Phil Caruso, for an ostrich act that debilitates New York. “The greatest disservice Caruso does is to his member­ship, because Phil Caruso should be talking about the investment of great deals of mon­ey into psych services in this department, into new recruitment structures, into early intervention and warning systems.”

[related_posts post_id_1=”727972″ /]

ROLE MODELS, NOT ROBOCOP

Solutions and reforms worth trying are in no short supply. To broaden the fairly nar­row, white, working-class base of the NYPD, Adam Walinsky, who served on the state’s Commission of Investigation, pro­poses funding college educations for those willing to commit to four years service as a cop. The goal: a more representative slice of the population, including people who don’t intend to stay on the force forever, and therefore view the job differently.

Alicea of the Hispanic officers associa­tion calls for more aggressive recruitment among Hispanics from within city limits and notes that the so-called recruitment unit has just one Latino doing outreach.

Since the late ’60s, when NYPD was a leader in developing risk management and stress reduction, the city has lagged badly. It might look to Atlanta’s computerized ‘early warning’ system, which ties in dispa­rate sources of information within the po­lice department—internal affairs records, personnel information and field perfor­mance reviews—to warn of officers headed for trouble.

As for diligently tracking complaints, Johnston believes the city ought to be de­veloping a comprehensive career path for civilian investigators that would cover all city agencies, not the limited number the current Department of Investigation over­sees. And he advocates using undercover monitors to help identify abusive officers.

That’s just a slice of the advice pie. But nothing changes unless it comes from on high. “Ultimately,” says Johnston, “the question is: Do you have the right chief, the right commissioner, the right mayor? If people feel the police are out of control, they must let the mayor know that’s going to be an issue in the election.” ❖

Research: Renuka Parthasarathi 

Categories
From The Archives NEWS & POLITICS ARCHIVES THE FRONT ARCHIVES Uncategorized

What’s Wrong With Rudy Giuliani?

What’s Wrong With Rudy?

ON A RAINY DAY LATE in June, about a month after Rudolph Giuliani formal­ly announced his candidacy for mayor of New York, his car rolled north to Harlem for lunch at Sylvia’s restau­rant with an endangered species: black Republicans. Giuliani was conserva­tively dressed in a gray suit, his thin­ning black hair combed into the now familiar it-only-looks-like-a-bad-tou­pee style. He was missing his belt, wristwatch, and the eyeglasses he uses for reading. Giuliani forgot them while rushing out of his East Side apartment in the morning.

The prosecutor-turned-politician was fiddling with a portable phone in an effort to reach a former colleague who had just won convictions in a tough mob trial, when the talk turned to the city school system:

“What are your thoughts about the number of chil­dren enrolled in special education programs?”

“In what sense?,” the candidate replied.

“There are a staggering number of kids enrolled in special education. What are your thoughts on that?”

“You’ll have to make it a more specific question.”

“OK. Well, the number of children enrolled in special education is thought by some to be abnormally high, distressingly high.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand the question.”

“Do you think there are too many children enrolled in special education?”

“Do I think that there are children enrolled in special education inappropriately? That shouldn’t be in a spe­cial education program because the numbers are so high? I don’t know the answer to that.”

This is the man who was the most famous federal prosecutor in memory — the media’s darling, who never seemed to make a false move when the public eye was on him. Now, suddenly, Rudy Giuliani seemed very mortal.

As New York’s top cop, Giuliani spent the past five years in a fortress-like environment, as insulated from the nitty-gritty of urban life as any midwestern Republi­can here to gape at the tall buildings and exotic types. In that monastery of indictments and investigations Giu­liani excelled, but on the streets of New York, he frequently seems lost. His solemn face and candlewax skin were appropriate for an avenging angel announcing the indictment of mobsters, inside-traders, and crooked pols. But at street fairs, walking tours, and other venues for mayoral candidates, Giuliani looks wooden, robotic, even a little ominous at times. If he held up a baby, it might cry.

What happened to the Rudy Giuliani many peo­ple had such hope for? A stunning cross-sec­tion of the city was excited about the idea of his candidacy, but after more than three months of lackluster campaigning, he has slumped badly in the polls. He is trailing both his likely Democratic opponents, Ed Koch and David Dinkins, and so far, he’s looked good only in comparison to the dread Ron Lauder. Fortunately for Giuliani, many voters have yet to make up their minds, but among the uncom­mitted, his campaign has raised doubts and failed to quell fears. And the media, which initially smiled on Giuliani, has joined the chorus of doubt. “I like the idea of change at City Hall,” says one newspa­per executive. “And I like the idea of Giuliani coming in and cleaning things up. But I don’t know what this guy stands for.”

The crime-fighting Giuliani would nev­er have dreamt of becoming, in a single day, the target of tabloid headlines that ranged from “RUDY’S MEN ACTED LIKE NAZIS,” in the Post, to “RUDY HAS A BLACK EYE,” in Newsday. The former allegation was largely bogus; the latter was the biggest blunder of Giuliani’s law enforcement career. In 1987, the prosecu­tor arrested three Wall Street executives on insider trading charges so flimsy that the case against them dissolved almost overnight. Nevertheless, he pressed a two-and-a-half-year criminal investiga­tion of the trio. It ended last week with no charges filed against two of them. The third executive pled guilty to a charge unrelated to the allegations that prompt­ed the arrest. “It was a mistake to move with that case at the time that I did,” Giuliani said, “and to that extent I should apologize to them.” But Giuliani’s tortured explanation did not help. The politician was paying a heavy price for the abuses of the prosecutor.

Giuliani’s supporters believe his strongest personal and political quality is his leadership ability, but the campaign has so far found him on the defensive on important issues like abortion and irrele­vant ones like Noriega. His continued fixation on the C-words — crime, crack, and corruption — might well require the services of a deprogrammer before the election. (Giuliani recently conducted separate press conferences on corruption on three straight days.) “He’s good at the only thing a mayor doesn’t have to do — ­prosecute criminals,” says Democratic mayoral candidate Richard Ravitch.

Giuliani’s political beliefs remain shrouded by the “fusion” fog pouring forth from his $23,000-a-month headquarters at Rockefeller Center. Giuliani’s press releases refer to him as a “fusion candidate” or omit his party affiliation. This is an honorable tradition in New York, where Fiorello La Guardia ran as a Republican/Socialist, and John V. Lind­say initially pieced together a Republi­can/Liberal coalition and won reelection without the GOP. But La Guardia, and Lindsay (at least initially) had a popular touch that overcame confusion about their affiliations. Giuliani will go through the ritual flesh-pressing of New York politics, but watching him meet and greet voters, it’s clear he doesn’t have the com­mon touch. Giuliani is used to the kind of personal appearances a crimebuster would be expected to make. He is intro­duced, makes a short, formal speech, an­swers questions from a friendly, white, middle-class audience, and departs. This is not exactly the testing ground on which voters in New York decide whom they will allow to live in Gracie Mansion.

The abortion issue, in particular, has left the two-fisted gangbuster doing more head spinning than Linda Blair in The Exorcist. The Supreme Court’s ruling last month underscored Giuliani’s unwilling­ness to take strong positions on most controversial issues. “I would not take a leadership position supporting or opposing abortion,” Giuliani said just after the court’s decision was announced.

But the problem for Giuliani goes much deeper than appearances. There’s a perception among large groups of voters he will need to fashion a winning coali­tion that Rudy is traveling in three direc­tions at once. Giuliani wants the Republi­can and Liberal Party nominations. He must also attract large numbers of Demo­crats if he is to become the next mayor of New York. He therefore presents himself to the voters in the fuzzy form of Mr. Fusion, the candidate who is all things to all people.

It’s worthwhile noting that Giuliani’s pronouncements on issues like abortion are made only after what one of his asso­ciates calls “considered judgment.” For instance, shortly after the abortion ruling was announced, staffers huddled at Giu­liani’s campaign headquarters. They re­viewed the decision and Giuliani’s previ­ous statements on abortion. They also discussed questions Giuliani might be asked as a result of the ruling. They then moved on to a second meeting with the candidate himself. “We presented to him what had happened and what he’d said on abortion,” former campaign manager Russ Schriefer explained. “We let Rudy talk for a while, and as he talks, we kind of get an idea what his position is, where he’s coming from.” The Giuliani team then peppered the candidate with ques­tions he might be asked. Only after this process was completed did Giuliani emerge from his campaign cocoon to pub­licly turn one thumb up and one thumb down.

As Schriefer explained, without appar­ent irony, the most challenging aspect of the Giuliani campaign was illustrated by the abortion controversy. “Every decision you make has to be weighed as to how it’s going to affect another element or anoth­er area,” he says. “Abortion was one where the decision-making process had to take into account that there was a liberal position, a Democratic position, and a Republican position.” The “decision-­making process” clearly wasn’t good enough. Giuliani’s waffling hurt him bad­ly among women and Jews, prompting an unconvincing recent “clarification” in which the man opposed to Roe v. Wade said that he would fight any effort to outlaw abortion. “It’s one thing to screw up through inexperience,” said a Koch campaign official. “But you don’t have to be a brain surgeon or a savvy politician to have a strong, clear position on abor­tion.”

At a recent town meeting, Giuliani was asked a simple question about whether community boards should be given more power and money. It took him 350 words to explain that he would “be happy to consider” such an increase. Even when it comes to crime, Giuliani’s performance has hardly been emphatic. The candidate has had much difficulty in straightening out the exact age at which he believes young killers should be electrocuted. Is it 14, 15, 16, 17?

Then there was the Donald Trump newspaper ad in which the balding air-­shuttle executive talked about his “hate” for muggers and murderers and the need to incinerate the little criminals. Even death penalty–Ninja Ed Koch found this excessive, but Giuliani hailed the ad by the co-chairman of his first big fundrais­ing event as contributing to what he called a “healthy debate.” On the day he announced his candidacy, however, Giu­liani traveled to Bishop Loughlin, the Catholic high school in Brooklyn that he attended as a boy, and faced a solidly black and Hispanic student body. Giu­liani swiftly distanced himself from “Trump-the-ad” when a black student asked him if he endorsed the hyperactive casino owner’s position. No flapdoodle for this audience.

Giuliani has raised eyebrows among Irish voters by expressing warm admira­tion for Margaret Thatcher, and blundered through a campaign appearance at a city firehouse — a place where partisan politicking has always been prohibited. His campaign garnered a potentially valuable endorsement from the families of four slain policemen, but he promptly angered other fallen cops’ relatives by announcing the endorsement minutes af­ter a memorial service for the officers.

“Rudy does not suffer from the Arthur Goldberg or Pete Dawkins syndrome,” in­sists Raymond Harding, the Liberal Par­ty leader who has singlehandedly crafted the Giuliani fusion. “This is not a man who goes out to campaign and steps on his dick.”

Perhaps not, but Giuliani is clearly a man who has had trouble with his fly.

By mid-June, it became apparent that the campaign was in trouble. By July, the polls confirmed the obvious: Giuliani was trailing Din­kins and Koch. His declining pop­ularity has made fundraising more diffi­cult, and by August, he was faced with a financial crisis. Two weeks ago, he cut staff salaries in order to generate cash for television ads — the lifeblood of any effec­tive campaign.

Perhaps it was inevitable that, when trouble arose, Giuliani would place the campaign in the hands of one of his old­est and most trusted friends. With the exception of one stint as a lawyer in pri­vate practice, he has spent his entire ca­reer as a criminal prosecutor. He shares the caution and suspiciousness of the law enforcement fraternity. As a prosecutor, Giuliani’s top deputies were more than subordinates; they were his personal friends. So it’s not surprising that he would push out the pros. Says one Giu­liani confidant: “You don’t win Rudy’s trust overnight.”

Peter Powers and Rudy Giuliani go back to high school. They double-dated, joined the same fraternity at Manhattan College, graduated in the same class at NYU Law School, and then went their separate ways professionally — Giuliani to the federal prosecutor’s office in Manhattan, Powers to a successful practice as a tax attorney. The two men still live close to one another on the Upper East Side, and their passion remains arguing about politics. This decades-old dialogue goes back to the days when Giuliani was a Kennedy liberal. Powers is a lifelong con­servative, and though the two still don’t see eye-to-eye on everything, he has emerged as the most influential figure in Giuliani’s organization.

The steady, cautious Powers has been involved with the campaign since day one. He was part of a team who picked Richard Bond, George Bush’s former deputy campaign manager, and Schriefer, another Bushie, as a team to run the campaign. As Giuliani’s candidacy floun­dered, he turned more and more to Pow­ers. One afternoon in late June, the two men sat side by side in a nearly empty car of a Metroliner bound for Philadelphia. It was the first time in months Giuliani and Powers had been able to enjoy each oth­er’s company without interruption. Their talk, however, was about the problems they had left behind in New York. “Look,” the candidate told Powers as the train slid through Trenton, “I think it’s time you came on board full-time.”

Over the next month, Powers was phased into the campaign. By July, Schriefer, who had been the day-to-day manager of the campaign, was meeting each morning with a “management com­mittee” composed of Powers, campaign chairman Arnold Burns, and Liberal Par­ty chief Harding. On July 25, Giuliani made it official by appointing Powers as his campaign manager. Attorney Ken Ca­ruso, another longtime Giuliani pal, is slated to become Powers’s deputy. He joins deputy campaign manager Bob Bucknam, another friend who worked for Giuliani as an assistant U.S. attorney. Schriefer and Richard Bond — two “Bushies” originally hired to run the campaign — were pushed aside.

(Giuliani’s old sidekick, Denny Young, has never been a major player. Young made the move to White & Case with Giuliani, and his duties with the firm have prevented him from becoming a full-time campaign activist. His presence is missed. As Giuliani’s top deputy in the U.S. attorney’s office and a close friend, Young often seemed epoxyed to his boss. The mild-mannered Young functioned much as a human Thorazine tablet by calming Giuliani in moments of anger and tension.)

The new team is long on the trust factor and very short on political experi­ence. Powers clearly has his work cut out for him. Despite a large and highly paid staff of 35, Giuliani has no briefing book containing his positions on important is­sues and other pertinent facts. The candidate has also been writing his own speeches — an enormous waste of time, particularly since Giuliani lives in anoth­er era when it comes to the written word. He does not type. He does not dictate. He writes everything from letters to major speeches in longhand on yellow legal pads and gives them to his faithful longtime secretary, Beth Petrone, to type. Outsid­ers brought in to check the campaign’s temperature were amazed to realize that the candidate was laboriously composing speeches that should have been done by hired hands.

Powers says speechwriting has now been turned over to others. A briefing book is being prepared. Another nagging problem, the lack of a media consultant, has been solved with the hiring of Roger Ailes.

The newest member of Giuliani’s inner circle of advisors, Ailes is a 49-year-old veteran GOP media man with the reputa­tion of a tough guy. Ailes is said to have a certain flair for leaning on journalists. Barely on board, he has already called a reporter to complain that her story on a recent Puerto Rican Day Parade in the Bronx had a pro-Koch slant.

Ailes was one of Nixon’s key media men in 1968, and has a lengthy involve­ment in GOP politics. When Nixon went on television in 1970 to announce the U.S. invasion of Cambodia, Ailes was there. Foolish Nixon advisers wanted the president to use a pointer to illustrate the movement of our boys into the tiny Asian nation. But Ailes quickly realized that the heavy pointer might cause Nixon’s hand to shake, thereby sending the wrong message to the nation and the communist enemy. Thanks to Ailes, Dick Nixon used his forefinger on that fateful night.

Ailes was also manning the ramparts during the dark days of Al D’Amato’s campaign for the Senate in 1980. Once again, the media savant proved equal to the task by unleashing Ma D’Amato on television audiences. The elderly lady was strategically placed at the produce counter of a supermarket. “Every time I go to the supermarket, prices keep ris­ing,” she complained. “I am afraid to walk the streets because of crime. That’s why my son is running for the Senate.”

The rest is history.

Ailes fashioned George Bush’s televised attacks on Michael Dukakis last year, though the modest videomeister denies any responsibility for the infamous Willie Horton commercial. This year he has already raked in major bucks by turning out insufferably boring commercials for Giuliani’s Republican foe, Ron Lauder. After either being ousted in a power struggle or discovering to his horror that Lauder was out to get Giuliani, Ailes quit the Lauder campaign.

Giuliani aides say Ailes has been push­ing the candidate to go on television as soon as possible, but the campaign’s con­tinuing financial woes have made it un­certain when commercials will begin. Ailes is planning a series of “positive” ads to precede the September 12 primary. This may well work against Ron Lauder, but in the general election, some of Ailes’s better-known traits may emerge. There’s already been a backlash among liberals to the mere presence of this hard­core Republican — a heartbeat from Lee Atwater — in the Giuliani camp. Ailes’s own image problems could complicate Giuliani’s task of courting Democrats in the general election.

If that weren’t difficult enough, Ailes must teach the candidate to deal with the press. Giuliani needs to return to the “directness and candor” that marked his style as a prosecutor, says Ailes. “I think he’s been too careful. Rudy should stop worrying about being political candidate Giuliani and just be Giuliani.”

That first day of Giuliani’s campaign, May 17, also launched his mushrooming press problem. The day began well enough. The candidate, flanked by his wife, television anchorwoman Donna Hanover; son, Andrew; and mother, Hel­en, launched into a speech highlighting the C-words: crime, crack, and corruption. The R-word, Republican, was never uttered.

After delivering the speech announcing his candidacy, General Giuliani executed the first flanking maneuver of the war to come by walking out of the Metropolitan Republican Club in Manhattan without answering any questions from the media. Television, the important medium, would be forced to focus on his message without the danger of annoying questions that might deflect attention, and airtime, from the candidate and the C-words. The strategy worked in the same way one might succeed in “tricking” a drunken gang of Hell’s Angels armed with chain saws and lead pipes. The press quickly caught up with Giuliani and began a sav­aging that continued for weeks. Wasn’t his new law firm, White & Case, representing the government of Noriega, the Panamanian dictator/drug dealer? Of course it was a nonissue. And the media would cream him with it.

The transition from prosecutor to poli­tician transformed Giuliani’s press rela­tions. During his five-and-a-half years as U.S. attorney, Giuliani’s critics liked to revile him as a masterful media manipu­lator, but it took candidate Giuliani less than a week to establish just how gener­ous that assessment of his talent really was. Giuliani sweated, shifted in his seat, and in one instance simply fled the pres­ence of a hostile television journalist. Nothing remotely like this had happened to him on Foley Square.

“It’s the case of a guy from a very protected environment being thrown into one of the toughest [media] bullrings in the world,” says David Garth, Koch’s me­dia maven. “I can understand the culture shock.”

And Giuliani’s new opponents were not handcuffed or accompanied by lawyers telling them to say nothing. The candi­date’s political enemies readily heaped verbal napalm on his head. Of attacks by rascals Ed Koch and Republican perfume scion Ron Lauder, Giuliani said: “If they really were men, they would apologize.” Needless to say, the unmanly imps sneered at the White Knight and contin­ued to slip thistles under his mayoral saddle.

“Prosecutors throw bombs. Mayors catch them,” says Mitchell Moss, director of NYU’s Urban Research Center. “Giu­liani has proven to be a bleeder.”

Koch in particular seemed to sense instinctively that it takes very little to set Giuliani off. He was right. Even as U.S. attorney, Giuliani could be stupendously thin-skinned. For instance, there was a flattering profile of Giuliani published in the Daily News Magazine shortly after he became U.S. attorney in 1983. The story was typical of the favorable pieces that were regularly written about Giuliani dur­ing his tenure. The author provided some balance to the article by mentioning a few criticisms of the prosecutor. There was a line in the story that reported — correct­ly — that Giuliani had a temper.

“He got so upset about it,” his wife, Donna Hanover, recalls. “He was hurt, saying this is terrible and so forth. I said, ‘Honey, it’s a little line. There are two or three criticisms in this long article.’ But he was in agony. We agonized the whole Sunday. It was a miserable, miserable day.”

Giuliani’s best qualities — intelligence, courage, honesty, and leadership abili­ty — have yet to put in an extended appearance on the campaign trail. His worst traits — self-righteousness, hypersensitivi­ty, and a grasping opportunism — have been too much in evidence.

His message, certainly, is not getting through. Most New Yorkers know little more about what Giuliani believes than they did three months ago. They might be forgiven for wondering if the candi­date actually has any strong feelings on any issue besides law enforcement.

Just what does Giuliani believe?

As most people know, Rudy Giu­liani started life as a liberal Democrat who worshipped John and Robert Kennedy. He voted for George Mc­Govern in 1972, and according to friends who knew him then, despised Richard Nixon with a fervor typical of Kennedy worshippers. A year later, however, he registered as an independent. He did so partly because of his growing disillusion­ment with the party of McGovern but also, as he told the Daily News, because he was working as a federal prosecutor in a Republican administration.

In 1975, Giuliani came under the wing of Judge Harold Tyler, a pillar of the respectable Republicanism of the Eastern Establishment. Tyler was appointed num­ber two man in the Justice Department of Gerald Ford, and took Giuliani along with him as his deputy. When Ford was turned out of office in 1976, Tyler took Giuliani back to New York with him as a partner in the white-shoe law firm then known as Patterson, Belknap & Webb. By then, his politics blended with those of the firm: the liberal Republicanism of Nelson Rockefeller.

A month after Ronald Reagan defeated Jimmy Carter in 1980, Giuliani switched again, registering as a Republican. The timing was not coincidental. When Rea­gan took office in 1981, Giuliani was of­fered the number three job in the Justice Department. Giuliani took two young as­sociates with him to Washington. He ad­vised Renee Szybala, a liberal Democrat, and Ken Caruso, who had no party affili­ation, to become Republicans, just as he had.

Giuliani was showing a flair for taking on the political coloration of his employ­ers, and his stint as associate attorney general from 1981 to 1983 marked him as a loyal and energetic Reaganaut. He was a leading player in the administration’s war on drugs, and capably supervised an array of important Justice Department agencies.

His first messy mission involved a pending criminal case against McDonnell Douglas. The gigantic St. Louis airplane manufacturer and four of its executives had been charged during the Carter ad­ministration with bribing Pakistani offi­cials to buy the company’s DC-10 airlin­ers. In one of the controversial early decisions of the Reagan administration, Giuliani dropped criminal charges against the four executives. He concluded that the government’s case against the four rested on the retroactive application of a congressional act outlawing overseas bribery, even though the courts had up­held the legality of the indictment. It was the kind of pro-business gesture that set the tone for the Reagan years.

A second act Giuliani undertook as as­sociate attorney general has come back to dog him in the mayoral campaign. The Reagan administration decided to stop the influx of Haitian refugees into south­ern Florida by jailing those who arrived in the Sunshine State and turning back those they could stop at sea. More than 2000 Haitians were placed in detention facilities critics described as “concentra­tion camps.” This shameful policy was not of Giuliani’s making, but he went to dubious lengths to defend it. Partly on the basis of a 48-hour trip to Haiti in 1982, he testified that political repression was not a problem in Haiti under Presi­dent-for-Life Jean-Claude “Baby Doc” Duvalier.

“It was like someone in our own gov­ernment getting up to say the Soviet Union is a democracy,” said Stephen Cohen, a State Department human rights specialist in the Carter Administration, who found Giuliani’s assessment “laughable.”

Giuliani’s opinion — although based on a visit somewhat shorter than a luxury cruise boat-docking — was important. Im­migration law permitted aliens to be granted asylum in the U.S. if they fled political persecution. So if the Haitians were to be kept out, it was essential for Giuliani to find an island bereft of politi­cal torture, imprisonment, and intimida­tion. He followed up his trip to Haiti with an appearance as a government witness in a federal civil case in Florida filed on behalf of the refugees. Under questioning by lawyers for the Haitians, Giuliani de­scribed the dread Tonton Macoutes as an “interior police department” that was “alleged” to have committed repressive acts in the 1960s.

Q. Do you believe that the Tonton Ma­coutes does not exist anymore?

A. I don’t know if they exist or don’t exist.

And:

Q. Mr. Giuliani, in your tour of Haiti, how many prisons did you visit?

A. I spoke with no prisoners.

All of this suggests that like most poli­ticians, Giuliani is a man quite capable of adjusting his beliefs to suit the temper of the times. And a man whose political advice the candidate values highly is, not surprisingly, a professional pollster.

Robert Teeter was the pollster and a top campaign strategist for George Bush in last year’s presidential campaign. The 50-year-old former political science in­structor has been active in Republican politics since he went to work for Michi­gan governor George Romney in 1956. He is widely regarded as one of the best in the business by Democrats and Republi­cans alike.

Teeter’s advice helps to account for the Johnny One-Note character of Giuliani’s campaign. “By anybody’s definition, those [crime and drugs] are severe prob­lems in the city,” Teeter says. “But more importantly, they are the problems the voters think need attention right now.” Teeter, who lives and works in Ann Arbor, Michigan, flies into New York peri­odically for discussions with Giuliani and members of his campaign staff. He and Giuliani also talk by phone. Teeter, at least, has no doubt about Giuliani’s poli­tics: “I think he has a fundamental, basic, Republican, center-right philosophy.”

Which brings us to the old saw about strange bedfellows. The last member of Giuliani’s Gang of Four is Ray Harding, a portly aficionado of unfiltered Camels who holds a doctorate in political schem­ing. Harding has been a major player in the endless and impenetrable infighting in the state’s minuscule (and ridiculous) Liberal Party. But he delivered the par­ty’s nomination to Giuliani and is ad­mired by the candidate for his shrewd­ness and political judgment.

Of the men Giuliani relies upon the most for political advice — Powers, Ailes, Teeter, and Harding — only Harding has extensive experience in New York poli­tics. Some political observers believe this to be a serious shortcoming. Ailes dis­agrees: “I haven’t done a whole lot in New York,” he says, “but politics is poli­tics. I’d never done anything in Wyoming, and I won in Wyoming.”

With the new team in place, the future of Giuliani’s campaign is becoming clear. “You’re going to see a new Rudy coming down the pike in the next few weeks,” Powers predicts. The “new” Rudy will speak more forcefully; his answers will be clearer and more concise. The candi­date is being made over into a strong leader with the courage and determina­tion needed to make the changes voters want.

His learning curve is on the rise. De­spite blackouts on topics like special edu­cation, his knowledge of municipal prob­lems has increased since the campaign began. He has earnestly studied the is­sues in briefing sessions that feature guest experts who enlighten him on vari­ous subjects. But one of those urban spe­cialists, who arrived eager to share his expertise with the mayor-to-be, came away disappointed by Giuliani’s glassy-­eyed response. “He was very passive, and he didn’t seem at all familiar with the issues we were discussing,” the expert said. “If it were Mayor Koch, he would have been engaging me and asking tough questions. I didn’t have any sense that I was getting through.”

“Getting through” to Giuliani is a mat­ter of arousing his passion. The man who as a little boy donned priestly vestments sewn from Turkish towels to solemnly perform the mass and distribute Holy Communion to his mother and grand­mother does not take things lightly. (On one occasion, his mother substituted chocolate mints for the white Necco wa­fers she normally gave him for use as communion hosts. Young Rudy sternly rebuked her for sacrilege.)

Giuliani has moved from passion to passion throughout his life. Horse-racing, tennis, New York Knicks basketball, pho­tography, and the Civil War are among the interests that he has embraced and abandoned. These pursuits are not as well known as his love of the law, opera, and the New York Yankees, but he has approached them all in the same way. He will read everything he can get his hands on about a topic that strikes his fancy in an effort to master it as quickly as possi­ble. Last winter, when Giuliani privately decided to become the 106th mayor of New York City, he devoured books about municipal government in his small East Side apartment at night and played U.S. attorney during the day.

But the passion always seemed to be missing. Giuliani appeared to look upon governing New York City as a problem to be analyzed and dissected rather than an intoxicating challenge to his abilities. He has always been keenly interested in poli­tics, but there is nothing in his past to suggest that he wanted to become the mayor of New York. He has talked with some measure of enthusiasm about be­coming governor, but the road to Albany is blocked by Mario Cuomo’s popularity. He also toyed at length with the notion of challenging Democratic senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan, but he ultimately abandoned the idea.

At the time, one of his closest friends said Giuliani seriously considered run­ning against Moynihan only because the opportunity had presented itself rather than because Giuliani wanted to become a U.S. senator. The same might well be said of his mayoral candidacy. Ed Koch’s job was the only important political posi­tion on the horizon when Giuliani wrapped up his law enforcement agenda at the end of 1988 with the trial of Bess Myerson and the settlement with Drexel Burnham, Wall Street’s big bad investment firm. Giuliani took the plunge, but nothing about the candidate or his campaign to date suggests that anything approaching a fire burns in his belly.

Giuliani’s supporters are betting that he’ll hit his stride as the campaign un­folds and take on the job of vanquishing his rivals with the same workaholic drive he applied to the Mafia and political cor­ruption. That may happen. Giuliani is a man who doesn’t like to fail — as a college student he was blackballed by the most prestigious fraternity on campus, but he rebounded by promptly gathering a group of his friends and taking over a dying fraternity with three members. The re­born frat made Rudy its president.

But New York City is no fraternity. The divisions between rich and poor, black and white, prochoice and antiabortion, are too deep to permit the election of a formless Mr. Fusion. Rudy Giuliani isn’t La Guardia, and he won’t defeat a Dinkins with bona fide liberal creden­tials, or a middle-class hero like Koch, unless he tells the voters exactly who he is and what he stands for. “It’s going to be a lot easier for us when we get down to the general election and it’s one of them against one of me,” Giuliani predicts. It’s true that he will get a second chance. But the “new” Rudy will have to show much more to convince New Yorkers he’s an alternative to the “old, tired political leadership” that has made one of the world’s great cities a miserable place for the poor and middle-class alike. ■

 

Categories
CITY HALL ARCHIVES From The Archives NEW YORK CITY ARCHIVES NYC ARCHIVES Uncategorized

Why’s a Nice Man Like David Dinkins Running for Mayor?

Except for a 109-year-old woman and some of her family members, the Most Worshipful Enoch Grand Lodge in Bedford Stuyve­sant was nearly empty on a recent April night. The 17 people in the masonic hall’s main meeting room were waiting for David Dinkins, mayoral candi­date, to arrive to present a proclamation — on the oc­casion of her birthday — honoring Aunt Jannie Glover for living so long. As photo opportunities go, it was not shaping up to be a good one: one local television camera crew, one reporter, and one photographer. An organizer of the birthday party worried about the turnout: “There were a lot of people who were supposed to show up who didn’t. I don’t know what happened to them.”

When he arrived at 6:25, Dinkins ap­proached Aunt Jannie, who was sitting at a folding table, and introduced himself:

“Hello, Aunt Jannie, I’m David Din­kins. I’m the borough president of Manhattan.”

“Who?”

“I’m David Dinkins, the borough presi­dent of Manhattan. I’m here to give you this proclamation.”

“What?”

“I’m going to be the next mayor.”

“What?”

“I’m going to be the next mayor.”

“That’s nice,” a not-too-impressed Aunt Jannie responded.

Dinkins read the framed proclamation announcing April 20, 1989, to be Aunt Jannie Glover Day in Manhattan. That Glover, a Brooklyn resident, has never lived in Manhattan a day out of her 109 years does not really matter. This is, of course, an election year, and 109-year-­olds are not that easy to come by. Espe­cially ones with family members active in the Brooklyn Democratic organization.

[related_posts post_id_1=”727545″ /]

IN POLITICAL CLUBS, synagogues, civic associations, and church basements across New York City over the past few weeks, a familiar scene has been played out nightly. The three Democrats actively running for mayor — Dinkins, Comptrol­ler Harrison (Jay) Goldin, and banker/builder Richard Ravitch — are each given about 15 minutes to explain to crowds numbering as few as 25 people why they should be the one to replace Ed Koch, who has not yet begun to campaign.

Ravitch, hampered by his perennially hoarse voice and plodding monotone, reg­ularly has trouble holding a crowd, though his speech is thoughtful and his resume impressive. Goldin’s presentation, on the other hand, is a high-speed trip through the failures of Ed Koch’s admin­istration, a talk that often includes the recounting of a bicycle ride through Cen­tral Park during which Goldin’s son won­ders, “Daddy, would you like to see the pushers?” The comptroller, with his arms flailing about, sounds like a mix between Lowell Thomas on speed and Eddie Mur­phy’s Gumby character.

As the front-runner in the race — the latest Marist Institute poll shows him with a 12.5 per cent lead over Koch­ — Dinkins is often the most anticipated speaker at these forums.

In his standard address, the borough president focuses on crime and drugs as well as the poor planning and “crisis-to-­crisis management” of what he calls the “current administration,” to which he rarely attaches Koch’s name. But since he has yet to unveil detailed solutions for the major problems he identifies, Dinkins falls back on general, conceptual notions. Speaking last month before the Douglas King Democratic Club in Queens Village, for instance, he said, “We must expand the criminal justice system” to deal with jail over-crowding, and spoke of the need for a “greater police presence” at the lo­cal level. Referring to drug treatment and education, Dinkins said, “We’re not handling it right. We’ve got to find options for young people.” As to other problems, the often says, “I suggest that we can do better. And we must.”

[related_posts post_id_1=”726967″ /]

In his public appearances, Dinkins is careful not to stray too far from his stump speech, careful not to take any unnecessary chances this early in the campaign. While he ticks off various shortcomings in the city’s hospital and health care system, all Dinkins will say about quality of care is that city hospitals “are not doing nearly as well as they might.” Of course, the candidate must realize that the city’s health system is in abominable shape, but he does not choose to say this. When asked at an East Side candidates’ forum about the conditions in Brooklyn’s Kings County Hospital, Din­kins appears surprised by the question. All he can offer the questioner is that “I’m distressed,” and that city emergency rooms have become the family doctor for many city families.

Dinkins also often avoids talking about how programs would be implemented, and what they would cost. And with bud­get restraints at the city, state, and feder­al levels-not to mention possible eco­nomic downturns, or even a recession­such a financial component has taken on added importance this election year. Din­kins’s desire to limit high school size to 1500 (some currently have more than 3500 students) and his desire for treat­ment on demand for substance abusers are commendable, but the candidate has yet to explain where the money would come from to pay for these programs.

Since announcing for mayor in Febru­ary, Dinkins has been badmouthed and second-guessed — behind the scenes — on everything from his choice of media ad­visers (the high-profile Washington team of David Doak and Bob Shrum) to his speaking style (“almost as boring as Ra­vitch,” according to one elected official), his lack of concrete proposals, and his supposedly slow-developing campaign apparatus. Although the Dinkins campaign is just beginning, the general wisdom seems to be that it’s already stalled. That the efforts of Ravitch, Goldin, Koch, and Republicans Rudolph Giuliani and Ron­ald Lauder cannot approach the organi­zation, volunteers, or enthusiasm gener­ated so far by the Dinkins campaign is rarely discussed. (Clearly, none of the other three Democrats could come close to mustering the horde of noisy supporters that greeted Dinkins at the overflow opening of his West 43rd Street head­quarters in late March.) These swipes at Dinkins may well come with the title of front-runner, but they are also surely rooted in an ugly mix of racial paternal­ism, jealously, and greed, especially from some of the city’s traditional political “handlers” who have been excluded from Dinkins’s campaign, and therefore left without a paycheck.

[related_posts post_id_1=”727493″ /]

But with polls showing Dinkins with large leads over his three Democratic op­ponents, this backbiting can be fairly eas­ily ignored by the candidate and his cam­paign. Bill Lynch, who served as Dinkins’s chief of staff before leaving to manage his mayoral campaign, says of his campaign apparatus, “We’re damn sure closer than anyone else. As far as I’m concerned, we’re where we should be at this point.”

In fact, campaign supporters — and sometimes Dinkins himself — sound as if the Democratic primary has already been won and that the real battle this fall is with Rudolph Giuliani, who might appear on two lines in November’s general elec­tion. In 15 campaign appearances attend­ed by the Voice over a recent two-week period, Dinkins uttered the word “Koch” only three times, while he often brought up Giuliani. His remarks at a Greenwich Village fund-raiser were typical. “I’m sure Rudy will get around to announcing someday and then it’ll be interesting to see him explain how he can be running as a Liberal and a Republican,” Dinkins said. “It should also be interesting to see him explain whether he’s been pleased with the Reaganism of the last eight years. Homelessness is a problem brought on by the Republicans in Washington. And let’s see him explain why the Justice Department he worked for did so little for civil rights.”

Compared to Goldin’s slashing attacks on Koch, Dinkins has been downright genteel when it comes to the mayor. “It has never been his style to scream at the top of his lungs,” one supporter says. “And I don’t think he’s going to get into a mud-slinging contest. He’s happy to leave that up to Jay [Goldin].” While the comptroller gleefully recounts episodes from the municipal corruption scandal, Dinkins only occasionally mentions “problems with the Talent Bank,” which, he says, “apparently was used for patron­age.” On the stump, Dinkins has not ut­tered the names Donald Manes, Stanley Friedman, or Meade Esposito, or even let on that, under the incumbent’s leader­ship, City Hall had been turned over to the county organizations. Calling Koch on these dangerous liaisons, of course, would be a sticky proposition since Dinkins himself is actively seeking the sup­port of the same three Democratic orga­nizations once headed by the aforementioned crooks.

The David Dinkins that David Dinkins wants voters to see is a man who can bring the city together, who cares about the city’s growing underclass, and who can do something about New York’s out-­of-control drug and crime problems. Dinkins is confident in crowds, patting shoulders, shaking hands, and calling ev­eryone “buddy” or “darling” if he does not already know their name. His facility with crowds serves him well, for the nature of the mayoral race forces Dinkins to put in appearances at some bizarre events. There was, for in­stance, the recent ritual at the Friar’s Club, where the candidate “celebrated” —  in the Milton Berle Room, no less — the release of another vanity book by Toast­master General Joey Adams. Dinkins purchased a copy of Joey’s Guaranteed to Make You Laugh, and chatted and posed for photos with such celebrities as Cindy Adams, Anthony Quinn, Dr. Ruth, How­ard Cosell, Morton Downey Jr., Alan King, and various old Borscht Belt come­dians. The mayoral candidate was one of only three blacks not serving drinks in the Uncle Miltie Room.

[related_posts post_id_1=”726468″ /]

SPEAKING AT THE Gramercy Park Syna­gogue last month, Dinkins recalled being raised in Trenton, New Jersey, by his mother, a manicurist and domestic work­er, and his grandmother. Dinkins’s par­ents were divorced in 1934, when he was six years old. “I remember we moved a lot. Often times, when the rent was due it was prudent to move,” he said. As a young man, Dinkins sold shopping bags on Eighth Avenue and 125th Street and worked washing cars and dishes. “I can’t remember being without a job,” he said. Dinkins served in the Marine Corps, but World War II ended while he was in boot camp. After graduating from Howard University with a mathematics degree, Dinkins entered Brooklyn Law School; he helped pay his tuition by working as the night manager of a Harlem liquor store. Dinkins maintained a private law practice from 1957 until 1975, when he became city clerk. After unsuccessful tries for the Manhattan borough presi­dency in 1977 and 1981 (he lost to Andrew Stein by less than three points), Dinkins was elected beep in 1985 by a two to one margin.

Unlike many, if not most, politicians, Dinkins does not tailor his speech to his audience. Speaking before the mostly white, middle-class John F. Kennedy Democratic Club in the stifling basement of a Jackson Heights Methodist church in April, Dinkins departed from his stump speech and began talking about the plight of the homeless. Dressed in a blue double-breasted suit and sweating profusely (Dinkins could break into a sweat riding the elevator in the Munici­pal Building), the candidate was unusual­ly forceful. “One day an elderly couple could be living in their apartment, the next day they’re out on the street. Some­one gets sick, the bills pile up, they fall behind on the rent and then” — snapping his fingers for emphasis — “just like that, they’re on the street.”

In fact, far from pandering to his audi­ence, Dinkins often does the opposite. In Jackson Heights, after discussing the homeless, Dinkins spoke about his 1984 and 1988 support of Jesse Jackson, not­ing that some Jews were distressed about “Jesse this and Jesse that. If I thought he was anti-Semitic I wouldn’t have sup­ported him.” The candidate then told of his longstanding support for Israel, his trip to the White Rose gravesite in Mu­nich while Ronald Reagan was in Bit­burg, and his courageous 1985 denuncia­tion of Louis Farrakhan.

[related_posts post_id_1=”729664″ /]

Similarly, when speaking to predomi­nantly black crowds, Dinkins often does not even mention Jackson’s name­ — though to do so would draw surefire ap­plause — despite the fact that Dinkins co-­chaired the reverend’s two presidential campaigns. Speaking at the monthly meeting of the predominantly black Fred­erick Douglass Club in Queens, Dinkins told the crowd of “my deep concerns for the safety and security of Israel,” as well his belief that IRA member Joe Doherty be released from prison and granted po­litical asylum.

It is rare for Dinkins to diverge from his controlled public persona. But when he does, his flashes of passion — like the ones he showed in the Jackson Heights church basement — can strongly affect crowds who view him simply as a quiet, reserved politician. On the other hand, Dinkins can also turn off crowds when his testy side appears. When pressed in public about an issue. Dinkins can be quick to snap back at a questioner.

At an endorsement meeting of the Cen­tral Brooklyn Independent Democrats, for instance, former liberal assemblyman Joe Ferris calmly asked Dinkins to ex­plain his vote in favor of the Atlantic Terminal development, an urban renewal project that, Ferris contended, would hurt poor people. “I can’t give you specifics on that, Joe. I really can’t remember,” Din­kins replied. Ferris pushed again for an explanation, pointing out that he believed the project would create more homeless families. “Now hold it,” Dinkins bel­lowed. “Look, if I asked you to remember the last time you ate egg for breakfast, you probably wouldn’t remember either.” An indignant Ferris was set to try a third time for an explanation, but he backed off. “That was a bullshit answer he gave to a serious question,” Ferris said. “We deserve better than that,” He added later. “Based on my experience with the man, in my gut, I’m troubled by him.” The former state legislator sat out CBID’s endorsement vote later that evening. Din­kins, as it turned out, did not need Ferris: the candidate won the club’s endorse­ment by a landslide.

But Dinkins has also been able to han­dle touchy subjects well. At a meeting last week of Manhattan’s Lexington Democratic Club, the second question directed at Dinkins seemed to be a plant: “Is it fair that you live in a large Mitchell-­Lama apartment when the city is in the midst of a major housing crisis?” a man asked. “Yes,” Dinkins replied, trying to dispose of the question. When the man then asked, “Is that a proper response for a public official?”, the candidate ex­plained that he, his wife, and his two children needed the space of a three-bed­room apartment when they moved into their Riverside Drive home years ago. “Nobody told us back then that someday we would be forced to move. My 430 neighbors feel the same way,” Dinkins said. He added, “I trust that you’ll ask Mayor Koch the same question about his rent-controlled apartment.”

[related_posts post_id_1=”727970″ /]

The question of Dinkins’s large, subsi­dized apartment is not considered a cam­paign negative since the man most likely to raise it — Ed Koch — is himself ware­housing a one-bedroom apartment on Washington Place in the Village. Koch has said he believes that Mitchell-Lama residents without families who live in large apartments should move into small­er ones to help ease the city’s housing shortage. Dinkins says that these tenants would undergo “extreme hardship” if forced to relocate.

There are, however, two “negatives” Dinkins will have to face in the upcoming campaign: the “tax question,” and the issue of race in an increasingly polarized city.

From 1969 to 1972, Dinkins did not file tax returns. Doak and Shrum are cur­rently “massaging” that issue, according to Lynch, since it is expected that some opponent (read: Koch) will use this 17-year-old episode against Dinkins. The borough president, who deftly handled the question at his February announce­ment, recently said. “I don’t think it’s unfair to be asked about it. I have never ever avoided making a full explanation.” Dinkins, who was forced to pay $15,000 in back taxes, says he believed some of his taxes were paid and that “it was one of those things that I was always going to take care of but sometimes I did not have all the funds or I did not have all the documents.”

One city campaign consultant says that Dinkins’s old tax problems will “definite­ly be used against him. It’s going to be a real item in the campaign. It doesn’t mat­ter that it’s ages old. The approach will be something like, ‘How can he handle billion-dollar budgets when he can’t even file his own taxes?'” “It only loses him votes, that’s for sure,” a party official agrees.

[related_posts post_id_1=”713066″ /]

A second, and perhaps a more serious “negative,” is race. Within his campaign, Dinkins’s ability to find support in the predominantly white neighborhoods of the outer boroughs is widely considered to be the key to a primary victory and the avoidance of a runoff election. Harlem congressman Charles Rangel says that while “a lot of New Yorkers might feel uncomfortable with a black mayor,” a number of white congressmen in the city delegation are close to defecting from Koch to Dinkins. Though he would not discuss individual names, Rangel says that some of these representatives “have not yet found ways to tell their constitu­ents that they want to leave Koch.” Ac­cording to Rangel, the only two congress­men who would find it “difficult to walk away from Koch” are Queens’s Gary Ack­erman and James Scheuer.

Brooklyn’s Rabbi Jacob Goldstein, a member of the conservative Lubavitcher Hasidim community, says that “Ed Koch would have you believe that anyone who talks to Jesse Jackson is an anti-Semite. Don’t think that everyone out here agrees with that. The stereotype is that we are crazies out here, but that’s not the case. People understand that, politically, Din­kins needs to have Jesse near him.” Gold­stein, who is chairman of Community Board 9 in Crown Heights, adds, “The Jewish community outside of Manhattan has not seen much of David Dinkins. When he gets out into the communities, people will see that he doesn’t have horns on his head.”

As he addressed audiences about last month’s gang attack in Central Park, Dinkins referred to the arrested teen­agers as a band of “urban terrorists” who could have “attacked my wife, my daugh­ter.” While his proposals to combat at­tacks like these are thin — he has suggest­ed that unarmed park rangers (“Y’know, the guys with the hat”) become more involved in crime prevention — Dinkins has spoken out forcefully about the at­tack, though his words have been over­shadowed in the daily papers and the electronic media by the reactions of Ed Koch and Donald Tump.

In an interview last week, Dinkins said, “You’ve got to have a sister or daughter to feel this. It has shit to do with race. But it’s got everything to do with a real brutal fucking act. They not only raped her … but they beat the shit out of her. Now in that climate, I cannot get exercised about whether someone calls them a ‘wolfpack.'”

[related_posts post_id_1=”29428″ /]

Though Lynch and Dinkins dismiss the possibility that the Central Park attack will have a negative impact on the Din­kins campaign, five city politicians inter­viewed by the Voice said the event would probably hurt the Manhattan borough president. One city councilman said, “Strictly on racial terms, this does noth­ing to enhance [black] empowerment ar­guments.” Herman Badillo, a Dinkins foe, says that the park attack “has got to hurt him. It’s an unspoken disaster.” Lynch rejects this argument, contending that anyone who would be turned off to Din­kins because of the attack “probably wasn’t voting for him anyway.”

Lynch also dismisses the suggestion that the announcement last week of At­torney General Robert Abrams’s endorse­ment of Dinkins was intended to counter any white hostility stemming from the Central Park attack. Lynch confirms, however, that the campaign had had the Abrams endorsement lined up for more than a month. But he says Dinkins decid­ed to announce the endorsement now ­rather than late in the summer and closer to the primary-to “give us some mo­mentum.” This reasoning seems suspect, however, since momentum — in the form of recent major union endorsements — is not in short supply in the Dinkins campaign.

The role that Jesse Jackson will play in the campaign is also being discussed. Last month, Dinkins said that his cam­paign “will surely draw people from all over the country. I’m sure he’ll [Jackson] be here.” Dinkins declined to discuss whether the question of Jackson’s in­volvement was a concern to his campaign strategists, though this is another issue Doak/Shrum are examining. “We want everybody to remember that this is David’s campaign,” Lynch says. “We don’t want him overshadowed by anyone.” A Brooklyn Jewish leader who supports Dinkins says, “If Jesse is here one or two weekends, that’ll be fine. I don’t think anybody in this community will have a problem with that. But if he’s here all the time, well, that’s another story.”

The Marist poll released in April gave Dinkins a favorable rating of 59.4 per cent, far ahead of Goldin (41.4) and Koch (40.5). His unfavorable rating was 9.1 per cent (Koch’s was a whopping 54 per cent), while 31.3 per cent of those polled said they were unsure or had never heard of Dinkins. The only major candidate in either party with a higher favorable rat­ing was Giuliani (74.3 per cent), who also had as low an unfavorable rating as Din­kins (9.0). A New York Newsday poll re­leased last Sunday showed that if the primary were held today, Dinkins would receive 38 per cent of the vote, compared with Koch’s 28 per cent. However, it’s worth noting that neither of these polls (nor any other surveys released to date) have asked voters about any of Dinkins’s potential “negatives,” including race and taxes. One Dinkins supporter says, “Be­cause David is a new face to many people, you don’t know what the downside, if there is one, might be.” On the other hand, as David Garth recently made clear, Ed Koch’s negatives are all well-­known.

[related_posts post_id_1=”720961″ /]

WITH THE GLARING exception of his steadfast support for the Board of Esti­mate (and then for weighted voting), Dinkins has been the most progressive — ­while still pragmatic — voice on the Board of Estimate in his three-plus years a borough president. He has opposed the berthing of a nuclear homeport in Staten Island, beat the mayor in a showdown over the construction of heavily subsi­dized luxury housing in Clinton, and fought for community interests in con­nection with proposed commercial and residential developments at Lincoln Cen­ter and the New York Coliseum. He has been the strongest voice on the board calling for additional funding for AIDS prevention programs and the most pas­sionate spokesman for the city’s growing homeless population. His staff — which West Side council-woman Ruth Messinger calls “the most extraordinarily skilled and racially integrated staff in my memo­ry” — features some of the city’s best housing, community service, and health advocates.

But despite his record as borough pres­ident and his inspired hiring decisions, many politicians and community leaders still have reservations about Dinkins. Al­though he has proven his independence on the board, Dinkins’s organization background (he was a district leader for 20 years and is a charter member — along with Basil Paterson, Percy Sutton, and Charles Rangel — of what is derisively re­ferred to as the “Harlem Gang”) still wor­ries some.

Oliver Koppell, a Bronx assemblyman who heads that county’s “reform” move­ment, says that he believes Dinkins is untested as an “administrative manager” and that the candidate has not been an “antiorganization politician. He comes out of a regular background. Jay [Gol­din], despite some of the ethical ques­tions, does come out of a reform background.”

[related_posts post_id_1=”727098″ /]

Herman Badillo is more critical, con­tending that Dinkins does not have “im­pressive credentials.” Badillo adds, “The mistake that he is making is that because Jesse got 45 per cent, that he too can get 45 per cent. In reality, Dinkins is closer to Denny Farrell than he is Bo Jackson. Dinkins doesn’t stir up the passion that’s needed.” Badillo’s comments are no sur­prise, since he holds Dinkins responsible for the Coalition for a Just New York’s last-minute support for Manhattan as­semblyman Herman “Denny” Farrell over Badillo in the 1985 mayoral race. (Far­rell’s entry into the race and his non-cam­paign helped Koch easily gain reelection.)

Dinkins dismisses Badillo as “not a factor” in this year’s election. (The Latin vote may be the key bloc in this year’s primary, and, according to both New York Newsday and a recent poll conduct­ed by Local 1199 — which supports Dinkins — the Manhattan borough president already holds a wide lead over the other Democratic candidates in the Latin com­munity.) “As for the betrayal he speaks of, I was never for him [Badillo],” Din­kins says. “I was supporting Carol Bella­my.” He adds that he has been unfairly slammed on the Farrell debacle: “The vote was 28 to 14 … including such peo­ple as Herb Daughtry and Roger Green voting for Denny. Will you tell me how, in that climate, this gets to be my fault? That’s the dumbest shit I ever heard of. It’s just plain asinine. And I have been carrying the weight for that from that day right down to now, right now, with The City Sun and certain others. So they can all take a running jump.”

However, even some of Dinkins’s sup­porters are worried about the lack of “passion” that Badillo cites. A Brooklyn community activist who supports Din­kins says, “I’m concerned that David start turning up the heat a bit. I think Lynch should be feeding him raw onions­in the morning.” Charles Rangel, howev­er, insists that Dinkins “has the ability to govern. I’ve heard this stuff about him being a wimp, being quiet. But I’ve known him too long. He is a former Ma­rine. And I have seen that former Marine take charge.”

[related_posts post_id_1=”730253″ /]

SOME OF THE BEST receptions Dinkins has received to date have been on Staten Island, which is not usually a hotbed of liberalism. It will be in white areas of the city like this where the Dinkins campaign must make that crucial crossover, accord­ing to Lynch.

On a recent Friday night, in a Knights of Columbus hall, Dinkins spoke to about 100 men gathered for the monthly meet­ing of the Amalgamated Transit Union. The ATU has been fighting against the explosion of private bus lines on the is­land and the city’s granting of franchises to out-of-state, non-union bus companies. Many of the bus drivers and mechanics in the crowd were dressed in their MTA uniforms, having come directly from work.

After being introduced by former city council president Paul O’Dwyer and Shir­ley Quill, the widow of former Transport Workers Union boss Mike Quill, Dinkins got a standing ovation as he walked to the podium. Wearing an ATU cap and baseball jacket, the Manhattan borough president looked very much like a Little League coach. Speaking below portraits of Christopher Columbus and Fulton Sheen, Dinkins drew sustained cheers when he told the predominantly white unionists that he opposed the city’s poli­cy of granting franchises to the out-of-­state firms. As he left the hall, Dinkins proudly displayed the jacket the union had given him, with the inscription, “Da­vid Dinkins, Mayor.”

At another Staten Island meeting — ­this time, a public hearing of Community Board 3 — Dinkins reiterated his support for the transit workers. After Dinkins had departed the auditorium, Ron Bell, the business manager for a longshoremen’s local at Howland Hook, told the crowd, “We have to change the city gov­ernment come November. And I person­ally feel that David Dinkins is the man.” Bell, who is white, received a large ova­tion from the audience. People like the union leader, with his gray hair and brown flannel shirt, were once Ed Koch’s core voters.

In less than a month, the Dinkins cam­paign will begin gathering nominating pe­tition signatures for the September primary. Though the bulk of these signatures — 10,000 are needed to qualify for the ballot — will surely be collected in minority neighborhoods like Harlem and Fort Greene, it will be in such areas as Riverdale, Stapleton, and Forest Hills that Dinkins’s campaign must take root. It is in these neighborhoods that Ed Koch’s base has eroded from under him. And it is in these neighborhoods that David Dinkins must prove he is the best alternative, something he has yet to accomplish. ❖

Categories
CITY HALL ARCHIVES From The Archives NYC ARCHIVES

David Dinkins for Mayor

NEXT TUESDAY’S ELECTION will end an ugly but momentous race. It is a paradox that the contest’s very emptiness, and its persistent distortion by vicious and irrele­vant attacks, have rendered the outcome on November 7 all the more significant. New Yorkers now no longer face an ordinary choice between candidates and parties, but rather a profound decision­ — even more so than in the primary  —about what kind of people we are, what kind of city we want, and what kind of politics we endorse. That decision will also affect the political climate of the nation, because national issues such as abortion have been debated in this campaign, because national politicians, including the presi­dent, have intervened — and most of all because New York City is the nation’s urban bellwether.

For all these reasons, as well as for his own personal qualities, his experience, and his progressive stance on such issues as housing, health care, crime, and educa­tion, we strongly urge our readers to vote for David Dinkins.

[related_posts post_id_1=”727098″ /]

AT THE AGE OF 62, Dinkins has been underestimated during much of his long political life, and has lived to see the skeptics humbled more than once. When, after three attempts, he finally won the Manhattan borough presidency in 1985, there were many who doubted he would serve with much distinction, as­suming that he would be a timeserver satisfied with the perquisites and courte­sies of office. They were wrong. He as­sembled a capable, motivated, multiracial staff whose members could truly be called public servants, and thus became the only reliable voice for progressive policies at the highest level of local government.

And when Dinkins finally declared his candidacy for mayor, after a period of indecision earlier this year, there were many who predicted that he would be unable to field a competent campaign or attract support outside his own African-­American constituency. Again his critics were mistaken. Dinkins unswervingly pursued a strategy of coalition politics, founded upon a message of hope, and won the Democratic nomination with substantial support from Jews and white Catholics in addition to Latinos, Asians, blacks, and gays.

This was a remarkable achievement for New York City as well as for Dinkins and his supporters. Almost overnight, the city moved perceptibly away from the rancor and division of the past decade, and to­ward unity against the problems that confront us. The most important promise offered so far this year is Dinkins’s com­mitment to racial and ethnic peace, with­out which no other progress can occur; the most troubling possibility is that the city will move abruptly backward by re­jecting his candidacy.

Such a rejection would be tragic, be­cause it would mean that even an unas­sailable record on human rights for all people is not sufficient to bring us together. It would be most hurtful to race rela­tions, and especially to the strained com­munications between African-Americans and Jews. The reflexive reaction by some Jewish voters to Dinkins’s friendship with Jesse Jackson is both unfair and foolish: unfair in ignoring the many occa­sions when Dinkins has supported Jewish causes, even at great peril to himself; foolish in discarding a proven ally. In­deed, all New Yorkers will benefit when a principled, honorable mayor occupies the black leadership role that has recently been usurped by frauds and demagogues like Al Sharpton.

[related_posts post_id_1=”730326″ /]

UNFORTUNATELY those searching for excuses to vote against the hope that Dinkins represents have not had far to look. We dismiss the attacks against individuals in and around his campaign as ridiculous diversions: For every peripheral figure like Sonny Carson, there are literally a hundred, perhaps a thou­sand, community and political leaders standing with Dinkins who are Carson’s opposites. And if we are to measure a candidate by his choice of hired political thugs, then who has made a choice that’s worse than Roger Ailes?

Yet there are also substantive ques­tions about David Dinkins’s judgment. Although Dinkins has plausibly answered the issue of his tax liability for the cable television stock transferred to his son, he has acknowledged that he responded to questions about Inner City Broadcasting too slowly and grudgingly. And while the Manhattan borough president — in con­trast to some of his white colleagues who receive far less scrutiny — has generally been prudent and ethical in his conduct, his Board of Estimate votes in favor of Inner City were ethical lapses of a kind that should never have occurred.

We believe that Dinkins, his son, or his friend Percy Sutton, Inner City’s chair­man, ought to provide documentation of the stock sale so that any lingering doubts about its authenticity can be erased. Under the circumstances this is scarcely an onerous demand, and we hope that Dinkins will be forthcoming.

But a certain hypocrisy has also been apparent in the public’s reaction to the Inner City affair. It is important to remember that this matter was only a sin­gle episode in a long career of public service, and that the normally scrupulous Dinkins deserves to be contrasted with other clubhouse politicians who have sold their Board of Estimate votes to corpo­rate and development interests with sick­ening regularity. These same officials­who happen to belong to other ethnic groups-rarely suffer the loss of either newspaper endorsements or white votes.

Concern over personal ethics, however legitimate, should not eclipse the broader political and social significance of this election. New York has known David Dinkins for many years, and his role as a defender of the poor, civil rights, the en­vironment, and individual liberties is firmly established. He knows who he is, and so do we. We are certain, for in­stance, that David Dinkins will not read an opinion survey one day and change his mind the next about every woman’s right to choose an abortion. We are confident, too, that if budgetary constraints require sacrifice, a Dinkins administration will not punish the poor while the wealthy prosper.

[related_posts post_id_1=”725920″ /]

THERE CAN BE NO SUCH CERTAINTY about Rudolph Giuliani, the Republi­can candidate, whose political life has been a rudderless journey from liberal Democrat to conservative Republican. The former prosecutor seems quite comfortable praising unions one day and bashing them on another. He is perfectly capable of excoriating Ed Koch’s polariz­ing, pandering tactics and then, when convenient, adopting them. Giuliani cur­rently identifies himself rather vaguely as a “moderate fusion candidate,” and at­tempts to wrap himself in the mantle of Fiorello La Guardia without realizing that it is several sizes too large. Far from dividing one community from another, as the Republican candidate now seems so eager to do, the Little Flower was a leg­endary unifier.

Giuliani’s behavior since the primary has been deeply disappointing to the many New Yorkers who admired his crusades against corruption and organized crime as U.S. attorney. When he first declared that he would run for mayor, it was reasonable to hope that Giuliani would raise real issues of moral decay in government and set forth a program with broad appeal to Democrats and indepen­dents. And Giuliani, like Dinkins, has tried to discuss at least an outline of what he would do as mayor.

But Giuliani’s positive message has been drowned in the sewage of one of the dirtiest campaigns in New York’s modern history. With its emphasis on the old police records or supposed radicalism of Dinkins activists, and its racial scare tac­tics, the Republican negative barrage emits the odor of the old Nixon plumbers operation. The smell will almost certainly grow worse before Election Day, because Ailes and the other Giuliani strategists evidently consider any attack appropri­ate, no matter how vile.

[related_posts post_id_1=”717929″ /]

When Giuliani is questioned about the tenor of his campaign, he invariably ac­cuses Dinkins of attacking him first — by calling him a “reactionary Reagan Re­publican.” Though this epithet is not nearly as nasty as the accusations he has hurled at Dinkins, it does invoke a sub­ject Giuliani would prefer not to discuss. He likes to say that his administration would include “Republicans, Democrats, Liberals and Conservatives,” and to gloss over his own identification with the GOP (except when he is raising money).

But the hard truth is that in American politics there is no such thing as a “fu­sion” victory. To vote for Rudolph Giu­liani is to enhance the prestige of the Bush administration, the Republican Na­tional Committee, and Lee Atwater. It is to endorse the degradation of democracy by the likes of Roger Ailes. And it is to promote the ideology of a party that has been telling New York City to drop dead for two decades.

We hope New Yorkers seize the oppor­tunity to repudiate the politics of the Republican campaign and to prove that this city is still the stronghold of toler­ance, decency, and hope. There will be conflicts ahead over bias and budgets. But we can begin to resolve them by electing David Dinkins. ❖

Categories
From The Archives NYC ARCHIVES THE FRONT ARCHIVES

Al D’Amato: Hopelessly Corrupt

Start a War? Violate a Constitutional Privilege? Spur Economic Disaster?
For Al D’Amato, Nothing’s Too Much for a Big Donor. 

One more sleaze story that puts Al D’Amato in bed with a contributor is like one more sex story about Ted Kennedy, in or out of bed. A decade of endless revelation has made New York’s two-term junior senator the Madonna of corrupt coupling. But since he is saluted as Senator Pothole as often as he is derided as Senator Shakedown, all that the electorate is left with is the perception that at least the state has a feisty senator who never fails to shake the pot. With the election less than a week away, despite almost a dozen years of saturation tawdriness, Al D’Amato’s most spectac­ular senatorial achievement is that he has somehow man­aged to immunize himself from ethics charges, at least in certain regions of the public mind, by making new sagas of his duplicity so “hopelessly” redundant that few readers have the patience to wade through them again.

Many of the millions of New Yorkers who will vote again for him next week will do so knowing he is a con man. You can see them holding up their hands when they are ap­proached by reporters and insisting that they don’t want “to hear about the past.” They know he is taking care of himself — horse-trading with every special interest imagin­able to pay for the $21 million worth of televised lies that have been protecting his Senate seat since 1981. But as long as he convinces these voters that he might also be taking care of them free of charge, they will tolerate his bartered service.

D’Amato’s campaigns are seen as raffles with enough prizes for everyone who plays to win a little something. Sure, those who buy a block of tickets get a Washington wallet-full, but ordinary voters out in Buffalo or Melville think they own a reassuring piece of him themselves, even if all they get is a promised tax break or a bone tossed to a personal bias. He will never be so lofty they can’t visualize him coming to their house for dinner, and bringing an expensive dessert. If he is Jesse James, it is not their bank deposits he is stealing.

Inside this review of D’Amato’s life and times are three new Fonz fables that show just how far he is willing to go for the ticket buyers who can afford the wallet-full. For friend and financier Donald Trump, he was willing to violate the constitution by volunteering privileged informa­tion on the witness stand. For Drexel-Burnham, he was just as prepared to submarine legislation that, had he pushed it, might have restricted junk bond influence on S&L col­lapses and hostile corporate takeovers. The story also re­veals D’Amato’s shocking effort to manipulate the Manhat­tan U.S. Attorney’s office in ways that benefitted his Drexel donors.

The third episode in this trilogy of a contributor-con­scious career exposes D’Amato as a senator whose attitudes about the Noriega government shifted with those of a longtime donor, even to the point of becoming an advance man for an invasion that would ultimately secure his client company’s oil pipeline interests.

[related_posts post_id_1=”397777″ /]

Of course, it’s a given that D’Amato be­lieves in nothing. Though it has somehow passed unnoticed all these years, even his personal life is a fraud. As soon as he won his 1980 Senate race, just before he as­sumed office two months later, he separat­ed from Penny, his wife of many years. Twelve years later he is still separated, yet they have never divorced. In the meantime he has dated half of Manhattan and Wash­ington, demonstrating an ironic fondness for former and current prosecutors, yet maintaining the political sanctity of his Catholic marriage, a presumed prerequisite for reelection in a decidedly Catholic state. While other Catholic politicians with way­ward views but less wayward lives must keep a wary distance from the unpredict­ably disapproving cardinal, tuxedoed Al D’Amato is welcome at the Al Smith dinner or at O’Connor’s hospital bedside after­ward, photographed on his way to this cor­poral act of mercy by attending news cam­eras and allowed by a tolerant cardinal to wrap himself around a church pillar. Per­haps O’Connor thinks that Al, too, is a celibate.

The senator’s technical avoidance of the sinful stain of divorce, as well as his possible pillow talk with a top organized crime investigator, might ordinarily be fodder for the New York Post; but in recent years, it has been owned by the senator’s longtime finance chair, Peter Kalikow. It would not be too hard for the Post to source the story, since D’Amato began using his friend Kali­kow’s Fifth Avenue apartment as his legal address when he left his wife all those years ago, even sometimes visiting the develop­er’s penthouse for a change of clothes.

Consistent with this counterfeit life, D’Amato has, in the final weeks of what may be his final campaign, shed a “principled” po­sition a day, transforming himself into a Clinton Republican, redefining his abortion position, embracing gays, waffling on plans to punish the welfare pregnant. His com­mercials have been such transparent ho­kum — ranging from the ridiculous misuse of Benito Mussolini, Geraldine Ferraro, and 26-year-old assembly votes by oppo­nent Bob Abrams — that D’Amato almost seems to be winking at the voters, offering up openly banal explanations so they can justify their otherwise indefensible urge to support him. This campaign of high-priced deceit has been such an outrage because D’Amato knows he is not just running for reelection; he is running for his life, pain­fully aware that a Justice Department liberated by a Democratic administration, with federal prosecutors in New York nominated by two Democratic senators, might not be as forgiving as those who’ve been in charge of the constant probes of him that have occurred in recent years.

While D’Amato may still be able to draw on this cynical grassroots acceptance and win, he knows now that a consensus has finally coalesced against him at the elite levels of New York politics. When Newsday and The New York Times brilliantly as­sailed him in same-day endorsements of Abrams last week, he officially became an outcast, revered only by the “he’s-never-­been-charged-with-a-crime” Post. Even when he extended his hand for one final dance with his old partner Mario Cuomo, the governor slapped him in the face, ap­parently well aware that too many people were watching to resume their once mutual­ly soothing tango. As the Times, which had endorsed D’ Amato last time, put it about the senator’s vice, enough was finally enough.

[related_posts post_id_1=”725998″ /]

Mike Armstrong, the savvy and loyal D’Amato lawyer and confidant, reminded me last week that the ethics cloud over D’Amato was first floated by the Voice during his bitterly reminiscent 1980 campaign. But when Jack Newfield, Joe Conason, and I finished that four-part series, we sadly came to realize that we’d actually helped him win his narrow victory. The grave charges we launched — all based on his prior career as a Nassau County official with a penchant for plunder — created such a stir that we’d go to an Alphonse press conference and the cameras would surround us. The D’Amatos, with brother Armand playing an aggressive role in the publicity war, successfully positioned themselves as the targets of the far-left, progay, anti-Italian Voice and rode the hard truth of our charges to triumph. (Then, as now, D’Amato declined to talk to the Voice.)

I remember the Fonz’s father, Armand D’Amato Sr., whom we unveiled as a dou­ble-dipper on public payrolls who collected exorbitant insurance brokerage fees from the county through his son, chasing our car down an Island Park street, shaking his fist at us. I remember our discovery during the series that D’Amato had hired a private investigator who’d once worked for Colom­bo capo Sonny Francese to tail us.

But mostly, I remember the salty taste in our mouths at the end, disappointed that we had been portrayed as mere partisans, though our portrait of the Nassau GOP machine was a carbon copy of our earlier work on the Brooklyn Democratic organization.

Since then, the breaking stories about Alfonse, published by every newspaper but the Post, have come nonstop. He is the only elected official in the state who’s been the recipient of three sets of illegal contributions, all of them earned by public perfor­mance on behalf of the compromising do­nors — $30,000 from Wedtech (“the most corrupt little company in America,” ac­cording to the subtitle of one book); $10,000 from Unisys, the defense contrac­tor whose payments to brother Armand led to his current indictment; and $32,000 from a group of Puerto Rican HUD devel­opers, who are also the subject of a pending criminal case.

[related_posts post_id_1=”726967″ /]

D’Amato is the only senator in America who has acknowledged having conversa­tions on behalf of two mobsters with a United States Attorney, contacting Rudy Giuliani in one instance to “warn” him that “lawyers” thought he might be “embarrassed” over the possible loss of a racke­teering and murder case against boss of bosses, Paul Castellano. Just as unique was D’Amato’s appearance as a character wit­ness for mob-tied disco owner Phil Basile, whom the senator kissed on both cheeks in the courtroom after proclaiming him “a man of honor and truth.” D’Amato rents his office to this day — paying the highest congressional rent in America and far more than the market rate in the building — from a landlord who was involved in a parking lot deal with convicted felon Basile (both Basile and the building’s owner, who have contributed thousands of dollars to D’A­mato, have also been represented by broth­er Armand).

Of course he has also distinguished himself before the Senate Ethics Committee, which found barely a year ago that he “con­ducted the business of his office in an im­proper and inappropriate manner” by let­ting his brother “systematically misuse” it for “personal gain,” writing a letter for Unisys on the senator’s stationery. While others in Washington have only bad checks to count, D’Amato may have set other kinds of Guinness records — seven immu­nized witnesses forced to testify about his actions, 41 wiretapped conversations from various federal jurisdictions where his name came up, 35 potential witnesses who took or said they would have taken the Fifth Amendment rather than testify about him, and four full days of sealed testimony by a senator seeking reelection.

Of course the committee never consid­ered the charges now being entertained by a federal grand jury in Washington, which is reportedly examining the senator’s attempt to induce a HUD regional director to per­jure himself for him. As Newsday‘s Bob Greene has revealed in recent days, the Washington prosecutors are also reviewing for possible perjury prosecution 11 pro-D’Amato witnesses who appeared before the Ethics Committee about the Island Park houses, and they are doing it on the recommendation of the Senate.

D’Amato has of course so far survived the recurring investigations that have dog­ged him, but conduct that so frequently attracts prosecutors yet falls short of an indictable offense is hardly an affirmation of innocence. Indeed these bouts with grand juries have become so routine that a self-conscious Newsday downplayed Greene’s exposé of the latest one, and the Gabe Pressmans of this city’s media pack have yet to shove a mike under the sena­tor’s chin to even ask him about the alleged perjury coaching. A prospective deputy mayor who may or may not have harassed a female aide has gotten much more atten­tion, even in the Times, than these criminal allegations against a senator up for reelec­tion. Astonishingly, Greene’s second story, shaking the foundation of the Ethics Com­mittee’s already hesitant findings on Island Park and announcing the probe of the 11 witnesses, was shunted off on page 23.

It is indisputable that if Abrams, rather than D’Amato, were suddenly revealed as the subject of a criminal probe, it would be banner headline news in every newspaper and would bury his candidacy. But even though the new charges against D’Amato resonate against a background of endless allegations (or perhaps because they do), they cannot compete with the media mag­net of another black hard-on and have been relegated to the back pages. D’Amato is once again saved, in part because of the familiarity of his sins. It is as if the worse editors in this city’s media establishment be­lieve he is, the less they will allow them­selves to reveal it.

Almost every one of these D’Amato scan­dals has involved a contributor, an unsur­prising fact for a public official who proud­ly told the Times that “only 35 per cent of those who give expect something in re­turn.” Since that adds up to over $3 million in quid pro quo contributions since 1981 — at a mere $ 1000-a-head — the senator has been very busy indeed, by his own account, delivering to demanding donors.

[related_posts post_id_1=”713066″ /]

The irony is that he has successfully made Abrams’s questionable fundraising techniques a focus of his campaign commercials, zeroing in on the Feerick Com­mission’s conclusion that the Attorney General solicited a $15,000 contribution from a developer who had millions in condo plans pending before Abrams’s office. What no one’s noticed is that D’Amato himself has collected $23,500 since 1980 from the family and employees of this developer, who goes unnamed in the sena­tor’s television commercial, and that D’Amato has done more for the developer than Abrams ever dreamed of doing. The devel­oper is Donald Trump, who in addition to contributing actually hosted D’Amato’s an­nual fundraising dinner at the Grand Hyatt at a deliberately reduced rate five years in a row during the ’80s. The senator in fact may have decided not to mention his friend’s name in the commercial for fear of jeopardizing the possibility of spending an­other weekend at Trump’s dazzling Mar-A-Lago in Palm Beach, as D’Amato did in the late ’80s — a far cozier scene than Abrams’s breakfast with Trump.

While there is no evidence that Abrams ever personally participated in his office’s review of Trump’s condo plans, D’Amato himself took the witness stand for Trump in the biggest legal case of Donald’s life, the United States Football League’s $3 billion antitrust suit against the National Football League in 1986. D’Amato was used as a witness to lay the groundwork for a key contention in the USFL case that was, in the end, flatly rejected by the jury: that the NFL had engaged in a conspiracy with New York Jets owner Leon Hess to block Trump’s USFL team from getting a New York stadium and franchise. D’Amato tes­tified about three conversations he had with Hess that supposedly proved this the­sis, but a Voice review of the legal billings submitted to the USFL after the trial has revealed that a partner in the law firm Trump handpicked for the floundering league talked to D’Amato shortly before two of the conversations with Hess. The timing of these contacts suggests that the Fonz may have been acting as a conscious agent of Trump’s lawyers when he called Hess, setting the Jets owner up for testimo­ny at trial.

The Voice has also obtained sealed side­bar discussions with the judge prior to D’A­mato’s testimony revealing that the senator was planning to testify about much more than his Hess conversations, but was stopped by an embarrassing legal ruling. He was prepared to detail talks he had with other senators who supposedly told him that NFL Commissioner Pete Rozelle “was making personal threats to yank franchises unless they voted right” on certain key NFL antitrust legislation “or to grant fran­chises if they would go that way.” But U.S. District Court Judge Peter K. Leisure ruled that D’Amato’s proffered testimony would violate the Speech and Debate Clause of the U.S. Constitution, which bars senators from revealing in court privileged conversa­tions with other senators. The judge pre­vented Trump’s lawyers from asking any questions about the Rozelle conversations, though D’Amato was apparently quite will­ing to break a senatorial confidence for his ingratiating supporter.

Such boldness, however, was a small mat­ter compared to how far he would go for that other billionaire emblem of the ’80s, Mike Milken.

[related_posts post_id_1=”713114″ /]

What Jesse Kornbluth in his new book, Highly Confident: The Crime & Punishment of Michael Milken, called the “leveraged buyout of Al D’Amato” is already a fairly well-known story. First reported in 1986 by The Wall Street Journal, it is standard D’A­mato fare, only this time with a peculiarly high level of impact. When the Fonz took the money and tanked it for Drexel, he managed, according to much of the hindsight analysis, to encourage the junk bond explosion in both corporate takeovers and S&L’s, leading eventually to the collapse of companies and banks laden with over­-priced debt.

While the Senate Ethics Committee cleared D’Amato of “any improper con­duct” on the Drexel charge, its carefully
worded finding addressed only the question of whether D’Amato had “changed his po­sition on junk bonds” after he “promised to introduce restrictive legislation.” Since the committee restricted itself to reviewing the charge only in its most damning form — a callous reversal of position after collecting the cash — the result was predictable. Unless Drexel witnesses at the very top were willing to say that they told him they’d give him thousands if he would tank the swirl of 1985 reform bills, the committee was doomed to come up dry.

Instead, of course, something vaguer hap­pened, and either Mike Milken, who per­sonally hosted the May 31, 1985, D’Amato fundraiser at Chasen’s in Beverly Hills, nor D’Amato, who tried embarassingly hard in retrospect to insinuate himself deeply in­side the glamorous Drexel fast track, is likely to ever say just what it was. But the fact is that the Milken party occurred, generating at least $34,000 for Alfonse barely two months after his subcommittee launched hearings on junk bond reform and just a week before Drexel CEO Fred Joseph testified. Then, one week after D’Amato pro­duced a watered-down study bill on junk that December, Joseph and 34 other Drexel executives bought $500 tickets to a giant D’Amato fundraiser in New York.

[related_posts post_id_1=”721487″ /]

D’Amato called the timing “absolutely coincidental,” but what is not coincidental was just how often this sort of awkward happenstance has hit the senator. When these two large chunks of donations are added to those from Drexel’s PAC and oth­er individual contributions, the Fonz’s total hits $70,750 by the end of 1986. Voice calls to many of the donors last
week found few willing to discuss their gen­erosity, though one, Jon Jetmore, said that “someone” at the company asked him to give, indicating that “it would be good for Drexel” and explaining that “there were few in Congress defending Drexel publicly and that D’Amato was the only one the company felt would listen.” Jetmore, who contributed after D’Amato produced his toothless December bill, recalled that the Drexel donations might have been connect­ed with the fact that D’Amato had “voted against inhibiting legislation” Drexel opposed.

If most of the donors were still shy about such a straightforward explanation, the sen­ators who were pushing for restrictive legis­lation at the time no longer are. Former Wisconsin senator Bill Proxmire, who has never before been quoted on the subject, said in a Voice interview last week: “The legislation could’ve been very good for our economy because it would have prevented hostile takeovers and that is certainly one of the reasons we have so many major bankruptcies today. [D’Amato] got contri­butions because he was chairman of the securities committee; they were buying in­fluence. PAC’s don’t contribute because they admire someone’s principles or their looks. I think D’Amato was unusually sup­portive of Drexel. That is why he got the contributions.”

Senator Howard Metzenbaum told the Times back in 1986, three weeks after D’A­mato was reelected, that D’Amato had giv­en him “a firm commitment” to introduce a bill aimed at curbing takeovers “before the July 4, 1985 recess,” but that it “never came to pass and I never heard another word about it.” Last week he told the Voice that D’ Amato later “offered a number of excuses for his failure to do so, none of which I considered compelling.” Metzen­baum added that D’Amato’s eventual bill came so late and was so weak it “effectively eliminated any possibilities of passing take­over legislation that session,” which came at an unusual, historical moment, when leading Republicans were temporarily out­raged by Milken tactics. “It’s clear that by failing to move forward as promised, Sena­tor D’Amato squandered a golden opportu­nity to enact meaningful reform at a point in time when it was needed most.”

[related_posts post_id_1=”722541″ /]

D’Amato counsel Mike Armstrong likes to point to a supposed discrepancy between Metzenbaum’s post-1985 comments and his attempt that November at typical sena­torial back scratching when he praised D’A­mato during a committee session for run­ning “excellent hearings.” But the fact is that in the same brief statement, Metzen­baum said he was still hopeful his reluctant colleague would “soon introduce his own tender offer bill,” making his ultimate dis­appointment perfectly consistent.

Most of the reporting about D’Amato’s Drexel relationship ended with that bill, but the relationship itself didn’t. Prime Drexel clients like Integrated Resources dumped $58,750 into the D’Amato coffers, much of it in the midst of the 1985 machi­nations, and employees of Saul Steinberg’s various Reliance entities donated another $56,000. Everyone from Drexel raider Boone Pickens to the Milken-manufactured billionaire Nelson Peltz to several Drexel lawyers like Richard Sandler to Milken publicist Linda Robinson dropped change in the passing D’Amato hat.

The senator was flown out to Beverly Hills for four days in April of 1986 at Drexel’s expense, paid a $2000 speaking fee, and entertained at the infamous High Yield Bond Conference, better known, at least after Connie Bruck’s 1988 book, as “The Predators’ Ball.” Before bringing him out to the coast, Drexel paid for a strange stop in Denver, where D’Amato was appar­ently the beneficiary of another fund raising festival, collecting over $18,000 from 51 Colorado donors, led by executives of the MDC home building company. Described in S&L bestseller Inside Job as “a junk bond Frankenstein given the spark of life by Dr. Milken,” MDC president Larry Mi­zel kicked in $1000 for D’Amato, while his brother and several other company officials gave $300, the ticket price for the party (two Mizel companies later pled guilty to making illegal campaign contributions to a Colorado congressional race).

Once out in California, D’Amato stayed in the luxury Palm Desert, condo of Co­lumbia Savings and Loan president Tom Spiegel, currently under indictment in Los Angeles for bilking his bank of millions and one allegedly illicit transaction with his mentor Milken. Drexel’s Dennis Levine, the insider-trading felon who wrote his memoirs in prison and was himself a D’A­mato donor, recounts one brief exchange with D’Amato during the notorious confer­ence festivities: D’Amato, “effusively work­ing the room” at a Chasen’s dinner party and approaching his table, slapping Boone Pickens on the back and extending “a warm hello” to Boesky. When D’Amato moved on, Boesky muttered to Levine, “That bas­tard cost me five thousand dollars” — an apparent reference to past campaign contributions.

[related_posts post_id_1=”720671″ /]

The Republicans lost the Senate, and D’A­mato lost his subcommittee, in the begin­ning of 1987. With Boesky’s indictment a few weeks earlier, Drexel, too, was in the midst of dramatic change. Instead of chas­ing every consumable company, they had suddenly become the quarry themselves. Ironically, Drexel’s pursuer was none other than an appointee and friend of Al D’Ama­to’s, U.S. Attorney Rudy Giuliani, whose office had wired up Boesky for meetings with Milken shortly before the inside trad­er’s $100 million guilty plea was publicly announced. The fear of Giuliani on Wall Street and in Beverly Hills was palpable at the time: pressing forward with new theo­ries of securities prosecutions, he seemed both unreachable, in standard political par­lance, and dangerously skillful when it came to making towering cases stick.

Before 1986 ended, Mike Milken’s broth­er Lowell, a top Drexel executive with po­tential exposure in the unfolding scandal, hired as his criminal attorney Mike Arm­strong, the senator’s strong right arm. A former federal prosecutor and the principal powerbroker on the D’Amato screening panel that nominates federal prosecutors and judges in New York, Armstrong imme­diately flew out to California to meet with his client and his client’s brother. Over the next three years, Armstrong would play a broad role in the joint Milken defense, run­ning up a fortune in Drexel and Milken bills (he still represents Lowell on outstand­ing civil matters).

Armstrong maintained in a Voice inter­view that neither Milken brother discussed his ties to D’Amato. At the time, however, Armstrong was starting his seventh year of periodic pro bono representation of D’A­mato. Beginning in 1980, during the first Senate campaign, D’Amato asked Arm­strong to advise him about the possible release of his earlier grand jury testimony about a Nassau County 1 per cent kickback scheme, which had become a hot issue in a close race. Named to D’Amato’s panel as soon as the senator took office in 1981, he continued representing D’Amato in a feder­al probe of the senator’s involvement with a Hempstead recycling plant, ultimately ap­pearing in court with the senator when D’Amato testified at the trial of one recy­cling plant defendant. He was there again in 1983 when D’Amato appeared on behalf of Phil Basile, and later during the senator’s Wedtech testimony.

[related_posts post_id_1=”727936″ /]

Armstrong’s Legal Aid list for D’Amato, including aspects of the many HUD inves­tigations and the Meade Esposito case, goes on and on. He didn’t charge D’Amato, however, until 1989, when he took on the senator’s defense in the Senate Ethics Com­mittee probe. Today, a senator who claims a net worth of $60,000 owes Armstrong $400,000 for the concluded probe.

A few months after Armstrong went on Drexel retainer (he was paid by the compa­ny until the two Milkens were indicted in 1989, when Lowell was forced to pay his own bills), Al D’Amato called Giuliani and said he “wanted to talk politics,” inviting him to dinner and asking that he bring his wife, television newswoman Donna Hano­ver. Though D’Amato wasn’t any more spe­cific than that, Giuliani discovered what the agenda for the August 1987 dinner was while riding there in his car. WTNS report­ed that D’Amato was trying to talk the politically ambitious Giuliani into running against Democratic senator Pat Moynihan. That night, for hours, and for weeks later, chummy Al kept the pressure on, promising to raise millions for the run. Giuliani, whose four-year term was winding up, was sorely tempted, even writing a declaration speech at one point. But U.S. Attorneys don’t have to leave when their term expires, and Giuliani was also reluctant to leave, with so many giant cases hanging in the balance.

Giuliani and D’Amato, undercover on a 1986 drug bust

He asked that D’Amato allow him to pick his own successor, announcing public­ly his preference for an aide, Howard Wilson, but D’Amato balked. Then news re­ports appeared listing a half dozen finalists that Armstrong’s panel was considering to replace him, and describing prominent de­fense attorney Otto Obermaier as the front­runner. This worried Giuliani, and he said so in news interviews, but only in the most general terms, expressing a concern that several of the senator’s prospective appoin­tees specialized in representing the securi­ties industries or white-collar criminals. When D’Amato charged that Giuliani’s re­luctance was “provocative and not too smart,” Giuliani replied that he’d tried to “convey to the senator that I’m not being arrogant,” adding that he was “concerned about four or five very, very sensitive investigations.”

The concerns started with Armstrong, whom Giuliani refused to talk to about the transition, precisely because of the defense lawyer’s Milken conflict, a message Arm­strong concedes was sent directly to him. Another powerful player on the panel, Paul Curran, represented Robert Freeman, the head Goldman, Sachs trader whose Wall Street handcuffing and arrest in early 1987 had caused a media stir. Obermaier had a client squarely in the middle of the same case. Bob Morvillo, a partner in Ober­maier’s small, top-flight criminal firm, was just starting to represent Tom Spiegel, the senator’s California condo host whose S&L had $3 billion in Milken junk. The firm was also representing top Drexel brass, includ­ing one potential witness it has refused to identify when questioned by reporters to this day. While Obermaier seemed the all­but-certain designee, others on the pub­lished list of candidates were also involved in the securities cases, including a partner of Peter Flemming, Mike Milken’s princi­pal attorney.

[related_posts post_id_1=”718566″ /]

The efforts to induce Giuliani to leave were so carefully monitored at Drexel that the weekly meetings of its so-called “War Council” — discussions that included 15 or so executives, lawyers, and consultants — ­were regularly interrupted by chitchat about his possible departure. Even Arm­strong conceded in a Voice interview that he “may have talked about the Southern District situation in a conversational way” with his client Milken. “I didn’t agree with the way Rudy was running the office,” says Armstrong. “I wanted him to leave.” Arm­strong had in fact convinced D’Amato to name John Keenan to the post in 1983, and the Keenan appointment was only blocked when Giuliani, who worked in the Justice Department then and had strong support there, prevailed on D’Amato to change his mind.

Armstrong also acknowledges that it was he who recommended Obermaier, an old colleague from their days in the U.S. Attor­ney’s office together, though he claims he was unaware of Obermaier’s published views, mostly in a New York Law Journal column, bashing insider-trading and other securities cases. It was this philosophy that most upset Giuliani, since not even an Obermaier recusal on an individual case where his firm had a client could protect the office’s securities prosecution from a wholly different point of view about every­thing from the use of the RICO statutes against white-collar criminals to deferring to the SEC on trading cases. Giuliani was so uncomfortable with these columns he carried them around with him and showed them to friends. “Otto had the same point of view as everyone else,” Armstrong ar­gues now, listing several former securities prosecutors who shared Obermaier’s views, and not even noticing that all of them wound up with Drexel clients. “Rudy didn’t know shit from Shinola about securi­ties cases,” Armstrong declared.

By early 1988, Giuliani had all but decid­ed to pass on the Moynihan race. Wilson had appeared before the D’Amato panel, and Armstrong and Curran had left the room during his interview, implicitly recus­ing themselves on his review, though at least Armstrong was clearly involved in the ultimate selection. Neither Giuliani nor Wilson would return Armstrong calls on the matter or discuss it with him, until he final­ly cornered Wilson at the swearing-in of a federal judge. According to a memo Arm­strong prepared — out of what he says was caution over how Giuliani might one day misinterpret his conversation with Wil­son — he offered to make Wilson chief assis­tant under whoever was the new U.S. At­torney, and give Wilson control over “the ongoing investigations about which Rudy had expressed concern.”

[related_posts post_id_1=”713710″ /]

While Armstrong sees this memo as proof that Drexel wasn’t his motive in try­ing to facilitate a Giuliani departure, it is clear that Armstrong’s offer was a last-ditch proposition on the eve of Giuliani’s an­nouncement that he would not run. Indeed the memo reports that Wilson told Arm­strong that Giuliani had already decided not to run even though he very much wanted to.” Wilson says that Armstrong “may have said I’d be someone’s deputy, but I don’t think so”; he was “positive that the Drexel thing wasn’t presented.” Even Jesse Kornbluth, whose sometimes-persua­sive Milken book is a staunch defense, spent hours discussing this pivotal period in the effort to block a Milken indictment with Armstrong, Milken, and many others, leading him to tell the Voice last week: “It’s pure projection; but it’s hard to believe that the effort to get Rudy out wasn’t fully dis­cussed. God knows every other avenue of saving the Milkens was gone over innumerable times from 1986 to the end.”

When Giuliani announced he wouldn’t run, D’Amato seemed to lose whatever in­terest he ever had in fielding a Republican opponent against Moynihan, endorsing an obscure Long Island businessman who’d long been a backer of his, but declaring that he was “too busy” to campaign with him. Giuliani stayed in the office another year, took Drexel’s guilty plea but could not get Milken’s. In a sudden, and deliberately ar­ranged maneuver, he resigned and brought back to the office from private practice a onetime top aide, Benito Romano, getting the Justice Department’s approval to install him as an interim U.S. Attorney in an end-­run around D’Amato. One top Justice De­partment official who cut the Romano deal with Giuliani, Robin Ross, said that an angry D’Amato called him and was “quite blunt about his displeasure.” D’Amato immediately moved to nominate the ever-pa­tient Obermaier, but Justice and the White House sat on his name for 10 months, leav­ing Romano in office.

That gave Romano time to finally either indict Milken or get a guilty plea. When the two Milkens did not meet a March plea deadline offered by Romano, he filed a racketeering indictment against them. Though Romano remained in office until October, Milken’s lawyers never resumed plea discussions with him. “I wanted to resolve the case before D’Amato’s replace­ment got there,” Romano told the Voice. “Whether they were waiting” for Ober­maier, “you’d have to ask them.” A few months after Obermaier arrived, Mike Mil­ken finally pled guilty to six felony counts, none of them on the racketeering charges, and the always-difficult case against Lowell Milken was dropped.

Obermaier recused himself on the case, as he has on at least 34 other cases that went to indictment since he took office. (Since the only information the office will provide about this unprecedented number of recusals is the press releases issued by the chief assistant when Obermaier is con­flicted out, there is no way to count recusals in cases that never get to indictment. By contrast, the U.S. Attorney in Brooklyn, Andy Maloney, has recused himself on two cases though he’s been in office twice as long as Obermaier.)

[related_posts post_id_1=”727098″ /]

While there are certainly aspects of the office’s handling of Milken that have con­tinued the tough traditions of the Giuliani/Romano era, the decision this summer to write a letter to sentencing judge Kimba Wood, citing his “substantial” cooperation, in direct contradiction to a letter sent by the SEC enforcement chief, has been widely questioned. What Giuliani himself says made the government’s position on sen­tence reduction so strange was that its letter offered no critique of Milken’s testimony as a defense witness for one Drexel client, even though Milken’s “appearance against the government was expressly rejected as unbelievable by the jury,” which convicted Milken’s friend anyway.

Wood, who wound up citing the letter from Obermaier’s office as a basis for re­ducing Milken’s sentence to two years (slightly less than Boesky, the witness who brought him down), did not dispute in her opinion the SEC contention that Milken was principally offering information to prosecutors about Drexel folks who’d coop­erated in the investigation of him. The judge cited only one other letter in her decision — a voluntary submission helpful to Milken on the issue of his attempt to make restitution to those he’d damaged. The attorney who wrote it, Pat Hynes, rep­resented a group of civil claimants whom Milken had agreed to make a sizable pay­ment to, though she was hardly the princi­pal litigant in these separate lawsuits. A close friend of D’Amato’s who Armstrong acknowledged used to date the senator, Hynes was recently dubbed by D’Amato to join the Armstrong screening panel.

In addition to the favorable treatment for Milken by Obermaier’s office, it has also recently passed on retrying the Drexel spin­off, a case against several traders from Princeton-Newport that was overturned principally due to a sentencing error by the judge, and also decided not to prosecute Columbia S&L’s Spiegel (eight months lat­er, federal prosecutors in L.A. indicted him on largely different charges). Obermaier re­cused himself on these cases, as well he might since his law firm is extensively in­volved in both. But his recusal did not prevent him from summarily dismissing the prosecutor who’d tried Princeton-New­port and, though he’d since left the office, was available to work on its appeal. Ober­maier used the assistant’s appearance in a television interview as a rationale.

While there is no smoking gun establish­ing what D’Amato’s purposes were in all the intricate machinations surrounding his Southern District appointment, the final proof is in the pudding. The office that once pioneered Wall Street cases has not made a new, significant securities prosecu­tion since the “scholar-on-Ottomatic” got behind Rudy’s desk.

[related_posts post_id_1=”714416″ /]

It Is January 1983 and Al D’Amato, just starting his third year in the senate, is aboard a chartered flight to Panama City. He and his daughter Lisa are taking a four­-day trip to Panama paid for by the Long Island petroleum giant that will soon em­ploy her as an economic analyst, Northville Industries. While Northville will fly over 300 people down to Panama to join in ceremonies and receptions celebrating the opening of its new, 80-mile pipeline across the heart of the Isthmus, D’Amato is the only U.S. senator aboard. But he isn’t going just because of his daughter’s imminent job.

In fact his daughter’s job was an out­growth of his own almost 30-year friend­ship with the president of this family­-owned firm, Harold Bernstein. According to Northville vice-president Joseph Ackell, Bernstein and the company were major financial supporters of D’Amato’s during the early days in Nassau politics, and news reports indicate that on occasion, at least, he purchased oil from them as Hempstead’s presiding supervisor. Since D’Amato’s 1980 primary race against then senator Ja­cob Javits, the Bernstein family, the company PAC, and a few Northville executives and their wives have donated at least $28,000 to D’Amato campaign coffers. In addition, Bernstein was named by D’A­mato as one of his six top fundraisers in a 1986 Times story.

The pipeline Northville opened that Jan­uary was erected by the U.S. Congress. Its viability to this day utterly depends on the periodic renewal of a controversial piece of legislation barring the export of Alaskan oil anywhere outside the U.S. (its principal pri­or market was Japan). Originally instituted in the mad days of the 1970s energy crisis, and rationalized as part of a national strate­gy for oil independence, the ban led to the building of the pipeline in 1981 — D’Ama­to’s first year in the Senate. The senator has been a major force in the preservation of that ban ever since, helping to sustain the pipeline, which stretches from the Pacific coast port of Charco Azul to Chiriqui Grande Bay on the Caribbean and is designed to carry 800,000 barrels of oil a day.

Far cheaper than shipping the oil through the Panama Canal, the pipeline has become the principal conduit for the transport of Alaskan oil to markets along the East Coast of the United States. It also became, as spokesman Ackell described it in a Voice interview, “the biggest thing going in the Panamanian economy,” throwing off hun­dreds of millions in taxes, fees, and pay­ments to Panama’s government, which is a partner with Northville in the ownership of the line.

[related_posts post_id_1=”719172″ /]

Of course, the government of Panama in 1983 was dominated by military strongman Manuel Noriega. Already serving as the number-two man in the Panamanian mili­tary that January, he was slated to become commander in chief by March under the terms of a prior agreement with his ally, Ruben Paredes (a short delay resulted in Noriega’s formal takeover that August). The country’s civilian vice-president, Jorge Illueca, a Noriega front whom he would later install as president, hosted the actual opening ceremony, which was held near a remote Indian village outside Panama City at the Atlantic terminus of the pipeline.

While Ackell says he did not see Noriega himself at the ceremony or any of the host of receptions and other events surrounding the four-day celebration, others remember his participation, including Noriega’s one­-time minister of commerce and industry Mario Rognoni, who is currently the oppo­sition leader in the Panamanian National Assembly. Ackell also tries to downplay the company’s relationship with Noriega dur­ing the flush years of 1983 to 1987, but he concedes that Northville “had to find a way to work with each administration.” Everett Briggs, the American ambassador to Pana­ma during most of that period and current ambassador in Portugal, goes a bit further, recalling that “it’s safe to say” that the relationship between Northville and Nor­iega was “probably very good.”

Just how D’Amato fit into this relation­ship is somewhat murky, though Ackell ac­knowledges that the senator “might have been identified with the company” in the minds of Panamanian officials, then and now. The senator flew down to Panama for a second four-day stay paid for by North­ville in December of 1983, after Noriega’s formal ascension to power, but Ackell said he could not recall why (Northville paid for a third D’Amato trip in 1988 as well, this time, to Pennsylvania).

[related_posts post_id_1=”727956″ /]

Escolastico Calvo, the editor of a Pana­manian newspaper who once served as a close Noriega aide, specifically recalled a D’Amato meeting with Noriega in Panama, but was fuzzy about the timing. And legisla­tor Rognoni was certain that D’Amato and the general “knew each other personally” and that D’Amato was “friendly” with the Noriega government “while he was dealing with his business interests,” which he iden­tified as Northville. D’Amato routinely vot­ed in favor of military and other aid appro­priations for Panama during these years, though he hardly distinguished himself as particularly active on these issues.

What he did distinguish himself on was pipeline legislation. As a member of the banking committee, which has jurisdiction over the Export Administration Act, he be­came a cosponsor in 1983 of a bill that passed the Senate a year later extending the Alaskan oil ban for six years. D’Amato even went so far as to introduce, with a handful of other senators, an unsuccessful measure to extend the ban forever. This bill also attempted to void the conditions con­tained in the old law that permit the presi­dent to lift the ban, with the consent of Congress, if he could make a showing that it was in the national interest (D’Amato is still pushing this rather extraordinary bill, having cosponsored it again in 1990). The ban is still effective even though its last extension expired in 1990, since it remains in force unless the president meets the conditions set in the law for lifting it.

There is little doubt about why D’Amato has been such a pipeline champion. Ted Sorenson, the former Kennedy aide who has represented Northville for years, says D’Amato called him at one point in the 1983 controversy over the bill: “He said he was going to make a speech for it on the floor and I said fine.” Why was he on the inaugural trip and why has he been such a strong supporter of the ban? “He’s a friend of Harold Bernstein,” explained Sorenson. “They went way back.” Steve Toth, the Washington lobbyist for Chicago Bridge & Steel, which is a 20 per cent partner of Northville and the Panama government in the ownership of the pipeline, put it simi­larly: “D’Amato supports the ban because the principal owner is Northville Industries and Al supports his constituents. He shows his support with his votes.”

Like Northville and the other bulwark of the lobbying force behind this legislation, the maritime industry, D’Amato has resist­ed any efforts to modify this total ban. The coalition even opposed Alaska Republican senator Frank Murkowski’s amendments to permit the export of 200,000 barrels a day. Based on the premise that it is wrong to bar only Alaska from exporting its oil, Mur­kowski’s changes were nonetheless rejected, though he offered to continue to require that the exported oil be carried on U.S.-flag tankers.

[related_posts post_id_1=”726468″ /]

Critics of the ban, like Marshall Hoyler, who did a study for the Georgetown Uni­versity Center for Strategic and International Studies, have branded it “a scandal,” saying it has “enriched a small number of individuals and corporations, who have formed a vocal interest group in its behalf.” Hoyler calculated years ago that federal revenues would jump over $10 billion over the next quarter century if the ban was dropped (and that oil costs would drop over the long haul). A staff economist for the Senate Banking Committee, Paul Freeden­berg, explained the support for the ban when the D’Amato extension was under consideration in 1983 by observing: “Too many people are making money because of the way it is now.”

While the strongest rationale advanced for the ban is the need to reduce American dependence on foreign oil, William Silvey, the Energy Department’s planning director, argued when the ban was last extended that “the congressional perception” wasn’t tak­ing into account that “there is one world petroleum market and that we are part of it,” concluding that because of the export restrictions, “we are charging ourselves more than we need to” for oil.

But there are indications that D’Amato’s ties to Northville help explain more than just the pipeline aspects of his Panama pol­icy. All the public remembers about D’A­mato and Panama is his explosive opposi­tion to Noriega, when he moved center stage in the Washington debate about Pana­ma policy in mid 1987, at first urging sanc­tions and eventually an invasion. Though D’Amato’s rage was ostensibly over Norie­ga’s cocaine trafficking (D’Amato called him “a tinhorn drug dealer”), it is hard to explain it on just those terms. Sy Hersh had revealed Noriega’s smuggling activities in June of 1986 on the front page of The New York Times, even detailing an American plot to assassinate the then lieutenant colo­nel in the 1970s as a common drug dealer. Yet D’Amato remained silent for almost a year.

Like many other senators, D’Amato moved when Gabriel Lewis, the former Panamanian ambassador to the U.S. and onetime Noriega ally, broke with the gov­ernment and began lining up opposition to it in Washington. One of the architects of the Panama treaty, the well-connected and wealthy Lewis, who once hid the Shah of Iran in his Panama home as a favor to American authorities, struck up a close re­lationship with D’Amato. Long tied to the Kennedys, and close to Ted Sorenson, Lew­is was one of three Northville appointees on the board of Petroterminal de Panama, the joint venture of Northville, Chicago Bridge & Iron, and the Panamanian gov­ernment that owned the pipeline.

[related_posts post_id_1=”726007″ /]

Lewis pieced together the Kennedy/D’Amato alliance that suddenly turned the Senate into a firestorm of Noriega opposition. D’Amato even became a harsh Rea­gan administration critic on the issue, blast­ing the administration as
“cowards” for not moving against the general and provoking Defense Secretary Frank Carlucci to public­ly object to D’Amato’s “insults.” The sena­tor solidified his relationship with Lewis during this rhetorical war, getting so close that he has become a periodic visitor at Lewis’s Panama estate since Noriega’s ovenhrow.

It would be an oversimplification to attribute D’Amato’s sea change solely to a Northville agenda. While many factors were surely involved, D’Amato’s goal of compelling an American take-out of Nor­iega was perfectly compatible with North­ville’s objectives. The company’s spokes­man Ackell concedes that during this period, Northville was “very anti-Noriega,” including “everybody who worked for us down there, from the workers to the manag­ers,” adding that the company was “pleased” with the December 1989 inva­sion. Indeed, on the eve of the invasion the Washington Post reported that if it “contin­ues as planned, it should become easier for Northville Industries to do business in Panama.”

Relations between Northville and Nor­iega were so strained in 1988 and 1989 that the company stopped meeting altogether with its partners on the Petroterminal board, which Noriega had stacked with his brother-in-law, publicist, and finance min­ister. A freeze ordered by the Reagan ad­ministration, and expanded under Bush, barred Northville and other American busi­nesses in Panama from making any pay­ments to the Noriega government, and Northville pumped over $70 million due to Panama into an escrow account here. Northville got a waiver from federal offi­cials so that they could keep the payments in its own account, rather than make them to the exiled Delvalle government, a shell entity recognized by the U.S. Fat with funds from other American interests, the Delvalle government retained as its lobby­ist John Zagame, the former D’Amato aide who is still very close to the senator, and Rich Bond, the current head of the Repub­lican National Committee.

Throughout these tense two years, the pipeline continued to function virtually un­interrupted, with Noriega apparently con­vinced that any disruption of the line might be used as a rationale for an American invasion. He even used his army to force striking electrical workers back on their jobs in early 1988, in part because the strike had knocked out a pumping station along the pipeline. While anti-invasion leaders like Rognoni believe that Northville was itself trying to cause a stoppage in early 1988 to provoke U.S. action against Nor­iega, Ackell says the company was simply biding its time.

Since Noriega was replaced with the cur­rent American-installed Endara govern­ment, relations with Northville, said Ackell, have been “very good, as good as things can go.” The only one left muttering is opposi­tion leader Rognoni, who calls D’Amato a hypocrite and claims that Noriega himself once told him “how surprised he was that D’Amato had turned against him.” ❖

SPECIAL REPORTING ASSISTANCE BY SUSANNA DOYLE. RESEARCH BY SCOTT ANDERSON AND LOU PACILLI. 

[related_posts post_id_1=”726204″ /]

LETTERS TO PRISON

While U.S. Senator Al D’Amato was ready to go to war in Panama to nail one drug dealer, his office relayed letters to federal prison officials on behalf of 23 drug dealers who were complaining about their treatment in jail, the Village Voice has learned. The senator also for­warded letters from two mob bosses, in­cluding Phil Rastelli, the former head of the Bonanno crime family.

While other federal officials also pass along similar letters, D’Amato has set a record for one more form of constituent service. The U.S. Bureau of Prisons says it sent 50 prisoner response letters in a recent year to D’Amato, compared with a mere 15 for D’Amato colleague Pat Moy­nihan, and a total of 13 to a sample group of five congressmen.

From 1987 10 1991, crimebuster D’Amato sent more than 200 such letters about inmates whose offenses ranged from heroin and cocaine distribution to murder and racketeering. The prisoners’ sentences ranged from a year to 75 years, including one drug dealer with a 20-year sentence. Because prison officials will only disclose fragments of the correspondence file, it is impossible to determine how many times D’Amato wrote his own letter on behalf of the prisoner in addi­tion to relaying the prisoner’s letter.

The letter D’Amato forwarded for Phil Rastelli sought a transfer from Oklahoma to a prison closer to his New York home, citing medical reasons. The June 1987 letter to D’Amato was written only eight months after Rastelli began serving a life sentence. When D’Amato sent the Ras­telli request to the bureau, his form letter took no position on the merits of the proposed move.

Robert Fueselo, executive director of the Chicago Crime Commission, said he regarded the routine forwarding of these letters “as inappropriate as can be to act on behalf of any prisoner who has been involved in hideous crimes, let alone an organized crime boss.” Rudy Giuliani said it was okay to forward this kind of letter without screening it, “except in the most notorious cases.” D’Amato for­warded more letters for drug offenders than any other criminal category. — W.B.

Categories
From The Archives NEWS & POLITICS ARCHIVES NYC ARCHIVES THE FRONT ARCHIVES Uncategorized

Rudy Giuliani and Roger Ailes: Cold Fusion

“I THINK WE HAD a great week,” Rudy Giuliani’s deputy campaign manager, Ken Caruso, said Satur­day at the official unveiling of the TV ad on Dinkins’s failure to file tax returns 20 years ago. “Jackie Mason went too far, and he was removed from the campaign. But today the issue is taxes…”

A campaign is like a miniseries: It develops the hero’s character slowly until a defining moment broadcasts it in simplified form to everyone. Many voters now think Rudy has the sense of humor of a wet troll, especially after the infamous “fancy schvartze” joke, and that will be hard to shake in the month left before election day. “The question isn’t really how Jack­ie Mason reached such prominence and visibility in Giuliani’s campaign, but how this became the only story in the race,” Republican strategist Jay Severin said the day after Mason’s controversial re­marks forced him to resign. “If Giuliani had been getting out a message a day it would have been different, but all of a sudden this is the only sound in a vacu­um — that signals deficiencies in a cam­paign.

“Mason is more a political story than it seems,” Severin continued. “This is almost a generic model of what happens when you don’t have an agenda. As we say in this business, [the important thing is] not stepping on your own dick.”

[related_posts post_id_1=”713710″ /]

If Giuliani danced the flamenco on his own dick last week, his staff claimed not to notice. In fact, they counterpunched hard, first with an ad in the country’s largest Yiddish newspaper showing Din­kins arm in arm with Jesse Jackson and Rudy chatting with George Bush in a wing chair (reminiscent of Saturday Night Live‘s mock ad, “Vote for Bush­ — He’s whiter”), and then with the taxes spot. All the while, Rudy complained that the press employed a “double standard ” in judging the fairness of the two sides, nagging him while letting Dinkins take “a free ride.”

The Mason flap made Giuliani the fo­cus of media attention for several days, and he took advantage of the opportunity to trot out canned assaults on his “Jesse Jackson Democrat ” opponent. Like the original decision to name an ethnic-insult stand-up comic as campaign mascot, the Giuliani assault suggests a tin ear for the subliminal vibrations of politics — surpris­ing in a campaign guided by the Republi­can master of the unsaid, Roger Ailes, who managed Bush’s nasty ’88 campaign.

That the Giuliani people didn’t pull the Algemeiner Journal ad after Mason stepped in shit may speak more about sloppiness than intent. The way it went down, it almost seemed as if Rudy were hoping Mason’s troubles would ultimate­ly work in his favor, and that Robert I. Friedman’s interview had merely allowed Mason to spell out clearly what he’d been saying in semaphore for weeks. Just what counts as a blunder in this sort of politics?

“Is racial innuendo raising its ugly head? I think it’s entirely possible that that’s the motivation,” says a Republican consultant based in Washington. “It may be a case in which Giuliani is really being manipulated a little bit here. I think there is a certain sense in which Giuliani is naive about these kinds of things, I’m not sure he’s been around long enough to know what he’s doing. Maybe it’s a coin­cidence, but maybe, too, it’s a pattern that racism seems to become an issue as Ailes becomes more prominent in a campaign.”

[related_posts post_id_1=”714847″ /]

IN AMERICA, RACE GIVES a pretty straight bounce in a campaign. It’s an identity issue, an us-or-them question, exploiting the Manichaean mythologies of national politics with their binary op­positions — Democrat/Republican, liber­al/conservative, black/white. Like the LOVE and HATE tattooed on Robert Mit­chum’s knuckles in The Night of the Hunter, racial division has a fundamentalist glamour.

But here in New York City, the physics of race occur in a cloud of charged particles that can bend space. Ask Al Gore, who was led into an eerily similar nuclear winter by Ed Koch during the presidential primary.

“The reason it wouldn’t happen any­where but in New York is you don’t have a Mason type anywhere else,” says David Keene, conservative activist and former Bush campaign political director. “Also, in New York the ethnic and racial appeals are more overt than anywhere else. It’s the only place you put together your schedule and say, ‘Today we’re going after Puerto Rican voters, tomorrow we’re go­ing after Jews.’ You can argue that it’s more crude, or you can argue that it’s more honest. What you have in the rest of the country often masks itself.”

Besides, to a couple of deep-dish Re­publicans — Ailes, who earned his media spurs as a producer for Mike Douglas, and Robert Teeter, the Ann Arbor–based polling consultant and fellow Bush ’88 veteran who completes Rudy Giuliani’s A-Team — the local customs must seem very exotic. “I’ve been astounded at the answers I’ve gotten on some things,” Giu­liani pollster Fred Steeper says of his New York data. Steeper hails from De­troit, where his firm works with Teeter’s. “You are the most liberal group in the entire country. Giving out birth control to teenagers without parental consent, for example, is overwhelmingly opposed in the rest of the country. In New York, it’s a close question… This is one of the wildest races I’ve ever been involved in.”

[related_posts post_id_1=”590085″ /]

In factional politics — which is what the New York mayoral race has become — the shadows cast by a candidate inevitably obscure the algebra of his policies. That’s part of the appeal of campaigning on a symbolic level, since fighting a race with petroglyphs largely frees the pol from making promises he might not want to keep. Besides, it works, sometimes against the longest odds.

So candidates look for doppelgängers, issues that have a patina of legitimacy (who wants a convicted murderer in their bedroom?) and a sweeping undertow (es­pecially a black one!). That some people could clearly read the unwritten in the Dinkins/Jackson picture in the Alge­meiner ad may well be because they’re partisan or obsessed, as Giuliani maintains. Or it could be that they read context: the context of a fractious New York City, of Ed Koch’s divisive kvetching, of Willie Horton, of how photos of black people have been used throughout Ameri­can history to transmit verbal taboos. To strip this graven image of context, as Giuliani has tried to do by protesting, “What’s wrong with this picture?” is at best naive, at worst willful insensitivity.

Up in the swanky fastness of the Rockefeller Center campaign headquar­ters, things in the top echelons have got­ten mighty male and pale. Giuliani’s de­spair of picking up black votes has led to a virtual blackout of African-American issues, not to mention faces, in his cam­paign. “I have not measured the amount of racial antipathy in the city because we don’t want to know. We have not asked some of the standard academic ques­tions,” Steeper says. And yet he goes on to lament the perverse polling anomalies he’s found in the city.

“It’s frustrating. New Yorkers say that crime and drugs are the number one issue and that Giuliani is better on it. But they’re voting for Dinkins. It’s partly be­cause there’s been a sort of honeymoon for Dinkins and he hasn’t been viewed as critically as the other candidates.”

For his part, Roger Ailes is still trying to live down the bitterness of the Willie Horton issue (Ailes didn’t make the infa­mous TV ad, but he was part of the team that made Horton a household name). So in his first TV spot for the general elec­tion, Ailes appears to have bent over backward to avoid using a photo of Din­kins. The tax commercial is just a scroll­ing script and a voiceover spearing Dinkins for not paying; by failing to mention that he paid the IRS in full 16 years ago, the sin floats lazily into the present.

The ad is curiously prefaced with a caveat. “Some people will try to tell you this is a negative commercial. But it isn’t. Because it’s fair and the facts are true.” This is classic Roger Ailes: the opening denial is at once an attempt to trumpet the ad’s negativity (negative ads are sim­ply irresistible) and to preempt any such thoughts.

And the ad is almost personal. Ailes is so aware of his reputation as a GOP hit man that he has to insist he’s using only “true facts.”

[related_posts post_id_1=”714416″ /]

“THE AMAZING THING here is that there’s an absolute strategic imperative for Giuliani,” says Jay Severin. “The is­sue in people’s minds hasn’t changed — crime and drugs — and Giuliani as a polit­ical entity exists only to fill that political void. But look at the feeble connection that’s been made to it! I would have him somewhere on the steps every day talking about a new program to fight crime and drugs.”

It would be nice to say, as Mario Cuomo did last Sunday, that New York City is going to show “Republicans that if you inject race into a campaign we will reject you overwhelmingly.” But this is hardly the end of such campaigns. GOP chair Lee Atwater is doing fine, in spite of the Tom Foley slander; this very local flap probably says more about New York than it does about a general rejection of the principles of ’88.

In the short term, Rudy Giuliani is going to pay the price — he’ll have a hard time getting elected Grand Poobah of the Raccoons in this city, much less mayor. But Ailes will likely pay a personal price, too.

“I don’t want to blame Ailes for Ma­son’s comments,” says David Keene. But “if Giuliani fails badly and if his failure is popularly believed to have been a result of this, then yes, Ailes’s career is in some jeopardy. And I suspect Giuliani is going to lose badly. So [using Mason was] dumb, in that it allows some people to say that it was Ailes’s fault.”

Reportedly Ailes is advising his man to put every dime into TV. “I agree with Roger,” says Severin. “He’s never going to win it with news coverage.” ■

Research assistance: Diane M. Rubino

Categories
From The Archives NEW YORK CITY ARCHIVES NEWS & POLITICS ARCHIVES NYC ARCHIVES THE FRONT ARCHIVES

Race, Gender & Rudy Giuliani

Rudy’s Record Could Be Better

RUDOLPH GIULIANI has yet to name the time and place, but he cer­tainly has made his in­tentions clear. And late last month, the wan­nabe-candidate signaled the tenor of his campaign by picking a fight with Ed Koch over race relations in New York. Giuliani charged that blacks and Hispanics had been excluded from positions of power in city government. It was as much a pitch to liberals as a punch to the gut, and Koch cried foul. “How many blacks or Hispanics did Rudy Giuliani appoint to leadership positions in the Reagan Justice Department and as U.S. attor­ney?” the mayor shot back.

So how good is Giuliani’s hiring rec­ord? A Voice investigation shows that, during his five-and-a-half year tenure, the U.S. attorney hired proportionally fewer black and Hispanic lawyers than other prosecutors. Figures made public by the U.S. attorney’s office show that, be­tween June 1983, when Giuliani was ap­pointed, and January 1989, when he re­signed, racial minorities represented 10.9 per cent of the attorneys hired. Women represented 34 per cent. Both figures compare unfavorably with hiring by Manhattan district attorney Robert Mor­genthau, Brooklyn D.A. Elizabeth Holtzman, and state attorney general Robert Abrams.

[related_posts post_id_1=”727098″ /]

How does Giuliani account for the dis­parity? He did not return phone calls from the Voice, but several associates of­fered explanations. Unlike the other agencies surveyed, the U.S. attorney’s of­fice rarely hires lawyers fresh out of school. “Our general rule is two years of experience,” says Federico E. Virella Jr., executive assistant U.S. attorney, whose responsibilities include hiring lawyers. “Sometimes, we waive that rule,” he adds, but not because of an applicant’s race or gender. About a quarter of the law students in a summer intern program are nonwhite. “We’ve offered positions to quite a few of those people,” Virella says. “When they graduate, it’s up to them to apply after they get one or two years’ experience.”

Apparently, not many do. Of 600 appli­cants interviewed by Giuliani’s office between 1985 and the present, only 38 were ­nonwhite. Of those, 11 were retained. Why the low numbers? “To be honest, the U.S. attorney’s outreach hasn’t been as widespread as other agencies,” says Londell McMillan, northeast regional di­rector of the Black Law Students Association. “They’ve attended our job fair for the past few years, but that’s certainly not enough. We receive large amounts of mail from various legal institutions, but not from them.” McMillan says black lawyers are less likely than whites to take a job and then leave it in two years to work for the U.S. attorney. “Black law students have a difficult time making their mark. They have to start at a place where they see a future and work dili­gently to secure a permanent position.” The two-year rule at Giuliani’s office, McMillan believes, works as “a deter­rent” to minority applicants.

Still, David Denton, chief of the U.S. attorney’s criminal division, maintains that, of the minority attorneys who do apply, “it’s my impression that we hire proportionally more, and certainly a lot more than private law firms.” That’s true: While blacks make up 5 per cent of the country’s law students, they represent only about 1.4 per cent of all lawyers in the state’s 52 largest firms, according to a report in the New York Law Journal. (Hispanics represent just under 1 per cent.) The U.S. attorney’s office draws its hiring pool mostly from private firms, prompting Giuliani spokesman Dennison Young to remark that “the number of minorities hired during Giuliani’s tenure was two or three times their proportion in the available labor pool. I think when you look at those numbers, you can say that the U.S. attorney’s office was very successful.”

[related_posts post_id_1=”718552″ /]

In addition, Young says it was Giuliani who recommended his successor, Benito Romano — the first Hispanic U.S. attor­ney in the Southern District. (Giuliani lured Romano — who, in 1987, he had ap­pointed to the number three spot — back from private practice.) But Giuliani made that move on the brink of his decision to run for mayor of New York, with its large Hispanic swing vote. The Justice Depart­ment would not say, and Young could not recall, how many minorities became U.S. attorneys while Giuliani was associate at­torney general, a position that included oversight of such appointments.

If the labor pool is so small, why have Morgenthau, Abrams, and Holtzman been able to lure more minority lawyers to their offices? On the record, Giuliani associates say their cases are more com­plex than other agencies’, requiring more experience and exposure to the practice of law. But when they retreat from the record, a blunter explanation emerges. Giuliani’s colleagues regard the U.S. attorney’s office as the city’s premier prose­cutorial agency, and they imply that, if fewer women and minority attorneys qualify for employment there, it must be because Giuliani set higher standards than other prosecutors. “I know all kinds of attorneys, regardless of race or gender, who shy away from applying to this office because of its reputation of demanding excellence,” says one Giuliani associate. “The perception might be that it’s easier to get into one of the city offices, and you know what? It probably is.”

[related_posts post_id_1=”590085″ /]

Morgenthau, Abrams, and Holtzman have formal affirmative action programs run by specially designated officers (in keeping with state policy), but federal law does not require that of U.S. attorneys. Still, Young and Denton mention infor­mal mechanisms, including a group of minority attorneys who attend job fairs and work on outreach efforts. “Before Giuliani, you probably could have count­ed the number of minority attorneys on one hand, and still had a few fingers left over,” says Virella, who is Hispanic. But criminal court judge Patricia Williams, who served in the U.S. attorney’s office from 1977 to 1986, remembers it differ­ently. She says the real increase in wom­en and minorities occurred under Giu­liani’s predecessors, John Martin Jr. and Robert Fiske. Williams, who was the third black assistant U.S. attorney in the Southern District, and the first woman in its criminal division, sat on the office’s hiring committee. “I don’t believe Giu­liani made any effort to attract minor­ities, or even to continue the policy of attempting to increase minority applica­tions,” she says. “I did not have the per­ception that that was a priority.”

Williams has the same perception about civil rights cases initiated by Giu­liani: “His priorities were organized crime, corruption cases, and dealing with street level narcotics. I am not aware of any priority laid to civil rights.” Ronald Stroman, an aide to Congressman John Conyers, spent a good deal of time in New York City last year, investigating charges of police brutality. “In preparing for a possible hearing, we began to look at civil rights cases in the city,” Stroman says. “All the local officials and commu­nity groups we spoke to indicated that Giuliani hadn’t done anything.”

The U.S. attorney’s office has a differ­ent view. “Our marching orders by the Department of Justice are to investigate, but once the local authorities are taking action, not to prosecute,” says Harriet Goldberg, chief of the Civil Rights Unit. Goldberg maintains the office did investi­gate both the Michael Stewart and Elea­nor Bumpurs cases, and, after the police were cleared, “determined there was no reason to proceed with federal action.”

[related_posts post_id_1=”714847″ /]

On another front, Norman Siegel of the New York Civil Liberties Union says Giu­liani’s office turned a deaf ear to com­plaints of police brutality in Tompkins Square. “One would have thought that Mr. Law-and-Order would have had his office do something affirmative in regard to civil rights violations,” Siegel says. “But they’ve done zip.” Goldberg, Giu­liani’s civil rights chief, insists her unit worked behind the scenes to get local authorities to act. “Our investigation is not yet closed,” she adds.

There are a few civil rights cases Giuliani prosecuted aggressively. His office won fair housing case against J. I. Sopher, the city’s largest rental realtor, and successfully pressed a discrimination claim against the Yonkers Police Department. But both these cases were initiated under Giuliani’s predecessor. More re­cently, Giuliani’s office won a conviction against two transit officers who had falsely arrested minority passengers. But Giuliani did not celebrate these victories with the panache with which he publi­cized his coups against crime and corrup­tion. No wonder the perception among many civil rights activists is that their issues took a back seat during Giuliani’s tenure. Civil rights are simply not part of this crimebuster’s image.

But how much could Giuliani have ac­complished against a profoundly conservative Justice Department? The answer is that, when this prosecutor chooses to, he bucks his superiors. For instance, ac­cording to Goldberg, when the Reagan administration instructed U.S. attorneys to refrain from filing class action suits against the Social Security Administra­tion, “Giuliani established a policy where we refused to represent that position.” Why didn’t Giuliani put more steam into issues of concern to minorities? Why didn’t he beef up his civil rights unit? Precisely because the Justice Department was unlikely to require him to take such actions, Giuliani’s record on civil rights and affirmative action is a fair measure of the man.

And what does the Liberal Party think about that record? Party chairman Raymond Harding told the Voice: “No comment.” ■

Categories
From The Archives NEWS & POLITICS ARCHIVES NYC ARCHIVES THE FRONT ARCHIVES

How Rudy Giuliani Took the Media for a Ride

SUNDAY’S PRETAPED in­terview with Gabe Press­man on WNBC-TV’s Newsforum was Rudolph Giuliani’s first little-­screen appearance since the candidate placed himself under the tute­lage of Roger Ailes. You remember him: the sleaze-master who ter­rorized America into vot­ing Republican last year when his propaganda turned the presidential election into a referendum on street crime and the death penalty by playing fast and loose with the truth. Almost every Ailesian campaign has fa­vored media-bashing as a technique to distract the electorate’s attention from any weaknessess in his candidate’s record (and, in the process, intimidate the press); recall when The Des Moines Reg­ister and Dan Rather were attacked for their too-pointed Contragate questions by George Bush, who thus succeeded in burying the scandal as a campaign issue? Well, Rudy certainly proved himself an apt pupil on Sunday, snarling through his rented smile that a hostile press was making mountains out of prosecutorial molehills as he tried to pooh-pooh away the reams of reputation-puncturing copy heaped on his head by the tabloids last week over the failed Kidder, Peabody prosecution and his office’s alleged “Nazi” tactics.

[related_posts post_id_1=”717929″ /]

It’s a strange complaint, considering the source, for until he started shooting himself in the foot with great regularity, Giuliani benefited from an elegiac media reception of a kind not seen in this town since the salad days of an equally arro­gant prosecutor, Thomas E. Dewey (when the Republicans who owned nine of the city’s then 11 newspapers touted Dewey for president although he was not yet 40). Even before he had formally an­nounced his candidacy, Rudy’s sweet­heart relationship with the press spawned a wet-kiss orgy of free publicity the likes of which even Ron Lauder’s mother’s millions couldn’t buy.

Examples: There was City for Sale, an almost entirely uncritical celebration of Giuliani’s prosecutions of municipal cor­ruption by Daily News editor-columnist Jack Newfield and Voice political writer Wayne Barrett that owed much of its insiderish tone to the avid cooperation of Giuliani and his longtime prosecutorial sidekick and press manager, Dennison Young Jr. (who, as Jacob Javits’s former legislative counsel, could scarcely be considered a political novice). The book, published at the beginning of the year, has served as something of a campaign biography for Giuliani. Gail Sheehy weighed in with an embarrassing act of journalistic fellatio in the August 1987 issue of Vanity Fair, “Heaven’s Hit Man” (“As passionate as he is about making crooks pay, he cannot sleep for seeing the faces of their suffering families” — I won­der how they fact-checked that one). Life produced a worshipful January 1988 pro­file called “Let’s Hear It for the Good Guys.” And, in a January 1989 Newsday column, Jimmy Breslin, who has made a career out of puffing up candidates on whom he also presses his services as a closet adviser, proclaimed that “the elec­tion [is] past history … Giuliani has won the 1989 New York City mayorality race. He does not beat Koch because Koch does not run.”

Pride of place in the front ranks of those pimping for Rudy belongs to New York magazine. In May of 1987, there was a cover touting Giuliani-as-crimebuster, but its headline, “GOTCHA!”(familiar to recent New York Post readers) was inept for this oh-so-promotional transcript of a Q and A with Rudy (one of the few politi­cians in recent memory accorded such a nonthreatening platform by the mag). His self-aggrandizing White Knightery was left untouched in the spread’s 13 pages by the nerf-ball questions of a criminally unsophisticated Nancy Col­lins. But the worst was to come: in anoth­er eight-page cover story this March, Joe Klein — New York‘s condohead purveyor of middle-class race paranoia — per­formed contortions worthy of the Kama Sutra in order to let Rudy off the hook. Indeed, Klein seemed to have fantasies of himself as Rudy’s Eddie Futch: “Giuliani agreed to explore his views on urban is­sues with the understanding that this would be a spring-training sort of inter­view — he hadn’t yet announced his candidacy and was still formulating his posi­tions on a number of important issues. I agreed to keep the gloves on.”

[related_posts post_id_1=”590085″ /]

Can you imagine any other pol being annointed with such deferential treatment? When a journalist agrees in advance not to ask tough questions — in ef­fect, to simulate a real interview in order to help the candidate decide what he thinks (or thinks is palatable) — he be­comes half-courtier, half-catamite. How­ever, the shameless Klein is far from the only opinion-monger in town to have served as willing accessory to the careful cultivation of Rudy’s image. The Voice ran a highly flattering cover story in Jan­uary by Joe Conason in which the only major incident from Rudy’s government service recounted in detail was a lauda­tory one. The article was based not on any independent investigations, but on a long interview in which, as Conason admitted, “Giuliani declined to answer spe­cific questions about running for mayor, the deficiencies of the current mayor, or what he would do if he became mayor.” The only subjects the filibustering Giu­liani wanted to discuss were those putting him in a good light, and the Voice went along with the charade.

More parlor games: Remember last September’s articles alleging state comptroller Ned Regan traded on his position as trustee of New York’s pension fund to obtain campaign contributions from Wall Street (a story broken in the Daily News by Jack Newfield and Tom Robbins and in the Voice by Rick Hornung)? Giuliani, no doubt envisioning another easy notch on his prosecutorial gun, couldn’t wait to open an investigation. Neither could Manhattan D.A. Robert Morgenthau. What happened next is related by Connie Bruck in her March 1989 American Law­yer profile of Giuliani (the best-reported I’ve come across): “According to a lawyer in Morgenthau’s office, ‘Rudy jumped right into it early on. They subpoenaed records. They said, ‘It’s our case.’ Then, on December 28, Newfield wrote in the News that Morgenthau had decided to impanel a grand jury to investigate Re­gan’s fundraising practices. About mid­way through the article, Newfield added that Giuliani was withdrawing from the case and turning his evidence over to Morgenthau.

“This was news to Morgenthau’s office. Giuliani’s office had given no indication that they ‘wanted out,’ says a lawyer in the D.A.’s office. Regan is, of course, a Republican, and many of the contributors who are being investigated are doubtless those Giuliani would be soliciting should he run … Having already made a mortal enemy of [Al] D’Amato, Giuliani could ill afford to alienate any more of the Repub­lican state network. Newfield, a long-time Giuliani booster, gave Giuliani a graceful exit.”

[related_posts post_id_1=”725621″ /]

The press’s bounty to Rudy was, of course, entirely self-serving. In his five-and-a-half-year free ride with the media as U.S. attorney, press conferences and press releases­ — the exception under Robert Fiske Jr., Giuliani’s straight-arrow predecessor — ­became mandatory rituals, while motions calling for investigations of leaks from his office have rained on the Southern Dis­trict in the cases that have collared a lot of media attention. Leaks jeopardize a defendant’s right to a fair trial, and the deontology of the federal judicial system requires a U.S. attorney to set standards for his subordinates which demonstrate that such trampling on our constitutional guarantees is intolerable.

That ain’t our Rudy: as Philip Weiss noted in a sharp-tongued November 1988 Spy profile, “Gerald Stern, the director of the State Commission on Judicial con­duct, says Giuliani has often violated eth­ical standards on pretrial publicity at his ‘circus-like’ press conferences. When ho­teliers Harry and Leona Helmsley were indicted for tax evasion last spring, the news of the grand jury’s decision was leaked to the New York Post a day early. The Helmsleys complained, and at his press conference announcing the charges, Giuliani vowed to investigate the ‘alleged grand jury leaks.’ (Minutes earlier, though, he had lavished praise on the Post reporter covering the Helmsleys for scoops that had expedited the case). Nothing came of the promised investigation.”

A report on the rise in leaks by the city bar association’s committee on criminal law last year whitewashed Giuliani, say­ing there were too many investigative agencies involved to finger any one. Dennison Young, Rudy’s longtime press handler in the U.S. attorney’s office, was a member of the committee that wrote the report (although he says he fastidi­ously abstained from voting on the final version).

[related_posts post_id_1=”725920″ /]

Collusion between prosecutors and the press can not only pollute a jury trial but lead to the maligning of the innocent, as was demonstrated by last week’s drop­ping of the insider-trading charges filed two and a half years ago against those three executives in the Kidder, Peabody case whom Rudy had dragged out of their offices in handcuffs. It was one of his most notorious cases, and, at the time of the arrest, the paparazzi had been tipped off, with the result that photos of the unlucky arbitrageurs in their mana­cles were Page One stuff across the coun­try. (One of the three, Robert Freeman, has now pled guilty to a charge wholly unrelated to the original.) As Robert Reno, one of Giuliani’s few acerbic critics in the city dailies, noted in his Friday Newsday column, this feverishly pre­pared case was part of Giuliani’s “suc­cessful race with Pope Gregory IX for the title of most effective inquisitor in histo­ry, a contest that turned out to be the preliminary round of his mayoral cam­paign … [But] lightning arrests and handcuffing of nonviolent citizens is as repulsive a way to run for mayor as using the actions of a homicidal rapist is a shameful way to get to be president.” (No wonder Ailes and Rudy get along).

There’s a line much used by Giuliani in his campaign stump speech: “Don’t let them tell you what they’re going to do, ask them to tell you what they’ve already done.” But what the dropping of the Kid­der, Peabody case demonstrates is that the press went AWOL when it came to looking at Rudy’s record. Connie Bruck is one of the few reporters who did: she interviewed 55 lawyers and federal judges. What did she find? A consensus that Rudy has “an ambition so raw and consuming that that which sustains it is embraced willy-nilly, that which does not directly feed it is neglected, and that which runs counter to it is earmarked for destruction.” (That could also serve as a fairly accurate description of Ed Koch.)

[related_posts post_id_1=”727098″ /]

Rudy’s lust for power explains the inor­dinate amount of time he devoted to stroking journalists. Bruck harvested in­numerable complaints from former Giu­liani staffers: “‘There was an untoward concern for how our prosecutorial judg­ments would play in the press … the more newsworthy our cases were, the more attention they got from Rudy.’ … ‘[Under Rudy’s predecessors, press releases were] no big deal. When Rudy came, he brought in Young, and Denny would review press releases as though they were indictments. He’d cross out as­sistants’ names and put Rudy’s in. Denny had a phenomenal devotion to press re­leases.’ … ‘[Rudy] spent more time with reporters than with [his] assistants.’ ”

By running his office as if it were a subsidiary of Hill and Knowlton, Giuliani was able to reward the flatterers while slighting the too-critical, thus maintain­ing the reporters who covered him in a carefully controlled client relationship. Steve Brill, the editor of The American Lawyer, says: “At each one of his press conferences there was just one script­ — Rudy’s —with one good guy — Rudy — and a bad guy, the one whose name was on the indictment. It was a setup, especially for TV. I’ve made my living off the reality that general, typical reporting about the criminal justice system is nonsense, ridic­ulous, too accepting of these very easy definitions of who the good and bad guys are. Take the guy who covered Rudy for years for the Times, Arnold Lubasch: what a slug. The Voice, the Times, every­body rolled over for Giuliani at every press conference. This can give you a swelled head: at least six friends of mine who are actively working in the campaign say Rudy has told them he expects to be president one day.”

The average reporter is a cop-junkie at heart anyway, but Rudy’s PR style (orchestrated by Young, Giuliani’s Michael Deaver) meant that the prosecutor had a lot of chits to call in when he declared for mayor. There isn’t a paper in town that isn’t in some way indebted to Giuliani for filling its columns with sexy stories. As for Rudy’s bleatings about how Ron Lau­der bought himself $6 million worth of airtime, there squeaks a man who’s used to as many soundbites on the nightly news as he wants, all for free, and all on his own terms.

[related_posts post_id_1=”718552″ /]

It’s because he’s so unused to media criticism that Rudy has turned angry at the scribes who used to collect his toenail clippings. No paper in town has given Giuliani more ink than the New York Post. But editor Jerry Nachman has transformed himself from just a little-friend-to-all-the-world columnist of piffle into a circulation-building Wyatt Earp who sees his city room as the OK Corral (and who knows how to curtsey to his publisher’s Board of Estimate moral­ity that dotes on Koch, the landlord’s pathic).

The result could only be last Friday’s screaming headlines: “Auschwitz survivor charges: RUDY’S MEN ACTED LIKE NA­ZIS.” The story — written by Nachman with recently rehired Post investigations editor Fred Dicker — involved the com­plaint of one Simon Berger, a sexagenar­ian purveyor of locks. He’d been indicted by Giuliani for having allegedly forked over backsheesh to win a lock contract with the city’s Housing Authority — if true, a peccadillo for a small merchant made cynical by too much familiarity with the world’s cruelty, but hardly one to excite the masses. Berger, in Nach­man’s tear-drenched account, was seated by Giuliani’s minions in front of a scribble-covered blackboard on which one could read the words, Arbeit macht frei. In the end, the lock-vendor happily found himself on the outside looking in: Berger was acquitted.

In terms of the future governance of this city, Newsday put the more mean­ingful story on its front page that day: the dismissal of the Kidder, Peabody in­dictments. (Despite the Post‘s touting of its blackboard story as an “exclusive,” Newsday had court papers that provided all the relevant facts; what the Post had — live and weeping on South Street­ — was Berger. Newsday ran its story at the bottom of page three with the sedate head, “Holocaust ‘Reminder’ Claimed”). Even Post columnist Pete Hamill admits to being disturbed by his paper’s Fleet Street-style flagellation of Giuliani: “When you’re going to use that word Nazi, you’d better be very careful. At least it should have been in quotes — that would have taken a little of the sting out of it. After all, to be arrested at 7:00 in the morning is not exactly to get a whiff of Zyklon-B.”

[related_posts post_id_1=”714847″ /]

Rudy, who has already dropped at least 17 points with Jewish voters, according to one poll, hardly needed a week like this. But is he being “set up,” as he claimed to Gabe Pressman on Sunday’s Newsforum? Jimmy Breslin, who with­drew from Giuliani’s advisory circle when Rudy expressed his desire to import Ailes and extradite Joe Doherty, doesn’t think so. “If he’s afraid of the Post, how’s he going to be mayor?” barks Breslin. “Who did this? Some federal agent? Is the guy still on the job scaring Jews? Who the fuck would know German like that? I’ll betcha some kid prosecutor. I don’t even know the goddamn German. If they didn’t make a real investigation, then they’re part of it. Rudy’s getting his comeuppance.”

The print players are lining up: every sentient reader knows that the Times and the Post are for the mayor; that Newsday is trying to figure out if it has the guts to endorse a black candidate; that the Voice —  too late to do any real good — will stumble toward Dinkins; and that the News, confused, will write its editorial with one eye on the circulation figures. But the whole race is on television­ — where Giuliani has a large residual Q fac­tor from the white-hat days when he fed defendants to the cameras. If Rudy final­ly does get his real comeuppance in November, we can only pray that it isn’t delivered by Ed Koch. ■

Categories
From The Archives NEW YORK CITY ARCHIVES NEWS & POLITICS ARCHIVES NYC ARCHIVES THE FRONT ARCHIVES

Why Did Rudy Giuliani Submarine a BCCI Probe?

The Ties That Blind

A specter that haunted Rudy Giuliani’s first run for mayor in 1989 — the associa­tion of his then law firm, White & Case, with the notorious international drug laun­derers and terrorist boosters at BCCI — is coming back to haunt him. The reason it’s returning is that much of what the former U.S. Attorney said back then to deflect me­dia attacks about the relationship was flat­-out wrong. A Voice reexamination of the issue raises new conflict-of-interest questions both about Giuliani’s late 1988–early 1989 job talks with the firm — whose ties to the world’s most corrupt bank were far more extensive than it has publicly claimed — and his office’s hitherto unre­ported, yet simultaneous, submarining of a BCCI probe.

Giuliani maintained then that he had only asked the firm, which had hired him just a couple of months before he formally announced his candidacy that May, if it represented any clients “under investiga­tion by my office when I served as U.S. Attorney,” not about clients “under investi­gation by other prosecutors.” Concluding that the BCCI prosecutions, which then appeared to be limited to the federal indict­ments in Tampa, had “nothing to do with my office” and “no connection to my work,” Giuliani declared the issue “irrele­vant.” He was so angered by the controver­sy, however, that he stormed off a WNBC­-TV set when asked about it, and, six days after the story surfaced, took a leave of absence from the firm.

[related_posts post_id_1=”714416″ /]

Contrary to Giuliani’s 1989 claims, how­ever, his office did receive a hand-deliv­ered, October 31, 1988, criminal referral about BCCI signed by top Federal Reserve and New York State Banking Department officials, as well as a November 8 follow-up letter listing suspected Panamanian and Colombian drug money deposits then flow­ing through BCCI’s New York office. These letters, as well as at least one November 4 meeting involving high-level Federal Re­serve, state banking, and Giuliani officials, were spurred by the findings of an emergen­cy joint examination of BCCI’s New York office conducted by both regulatory agen­cies immediately after the October 11 Tam­pa indictment of BCCI (surprising the bankers at a fake bachelor party orchestrat­ed by Customs agents made the bust a nationally televised news story). In addition to noting that the joint examination had uncovered apparent violations of the Bank Secrecy Act, the referral letter stated that “a money laundering scheme may be in prog­ress” at the New York branch — about as vivid a declaration as normally staid bank examiners are likely to make.

Giuliani’s office was also indirectly in­volved in the Tampa undercover opera­tion — indeed one of the prime launderers caught in the BCCI net, Robert “the Jewel­er” Alcaino, had been indicted by Giu­liani’s office that September. That is why the press statement issued by U.S. Customs Commissioner William Von Raab the day of the Tampa indictments listed his own and Giuliani’s press representatives as the only media contacts on the story. It is also why one of the Giuliani assistants who at­tended the November 4 meeting with the banking regulators, Steve Robinson, was handling not only the Alcaino case but that of another launderer, Colombian Pedro Charria, who also was charged with running drug money through BCCI.

Despite these many warnings about a bank already charged with $31 million in drug laundering, Giuliani’s office never got back to the bank regulators and never opened a grand jury inquiry. Several months later, a congressional investigator frustrated by Justice Department resistance to any broad-based BCCI investigation went to Manhattan District Attorney Robert Mor­genthau and convinced him to launch one. With the cooperation of the same state and federal banking officials mystified by the lack of response from Giuliani’s office, Mor­genthau indicted and convicted a host of BCCI officials in 1991 and 1992.

[related_posts post_id_1=”713710″ /]

His case included counts that flowed from the money-laundering charges de­scribed in the ignored 1988 referral, which was sent to top Giuliani aide Bruce Baird. Contacted by the Voice, Baird, a Washington lawyer who contributed to Giuliani’s campaign as recently as August, said he doesn’t “have a clue” about what happened in response to the letter, and can’t recall receiving it. Robinson said he was not aware a referral letter had been sent and was not involved in any action the office took after the meeting with the regulators.

The 1988 bulletins about BCCI were ar­riving at Giuliani’s office just as he and his top aide Denny Young, who remained at the U.S. Attorney’s office until the end of January 1989 and joined White & Case (W&C) on February 16, were having their initial discussions about possibly joining the firm. A headhunter long friendly with Giuliani who was the unofficial go-between in these negotiations, Wendeen Eolis, first talked to Giuliani about W&C’s interest in November. The Manhattan Lawyer report­ed at the time that formal Giuliani talks with the firm began in December after a lunch involving Young and a partner there. Eolis says: “In the fall of 1988, there were lots of law firms chomping at the bit to talk partnership to Rudy, but White & Case was one of the select few Rudy and Denny chose to consider.” A source close to the discussions says the early meetings with W&C preceded by weeks their consider­ation of the only other serious bidder, Pros­kauer, Rose, Goetz and Mendelsohn.

While W&C would later claim that its role with BCCI had “never been significant,” figures obtained by the Voice reveal that the firm earned at least $4 million in the fiscal year ending September 30, 1987, from a half dozen BCCI-related clients. Two of the partners who met with Giuliani early in the negotiations and who participated in the four-member management committee vote to offer Giuliani and Young a combined million-dollar package ($780,000 for Giu­liani and $300,000 for Young, with Giu­liani taking almost twice the draw of the average partner) were directly involved in the BCCI-related business — W&C chair James Hurlock, and Eugene Goodwillie Jr. Hurlock became a major Giuliani donor, raising $19,500 while contributing $2000 to the 1989 campaign himself; Goodwillie, the principal partner in charge of the BCCI work, gave $1000; W&C lawyers gave a total of $48,000.

[related_posts post_id_1=”590085″ /]

W&C’s 1987 client billings list $624,302 directly from BCCI and another $429,675 from the booming BCC affiliate in Colom­bia, which had two branches in Medellín, was closely tied to the drug trade and even became the multimillion-dollar depository for druglord Jose Gonzalo Rodriguez. It earned a mere $16,000 from the Republic of Panama that year, but that was a sharp dip from the 1986 total of $109,000, and was on top of the $300,000 Giuliani associates acknowledged in 1989 that W&C had earned over a period of a few years from the Panamanian national bank (BCCI and the Panama bank combined to hide $23 million of Noriega loot). The firm was so deeply involved with Ghaith Pharaon, the now fugitive Saudi tycoon and BCCI share­holder eventually indicted for illegally fronting for BCCI in the acquisition of three American banks, that in 1987 it listed $1.1 million in fees from Pharaon’s holding companies, Redec and Interredec; $643,000 from his oil company Attock; and $98,000 from the Pharaon Group.

W&C also reportedly earned substantial fees over the years involving Pharaon’s bank transactions, including two much-in­vestigated ventures: his sale of the National Bank of Georgia to Clark Clifford’s First American, and the purchase of the Califor­nia-based Independence Bank. Fueled by over $300 million in sometimes secret loans from BCCI, Pharaon spent years scouting and occasionally buying American banks as an apparent agent of BCCI, which was effectively barred by federal regulators from directly taking over one.

A few weeks after Pharaon’s principal representative here, Amer Lodhi, began co­operating with investigators in March 1989, he was told by W&C brass that Pharaon had issued an ultimatum: either it dropped Lodhi, who had recently taken a counsel position at W&C, or Pharaon would walk away from the firm. Lodhi, who was first involved with W&C as a young associate back in the ’70s, was shown the door within weeks of Giuliani’s ironic arrival.

[related_posts post_id_1=”726468″ /]

When Clifford, the legendary Washing­ton lawyer still under indictment with Mor­genthau, appeared before a Senate commit­tee probing BCCI in October 1991, he was asked about his billings to the bank. Distin­guishing it from the mountain of fees he’d collected from the BCCI-backed First American, Clifford said his direct work for the bank was “an occasional matter because they used White & Case.” (Clifford added that BCCI also “sometimes used Sullivan & Cromwell” as well as one California and Florida firm.) “I think, as a matter of fact,” he concluded, “they used them a good deal more than they used us.”

The association was so strong that Assis­tant U.S. Attorney Thomas Zaccaro says it was W&C’s actions in the 1985 Indepen­dence deal that have become the legal hook giving federal prosecutors jurisdiction to bring a still-pending $37 million civil claim against Pharaon in New York courts. Zac­caro also says that W&C is “probably con­flicted out” of the ongoing case because of the role the firm played in the BCCI-con­nected acquisition. A Federal Reserve affidavit in the case spells out two aspects of W&C’s involvement — indicating first that W&C “drafted an investment advisory agreement” naming BCCI as Pharaon’s in­vestment adviser on the deal (a device that concealed the fact that BCCI was actually buying the bank); and second, that W&C then participated in discussions surround­ing Pharaon’s repayment of a loan that had partially financed the “Independence ac­quisition” (the $12 million Pharaon used to repay this loan came from BCCI). The Fed document does not say that W&C had any knowledge of the full scope of BCCI’s hand in this acquisition.

Since W&C represented both Pharaon and BCCI, as well as other apparent fronts for BCCI like the First American Bank of New York (FABNY), investigators have also pondered the question of whether part­ners in the firm were aware of the bank’s or Pharaon’s deceptive practices with regula­tory agencies. These questions have in­volved practices reaching back to the early ’80s when W&C, knowingly or not, helped pave the way for BCCI’s covert entry in the New York market by assisting in the sale of over 35 Bankers Trust branches to FABNY — the key to establishing the new bank as a force in this region (BCCI could only run an office, not a real branch in New York, and was thus barred by regulators from taking domestic deposits here in its own name). Bankers Trust was W&C’s larg­est and oldest client, and FABNY became a client too, paying the firm over $330,000 in fees from 1984 through 1986.

[related_posts post_id_1=”727098″ /]

It was difficult for any observer not to notice the stark signs of BCCI’s involve­ment with FABNY since it was BCCI offi­cials, not First American, who initiated the Bankers Trust purchase, and BCCI that ran a yearly average of $10.6 million through FABNY (more than any other American bank), with 47 BCCI affiliates maintaining accounts there. FABNY was even head­quartered virtually next door to the BCCI agency on Park Avenue and took its top executives from BCCI ranks and recommendations.

No proof of any W&C misconduct in all of these dealings, however, has ever been alleged, and the firm has never even been legally targeted. When The American Law­yer reported in 1991 that Morgenthau and the Fed had subpoenaed documents related to Pharaon from W&C, a W&C spokesman said: “None of the services we have ren­dered to Dr. Pharaon have been called into question, nor do we expect them to be.” He has so far been proven correct. (As some measure of the depth of W&C involvement with FABNY, the firm billed the First American trustee $30,000 for gathering its extensive files related to Morgenthau’s sub­poena, with Hurlock and Goodwillie’s names appearing on the bill.)

But, in view of Pharaon’s still-pending New York and federal indictments, Federal Reserve orders permanently barring him from participating in the banking business in the U.S., and the continuing civil pro­ceedings that involve W&C, it is certainly possible that the firm was concerned in 1989, when it hired Giuliani, that the al­ready spreading BCCI scandal might turn in Pharaon’s direction. Since Hurlock, Goodwillie, the firm’s spokesman, and the Giuliani campaign declined to answer Voice questions about these issues, it is unclear whether any of W&C’s attraction to Giuliani might’ve been connected to con­cerns about the expanding BCCI case.

[related_posts post_id_1=”717345″ /]

It’s also unclear if Giuliani himself knew about the 1988 BCCI referral, follow-up letter, meeting, and other discussions that involved his office. The then deputy attor­ney general at Justice in Washington, Rob­ert Mueller, did a retrospective review in August 1991, though he could not recall how his review began (“I know we had some allegation that a referral wasn’t fol­lowed through on,” he said). The Mueller review came on the heels of several events that presumably embarrassed the Justice Department into trying to come up with some explanation for how it managed to miss the biggest international bank robbery in history. The U.S. Attorney for the South­ern District of New York — under Giuliani or in the years after his departure — was hardly the only federal law enforcement agency in the Reagan/Bush era to look the other way when BCCI appeared on its ra­dar screen.

One event that may have prodded Mueller’s review was Morgenthau’s sweep­ing indictments, virtually all of which have led to convictions, on July 29, 1991, and the D.A.’s press statement at the time, which pointedly thanked the Federal Re­serve and state banking officials who’d met with Giuliani’s staff but never said a word about any cooperation from Justice. Anoth­er was the August 1, 1991, hearing of Sena­tor John Kerry’s Subcommittee on Terror­ism, Narcotics, and International Operations, when Customs chief Von Rabb and Kerry counsel Jack Blum took turns blasting the Justice stonewall on BCCI, and when Federal Reserve counsel Virgil Mat­tingly mentioned for the first time that the 1988 New York referral had been sent.

Newly assigned to oversee Justice’s BCCI investigations, Mueller may have been pushed as well by two House probes. On September 5, New York congressman Charles Schumer released a report that, af­ter several discussions with Mueller, faulted federal efforts, concluding “more could and should have been done to put BCCI out of business, sooner rather than later.” (A year later Schumer issued a much tougher re­view, saying law enforcement secrecy made it impossible to determine if the reason for what he described as pervasive governmen­tal inaction on BCCI was a lack of coordi­nation “or something more ominous, such as the possibility that criminal prosecutions may have been deflected or interfered with for illegal or nonlegitimate purposes.”)

[related_posts post_id_1=”718552″ /]

On September 11, when Clifford testified for the first time in a much-ballyhooed public appearance, House Banking Com­mittee staff distributed a Federal Reserve chronology that spelled out the details of the 1988 referral, as well as a committee minority report that revealed that Fed offi­cials had “briefed Assistant U.S. Attorneys, FBI agents and IRS agents in the Southern District of New York concerning BCCI money laundering” in November of 1988.

In response to Mueller’s 1991 questions, the two Giuliani assistants, Robinson and Mary Lee Warren, who attended the 1988 meeting with the regulators began to put together their own explanation of what hap­pened. Both of them, to varying degrees, tried to minimize what the Fed and state officials told them. Robinson prepared a letter contending that the meeting was a getting-to-know-you session in which gener­al information was exchanged, with BCCI discussed only intermittently and without apparent purpose. “They clearly thought there were irregularities at the bank,” Rob­inson told the Voice, “but they did not suggest we open an investigation.” Un­aware of the referral letter to Baird, Robin­son could not quite figure out what the Fed wanted his office to do, though he says they did make it clear that they could not legally provide the prosecutors with detailed infor­mation on suspect BCCI accounts unless the Southern District “opened a formal in­vestigation” and “issued a grand jury subpoena for the documents.” He said maybe that was a “cryptic suggestion” Giuliani’s office should’ve taken. Insisting that the meeting and the bank were “no big deal” to him at the time, Robinson says that the whole issue just “fell off my map” after the session. He wrote the memo about it at the request of Warren, who was the narcotics chief in Giuliani’s office in 1988 but had become the head of the narcotics division in Washington, working under Mueller, by the time she called Robinson in 1991.

Warren, who is still at Justice and who also talked to Mueller, dismissed the meet­ing as a “hospitality session,” adding that the regulators “might have mentioned a bank” and that it “might have been BCCI” (though she could not recall what, if any­thing was said about any bank, she did remember that the group “ate cold cuts” and that she and Robinson had “a hard time finding” the Federal Reserve office). Angrily declaring that there “absolutely was not” any referral letter sent to Giuliani’s office, and refusing to listen to the three references to it in congressional documents, Warren also claimed to have “no recollec­tion” of the follow-up memo sent to her by the Fed four days after the meeting, which sources say listed specific bank customers who may have committed criminal violations.

[related_posts post_id_1=”13270″ /]

While a Fed participant indicated later that the session was arranged at the request of Giuliani’s office, Warren says it “certain­ly wasn’t us who asked for it” and that the meeting “came out of the blue” — coinci­dentally, just five days after the referral letter. Robinson suggested that the meeting occurred because their Charria and Alcaino probes had resulted in subpoenas for BCCI records that the regulators were aware of, though Warren says she knew nothing at the time about either drug launderers’ use of the bank.

The only aspect of this disputed meeting that both sides agree on is that “nothing ever came of it,” as Warren puts it. Fed officials later told Morgenthau’s office they could not explain why the Southern District never followed through, but Mueller did not question the regulators, nor did he re­view their detailed notes of the meeting. Indeed, he has no recollection of ever see­ing the Fed referral letter or Robinson’s memo. “I can’t tell you I did a thorough investigation,” says Mueller, who nonethe­less says he was “satisifed” that whatever was done was appropriate. “I do recall the question coming up generally why Morgen­thau was doing such a good, aggressive job and yet there was no Southern District in­volvement. Ultimately the answer was that the case was being driven by the Federal Reserve and I don’t know why they weren’t working more closely with the Southern District.” He added that he knew none of the details of the Fed’s early efforts to enlist the Southern District in the probe, but said that he vaguely recalled that whatever was referred to Giuliani’s office “fell within the ambit of the Tampa money laundering probe” and “perhaps” wound up passed along to Florida officials. There is no evi­dence, in fact, that it ever was.

Baird’s memory lapse, Warren’s state­ment that she doesn’t know if she discussed the Fed meeting with any superiors, and Robinson’s fleeting acquaintance with the case leave no one who was associated with it who can answer questions about Giu­liani’s knowledge. Giuliani won’t get on the phone either, but it is hard to imagine that this hands-on prosecutor, with his own press officer listed as fielding questions about BCCI defendants associated with the Tampa operation, had no idea that these BCCI red flags were being waved in his direction. His simple disavowal of any knowledge about the actions of his own top investigator — revealed in last week’s Voice — seemed to be enough to silence any further assessment or exploration in the media.

[related_posts post_id_1=”725920″ /]

Curiously, the press had no such re­sponse in 1989, continuing a drumbeat of stories about W&C clients and internal practices even when Giuliani adamantly denied any knowledge of them. Giuliani was particularly tarred with a Noriega brush in that campaign, though he insisted he had no way to know the firm represent­ed the druglord dictator prior to press revelations. However, the Voice has obtained a W&C prospectus then used to attract new lawyers that specifically said the firm repre­sented “foreign sovereigns” on an array of banking issues and listed Panama as one of 10 such clients. (Indeed the press had no such tolerance in the Liz Holtzman affair this year, hammering away at her though she swore under oath she had no idea her office had selected Fleet Bank as an under­writer, and all that countered her denial were reasonable inferences.)

With Giuliani’s extraordinary record as one of the country’s most effective federal prosecutors, he is certainly due the benefit of the doubt on issues involving his old office. But his service as U.S. attorney is all the public has to evaluate when it considers Giuliani, and, if he is running on that record, it is the press’s job to take a look at its possible underside. His office’s apparent mishandling of solid BCCI leads is fair crit­icism of him whether he did or did not know about it; he missed a golden opportu­nity to examine the so-called Bank of Crooks and Criminals that even loaned $9.5 million to the most ruthless Arab ter­rorist, Abu Nidal, who maintained a $60 million account at BCCI’s fashionable Sloane Street branch in London.

It cannot be emphasized too strongly that no one knew in 1988 when Giuliani’s top staff passed on these BCCI leads that Morgenthau would manage to put the BCCI pieces together inch by inch over a period of years, ultimately bringing this corrupt colossus down. The congressional investiga­tor who came to Morgenthau — just six months after the federal referral to Giu­liani — convinced him to take on this hunt by pointing to all the allegations in his own backyard, from the Fed laundering to the possible false filings involving FABNY. Had Morgenthau not responded, the Southern District stonewall could very well have resulted in protecting BCCI from the death­blow it deserved, leaving the investigation in the hands of the Justice officials else­where who had stopped short.

[related_posts post_id_1=”714847″ /]

Giuliani is also responsible for his choice of a law firm. His deal with W&C was widely assailed in the legal press at the time, which found its price tag inexplicable, especially for a lawyer who was hired to run for mayor by a firm that did no real munic­ipal work (The American Lawyer‘s Steve Brill said Giuliani was using the firm as “a meal ticket and a mail drop”).

It hardly looks now like this potential mayor did the requisite due diligence be­fore going there, and though no one in the media has reminded the public, he went back to the firm — despite all the hard ques­tions — when he lost. He stayed there for half a year, finally drifting away in 1990. All those W&C partners who believed so deeply in his 1989 candidacy that they dug in their pockets for dough have stopped contributing, adding to the curiosity of this temporary marriage.

As Erwin Cherovsky notes in his “Guide to New York Law Firms,” W&C “scarcely resembles the prototypically white shoe law firm which went by that name 15 years ago,” with “business connections and a gentlemen’s club atmosphere” having given way “to the hustle and bustle of a firm on the cutting edge.” Cherovsky concluded that while the firm has been on the upswing in recent years, “it still has not regained the standing it once enjoyed.” The collection of clients detailed here for the first time does little to enrich that reputation; and the vigi­lant Giuliani should’ve noticed.

David Dinkins has a four-year record as mayor to defend; it merits much of the criticism Giuliani has leveled. All Giuliani has is his legal practice — as a public and private advocate. Before we make him mayor, we are entitled to know as much as possible about that record. ■

Research: Jon Bowles, David Carnoy, and Adam Macy  

Categories
From The Archives NEWS & POLITICS ARCHIVES NYC ARCHIVES THE FRONT ARCHIVES

The Rogue Police Union

Corruption is the tone you set at the top. — Rudolph Giuliani, September 9, policy speech

THE MOLLEN Commission hearings that concluded October 7 filled pages of newsprint and hours of TV, forcing New Yorkers once again to wonder just how high up police corruption might reach. Cocaine-riddled cops, blue-uniformed sadists, and see-no-evil superiors confessed crimes and shortcomings in excruciating detail. Reformers described lonely, futile efforts. Yet for all the candor, there was a dramatic silence — a dog that did not bark. 

Somehow, not a single person on the Mollen panel or at the witness table addressed the one institution that routinely defends cops accused of malfeasance and that blocks serious reform programs: the Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association. The Mollen Commission report, due this month, is expected to be equally silent on the role of the PBA in police corruption.

The 20,000 member union is so dominant and so brazen it can hold the city hostage if it sees fit, as it did last year when a PBA rally turned into a drunken riot, with thousands of police officers storming the steps of City Hall and blocking traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge. Mayor-elect Rudolph Giuliani’s proposed anticorruption endeavors won’t mean a thing if they don’t include the PBA’s influence in police affairs and in New York politics.

For the PBA, life is mostly a one-way street. Politicians kowtow to it, and taxpayer dollars provide most of its financing, yet PBA officials operate with virtually no accountability to the public, the police brass, or the union’s own rank and file. Meanwhile, inside the New York Police Department little gets done without tacit PBA approval — which is to say without the consent of its president, Phil Caruso, who refused to meet with the Mollen Commission. Now in his fourth four-year term and with no challenger in sight, Caruso has outlasted five police commissioners and two mayors. On January 1, president Caruso will see the inauguration of a third mayor, one the PBA strongly backed over incumbent David Dinkins, a man the union leadership despised and publicly challenged.

[related_posts post_id_1=”721023″ /]

Since 1980, when Caruso became the union’s head, the PBA has evolved into an all-but-invincible network. Much of the credit for the union’s ascent, and perhaps most of the blame for its worst impulses, goes to Richard Hartman, who from 1978 to 1991 served variously as the PBA’s lawyer, labor consultant, and insurance broker, and who continues to this day to have ties to the PBA’s law firm. Together, Caruso and Hartman shaped the once-complacent PBA, formed in 1894 to assist widows and orphans of slain police officers, into a potent, feared, and secretive organization. 

A year-long Voice investigation has uncovered a shameful history within the PBA, a litany of misdeeds and disturbing associations that raises fundamental questions about the values of the city’s police union leadership. Both Caruso and Hartman developed a practice of blatantly favoring their friends and punishing their enemies. The Caruso Hartman team has also demonstrated a willingness to associate with, and often act like, the very crooks police are supposed to arrest.

The Voice has learned:

  • Since Caruso and Hartman attained power in the PBA, law enforcement wiretaps have caught La Cosa Nostra figures bragging about their relationships with the two men. These gangsters included soldiers and associates of the Genovese and Luchese families. In addition, former Hartman associates told the Voice that Frank “Kiki” Testa, a retired sanitation worker who appeared to have ties to the Philadelphia mob, was for a period of time a menacing presence around the office where PBA legal matters were handled.
  • Caruso stood by as a gambling addiction engulfed Hartman and compromised the integrity of the union. Like so many compulsive gamblers, Hartman became both liar and thief as he piled up enormous losses in Atlantic City casinos. Besides improperly taking funds from a police officers’ escrow account — i.e. the officers’ own money — to feed his habit, Hartman turned to a loan shark and to clients who agreed to pay their bills in cash. In one instance, an associate with a criminal record delivered $250,000 in cash to Hartman’s Atlantic City hotel room, so the lawyer could get back to the craps tables. Many sources for this story believe that the millions Hartman blew at the gaming tables came mostly from the grossly inflated retainers, fees, and consulting contracts he received from Phil Caruso’s PBA.
  • Hartman relied on his close relationship with Senator Alfonse D’Amato and other friends in the Nassau County Republican machine to aid him in winning extremely generous contracts for clients. As a Nassau County supervisor, D’Amato intervened in labor talks on behalf of the Nassau Community College adjunct faculty. Hartman reciprocated by playing a vital role in D’Amato’s first successful race for the U.S. Senate. Among other things, Hartman allegedly funneled contributions through his staff. D’Amato later hired Hartman’s brother-in-law and eventually helped the man attain a judgeship, despite his lack of significant courtroom experience. The senator also assisted Hartman clients, including a felon, in efforts to get gun permits.

[related_posts post_id_1=”725920″ /]

  • By massaging the labor negotiating process in Nassau County, Hartman racked up huge salary gains for cops there. He then cited the Nassau contracts as fair precedents in getting concessions from New York City, concessions that benefited the PBA bureaucracy far more than New York’s police officers. Although Hartman had previously seen numerous associates charged with legal improprieties including two bosses, a coworker, and a law partner, he greased this process by providing gifts and favors to officials in Nassau county. Among other plums, certain county officials who favored Hartman were rewarded with well paid teaching jobs on the Nassau Community College adjunct faculty, a client of Hartman’s and a patronage pit.
  • Caruso transformed the modestly paid position of PBA counsel into a gold mine, paying Hartman millions of dollars a year and sending him millions more in referral business. Prior to Caruso’s election to president, the PBA spent a little above $1 million a year for legal representation, labor negotiations, and lobbying. By 1991, the PBA was spending more than $7.2 million for the same services. The huge bargaining budget had virtually no effect on the basic police officer’s salary, which at best has only kept pace with inflation. Others benefited greatly, however; Hartman poured contributions into Caruso’s campaigns for the PBA presidency and in 1981 gave Caruso a Jeep. According to investigative sources familiar with a 1988 Manhattan grand jury, convened to examine embezzlement in the union, the topic of cash kickbacks to a PBA official was also explored.
  • The PBA foiled investigations of police corruption. Before going to jail in 1985 for bribing witnesses not to testify against cops, Walter Cox, the PBA’s private investigator, recounted that he had been operating under explicit orders from superiors. More recently, a PBA precinct official tried to sidetrack initial police probes of renegade cop Michael Dowd. And law enforcement sources say the PBA also recently ruined a Bronx D.A./NYPD sting set up to snare crooked cops.

[related_posts post_id_1=”397777″ /]

  • After the Manhattan D.A. discovered that Hartman had raided the PBA members’ escrow fund to pay for gambling binges and got him to surrender his law license, Hartman turned right around and set up a cozy relationship with the PBA’s successor firm, Lysaght, Lysaght & Kramer. The new outfit, headed by Hartman’s former roommate, an ex-cop named James Lysaght, seamlessly took over the lucrative PBA account, moving into Hartman’s offices and retaining his staff. Several Hartman relatives are on the Lysaght payroll and his brother Elliott until recently has handled the firm’s bookkeeping, just as he did before the transition.  Furthermore, the Voice observed Lysaght holding a clandestine meeting with Hartman during the past year, one of a string of business discussions Hartman held in near empty parks on cold winter days. If legal matters were discussed, such a meeting would seem to violate Hartman’s agreement with the district attorney to get out of the PBA’s legal affairs.
  • Instead of firing Hartman for dipping into the escrow funds, Caruso continued to reward him. After Hartman gave up his law license, Caruso granted him another multi-million dollar compensation arrangement. Hartman became both a “labor consultant” to the PBA and the broker on an expensive new life insurance policy sold to PBA members, before handing the account off to the wives of PBA lawyers James Lysaght and Peter Kramer.
  • Caruso, his staff, and PBA accountants are decidedly cavalier in the way they handle the PBA’s huge cash flow — $63 million in annual contributions from the city, dues from PBA members, and income on assets. In every document filed with the government, one of the biggest line items is always “other,” which is rarely explained on supplemental sheets. In 1991, a whopping $6.6 million in expenses was lumped under “other.” That figure only hints at the overhead that the PBA carries today. Because of its extravagant administrative costs, and huge payouts to lawyers, lobbyists, and labor negotiators, the PBA’s expenses nearly equal the benefits it disburses to members—approximately $26 million. (See “The PBA’s Bloated Overhead,” page 28.) For United Way and other tax-exempt organizations, such spendthrift practices have recently triggered public outrage and forced resignations. So far, the PBA has successfully avoided virtually all inquiry and criticism.

WEARING EXPENSIVE tailored suits and a withering scowl, Phil Caruso is the face of the PBA, and to a large degree of the New York Police Department itself. Commuting from his home in Sayville Suffolk County, he encourages a hostile view of New York City, the notion that it’s nothing but an armed camp that issues nice paychecks. The same outlook informs the PBA’s 19 other executive board members, most of whom live in the suburbs. They’re all white, all male, and, though they don’t perform any police work, all collect taxpayer financed NYPD salaries and have generous PBA expense accounts. The next level down on the PBA hierarchy contains 364 delegates — virtually all white and male, most of them living in the suburbs.

1993 Village Voice article by Russ Baker about corruption in the NYPD's Patrolman's Benevolent Association

Despite the PBA’s fundamental alienation from the city, the organization has become an increasingly potent local political force. Although it made no formal endorsement in the mayor’s race, its sympathies were obvious: Rudy Giuliani was the man. Giuliani joined Caruso at the infamous September 1992 City Hall police rally. The candidate screamed out one “Bullshit!” after another in his critique of Mayor David Dinkins, and Caruso told the mob, “The forces of evil are all around. They are trying to surround us. They are trying to defeat us.”

Ever since that rally-cum-mutiny, the PBA has championed Giuliani. As tallied by Shaun Assael and Wayne Barrett in the November 2 Voice, PBA-connected sources contributed $20,500 through a single bundler to Giuliani’s campaign, and many police officers worked as volunteers. Yet now that he’s moving into Gracie Mansion, the former prosecutor has to decide if he is willing to stand up to his PBA supporters. He’s sent out mixed signals so far: he pledged that, for the time being, he will leave alone the Dinkins-mandated civilian police review board, which the PBA is staunchly against.  But in a year, Giuliani warned, he will review the board’s performance “to see if officers are being treated fairly.”

More encouragingly, Giuliani has also called for the return of an independent special prosecutor to investigate police misconduct, a post Governor Mario Cuomo abolished in 1990. With the Mollen commission ready to issue its report and with Giuliani about to name his police commissioner, there has perhaps never been a better time for an independent prosecutor to look into police affairs, especially the inner workings of the PBA.

[related_posts post_id_1=”714847″ /]

Not that it will be easy. Almost every source the Voice approached in preparing this article was reluctant to speak. People intimately familiar with the PBA said they feared for their lives and those of their families if they talked.  As one person put it: “It would be suicidal for a police officer to speak out.”

After months of building trust and cultivating leads, however, the Voice persuaded many knowledgeable sources to reveal what they know. Interviewed were more than 100 people — many of them several times — including PBA employees and other law enforcement sources from New York City, Nassau County, New York State, New Jersey, and the federal government. Along with details drawn from stacks of documents and files, the insights of these administrators, investigators, police officers, attorneys, and other professionals enabled the Voice to piece together a portrait of an organization that operates above the law and without review.

Caruso himself refused to comment, declining repeated requests for an interview and saying  through a spokesman, “The Village Voice is anti-cop, anti-PBA, and anti-Phil Caruso.”

Attempts to contact Hartman were ignored or rebuffed. A prominent criminal defense attorney who has represented Hartman promised to relay the query, but no answer came back, and a phone message left with a woman at Hartman’s west side apartment was not returned. Neither did Hartman respond to letters mailed to him at all known addresses. As for the firm Lysaght, Lysaght & Kramer, which has taken over Hartman’s enormously profitable PBA work, both James Lysaght and Peter Kramer abruptly hung up the phone when the Voice called to request an interview. 

When the Voice telephoned the PBA office to ask how to get in touch with Hartman, a woman who refused to identify herself said, “He’s retired.” Then how do you reach him? “You don’t,” she snapped, ending the conversation. Hartman’s formal ties with the union may indeed have been severed, but a network of friends, relatives, and legal and business allies remains firmly in place.

[related_posts post_id_1=”714416″ /]

PHIL FOR PRESIDENT

FOR CLOSE TO A DECADE and a half, Phil Caruso and Richard Hartman have been the odd couple of police organizations.  Disheveled, charming, and compulsive, Hartman was the Nassau County conjurer who brought to the union political muscle, negotiating savvy and dubious associates. Manicured, reserved, and willful, Caruso was Hartman’s sponsor, bankroller, and enabler, feeding him larger and larger retainers and contract, and backing him with the unqualified, unquestioning support of the PBA. Together, using tax revenues they bargained for in the name of the cops on the street, Hartman and Caruso built a powerful, wired institution that stands virtually beyond scrutiny. 

The unlikely partnership began in 1977, with Hartman making a pitch for the New York PBA’s legal work and Caruso a bid for the PBA presidency. Hartman had just come from the patronage pit of Nassau County politics. A bright, energetic student at Long Beach High, he had scored in the top percentile on his college board exams. At New York Law School, he had been taught by none other than the notorious Roy Cohn, the Joe McCarthy aide whom Hartman would cite as a role model and who would be disbarred for improperly handling a client’s funds. Hartman went on to ace the bar exam, and presumably could have aimed high in the legal field, perhaps for a clerkship for the U.S. Supreme Court justice or a career in corporate law. Instead he descended into the mercenary, brawling world of Nassau County law and government. (See “Nassau’s GOP Affirmative action Machine”

Then, as now, Nassau politics had little to do with issues or ideas; it was all about power, getting ahead, and helping yourself, your family, and your friends. Throughout these early years, Hartman played protégé to a string of ethically challenged mentors. A Nassau D.A. he worked for went to jail for padding his expenses; a Suffolk district court judge for whom he worked was removed from the bench for improprieties ranging from fixing traffic tickets to advising a prostitute on how to avoid prosecution. 

Besides his intelligence, energy, and colorful presentation, Hartman could rely on the Nassau GOP machine, in which his father, a grocer and bookie, had been a party committeeman. Richard established early relations with the D’Amato brothers, Alfonse and Armand, friendships that later proved fruitful for all concerned. After taking over representation of the Nassau PBA, he began adding other police unions, including the Suffolk County PBA, and before long had an incredible stable of 300 client unions, most in law enforcement. Hartman’s connections, combined with his penchant for handing out tokens of his esteem to county officials, helped make the Nassau and Suffolk police the best paid in the country. Nassau officers currently earn a base pay of $52,229 after seven years of service. With overtime, some officers earn as much as $90,000 annually.

[related_posts post_id_1=”725566″ /]

While Hartman was first making a name for himself in suburban police labor negotiations, Philip Caruso was rising fast in New York City politics. After two years in the army and two years installing telephones, the young Brooklyn native had joined the NYPD in 1958 and served as a patrolman and plainclothes officer working 42nd Street. Caruso began his climb through the PBA hierarchy as a delegate, a sort of shop steward who represents the union in his precinct. In 1971, the PBA president elevated Caruso to sergeant-at-arms, the first rung of PBA leadership. 

Caruso stood out from day one. He spoke more eloquently than others. “The guys were hail fellows well met,” said Stuart Linnick, a former PBA attorney. “Phil was more dignified.” And he polished his resume by picking up a bachelor’s degree and a master’s in public administration from Pace University. Former colleagues recall that Caruso considered himself above, and was even embarrassed by, uneducated, inarticulate officers. 

In 1974, a slate of young policemen, including Caruso, ran unopposed, and were elected to slots on the executive board. In a typical display of bravado, Caruso immediately announced that in the 1977 election he would take on president Ken McFeeley. When ‘77 rolled around, Caruso’s platform included a promise: If elected, he would hire Long Island wunderkind Richard Hartman as the PBA’s attorney and negotiator. Hartman reciprocated by helping to finance Caruso’s run.

Though Caruso lost, narrowly, the rest of the slate prevailed. The top four officers below president Samuel DeMilia were Caruso allies. The group quickly staged a confrontation, hoping to force DeMilia to hire Hartman.

On December 30, 1977, DeMilia and the board met at his home. According to a contemporaneous memo written by DeMilia’s counsel, Harold Foner, “DeMilia stated that the opposition members of the Board led by [first vice president Charles] Peterson wanted Hartman retained… [I] emphatically told DeMilia not even to consider Hartman, that it was rationally stupid and untenable to retain a man who gave large sums of money to defeat him and who had actually campaigned against him.”

[related_posts post_id_1=”725996″ /]

On February 15, 1978, in a meeting at the PBA’s offices, Caruso’s executive board allies, including Charles Peterson, plus Hartman, met with Carmine Perrotta, the man who had been hired the previous August to handle the legal assistance plan. The group presented Perrotta with an ultimatum: step down. His back to the wall, Perrotta, whom the PBA was paying $47,500 a year, reluctantly agreed to a $100,000 buyout. The following day, at age 37, Richard Hartman became attorney and chief negotiator for the PBA, with an annual retainer of $750,000.

Two years later, in March 1980, DeMilia, suffering from eye cancer, resigned, elevating Charles Peterson to the position of acting PBA president. Hartman maintained a friendly demeanor with his ally Peterson, yet behind the scenes he was plotting the new president’s downfall in the June election. Sources said that between 1977 and 1980, Hartman pumped large sums into the PBA presidential elections, and though some of it went to Peterson, the bulk flowed secretly to Caruso. “Richie was smart enough to realize that Peterson wasn’t the politician Phil is,” a former Hartman staffer recalled. Hartman was not only observed as a Caruso bankroller but according to sources close to the elections, also fed Caruso information straight out of the Charlie Peterson camp. 

“Everything Peterson told Hartman, Hartman told Caruso,” according to former PBA spokesman George Douris, who was dismissed by Caruso in late 1980. In other words, to insure that Caruso would win, Hartman sucker punched Peterson. (In an odd twist, years later, after Peterson himself died of cancer, Hartman would wed the man’s daughter.)

The pattern of overthrowing friendships was hardly unique to Hartman. Caruso, too, saw pals as expendable if they got in his way. PBA vice president Nick Chiarkas, a man responsible for Caruso’s rise through the PBA ranks and one who urged him to pursue degrees at Pace University, paid dearly for his encouragement. Once Caruso secured the presidency, he dispensed with the older Chiarkas, who was known for his integrity. At the time, Chiarkas was retired from the force and working at the PBA as a civilian. When Chiarkas left the PBA, Caruso refused to allow Chiarkas to continue his medical insurance at his own expense.  When Chiarkas died of cancer in 1985, his wife and daughter were left to fend for themselves.

“That son of a bitch double-crossed me,” Chiarkas told a friend after being cut loose by Caruso. 

[related_posts post_id_1=”725362″ /]

FAVORS AND APPEARANCES 

IN 1980, WHEN Phil Caruso took the PBA helm — as its eighth president in 10 years — the triennial labor negotiations were already underway. Hartman and Caruso were so confident of doing well that the PBA team bragged before bargaining began about exactly what gains they would be attaining. They even discussed the need to drag the discussions on for the sake of appearance. During negotiations, PBA officials were upstairs in a hotel room partying. To help pass the time, a couple of them even enjoyed the favors of prostitutes, according to a source who said he personally brought the women to the hotel. 

Hartman was able to engineer increases in the form of complex benefit packages, which often benefited the union more than its members. But he was less successful in his efforts to force salary gains in the NYPD by pointing at rates he’d won on Long Island. Today, the base pay for a Nassau police officer stands almost $12,000 over that of a New York City officer. 

Still, Hartman couldn’t resist using unorthodox methods that had worked well on Long Island. A favorite ploy was developing warm relations with negotiators on the other side of the table. For example, former assistant labor relations commissioner Bob Pick told the Voice earlier this year that Hartman had come to Pick’s house to tutor his wife in math, and when he got too busy, sent over the head of Nassau Community College’s math department, Abe Weinstein. Asked about this, Weinstein said that he could not recall a Bob Pick, and that he did not do tutoring. Accepting such favors or gifts would be improper, according to Bruce McIver, the Office of Labor Relations director and the superior of these negotiators from 1980 to 1985: “You can’t let them buy you lunch, you can’t let them buy you tickets to the theater.” 

[related_posts post_id_1=”725998″ /]

If warming up bargaining opponents weren’t enough, Hartman also befriended neutral arbitrators. In 1976, while Hartman was unofficially advising the New York City firefighters union, arbitrator Eric Schmertz awarded a controversial, generous settlement. “My feeling was he had lost some of his impartiality,” said McIver. “My impression was he was favoring the fire union.” 

Schmertz nevertheless moved on to more prestigious posts, including that of dean of Hofstra Law School. One student who enrolled at Hofstra during that period was Phil Caruso’s daughter Lynda, who has since become a lawyer at the PBA’s law firm. (Schmertz later served as director of Mayor Dinkins’ Office of Labor Relations. In October he was nominated to the National Labor Relations Board, but told the Voice last week he had just withdrawn his name for “political considerations.”)

Right after winning the 1980 police contract, Caruso and Hartman faced another pressing task: moving Al D’Amato onto the national stage. The Nassau County supervisor, already close with law enforcement, bonded anew with police that August when he called a press conference to denounce a Nassau police department affirmative action plan, designed to answer a lawsuit that challenged the makeup of the force, 97 per cent white and male. Immediately thereafter, the Nassau PBA endorsed D’Amato’s Senate bid, in which he was contesting the seat of fellow Republican Jacob Javits.

[related_posts post_id_1=”724782″ /]

Hartman and his associates went into high gear.  “His election came up. We dropped everything,” a Hartman staffer remembered. Hartman called his clients for donations to D’Amato’s campaign. He also, according to a onetime employee, gave cash to some staffers to donate in order to circumvent contribution limits. 

“Richie was pulling [D’Amato’s] strings,” said a former associate. “Al knew he needed Richie for the campaign contributions and all the clout Richie had. He represented 200 police organizations at the time. D’Amato got every single police department endorsement when he ran. That’s a hell of a base to start with.” 

So close were the two that Hartman loaned his driver to the supervisor to ferry his family to the 1980 Conservative Party convention at the Diplomat Hotel in Manhattan. Hartman’s driver did other errands for D’Amato during the campaign, even babysitting his kids during the victory celebration at the Hempstead Marriott. 

After D’Amato won, he gave a job on his Senate staff to Hartman’s brother-in-law, Bruce Alpert, who was married to Hartman’s sister Lynn and worked as Hartman’s office manager. Alpert’s job largely involved fund raising. With D’Amato’s assistance, Alpert later won a judgeship, which raised a few eyebrows. “You should have a little trial experience, a day or two at least,” joked a former cop who knew Alpert. Reached by the Voice, Alpert said that he had tried cases as a lawyer, but could cite no specifics. 

In 1987, D’Amato also sought judicial robes for Robert Roberto, a former colleague of Hartman’s in the Nassau D.A.’s office, recommending him for a federal judgeship. Roberto’s confirmation was sunk when it was revealed during hearings that he had once carried out his own sting on a prostitute in which he arrested the 16-year-old after she masturbated him. He voluntarily withdrew his nomination. Roberto nevertheless went on to win an appointment to the state supreme court, with D’Amato’s backing.

D’Amato’s image as Senator Pothole extended beyond judgeships to small but potentially deadly favors. For instance, D’Amato helped get a pistol license for Raymond David Tse, a controversial Chinatown businessman, restaurateur, and Hartman client who in 1988 would kill a young gang member in his office. At his 1991 trial, where he was represented by a non-Hartman lawyer, Tse argued that he fired 18 shots in self defense. He was acquitted. 

And when Hartman was representing boxing promoter Don King, D’Amato intervened in an effort to get King a pistol permit, despite the fact that he had served four years for manslaughter after he beat a man to death. Felons are generally prohibited from owning weapons, and the police denied the permit.

[related_posts post_id_1=”721906″ /]

THE PBA’S FINEST

THE CARUSO HARTMAN ERA ushered in some new faces at the PBA. One figure with a troubled past was Gary Melius. As a young thug, he’d met Hartman and gone on to work his way into the union’s circle of friends.

In 1963, the teenaged Melius and three friends had offered a ride to a young man who had been waiting for a bus, then choked him and robbed him of $40. The following year, Melius was convicted of malicious mischief — six months, suspended sentence. In 1971, he and James C. Mileo, a 40-year-old Nassau County patrolman, were arrested in an attempted $1000 shakedown of a narcotics courier, a young woman caught with a pound of heroin in her car. She said she didn’t have the money, so the patrolman ordered her to go get it. When she returned, Melius, who worked as a general contractor, was there to receive it. Perhaps the scheme would have been successful if the woman had not been an undercover police officer.

When Melius was arrested after driving off with the money, attorney Richard Hartman represented him. He had Melius plea bargain to third degree grand larceny, and to the great relief of the young builder, Hartman turned a potential 15-year sentence into three years probation and a $1000 fine. “[Hartman] always inferred he was a connected guy,” Melius said in a Voice interview.

Melius was later arrested for his role in a “steal to order” business that delivered hot tractor trailers and construction equipment on request. The ringleader was a young woman connected with organized crime figures. Melius was charged with grand larceny, and Hartman again got the charge reduced to a misdemeanor and probation.

Subsequently, Melius moved the office of his small construction company into the ground floor of Hartman’s dumpy two story building at 300 Old Country Road in Mineola; Hartman’s law firm occupied the upstairs. Melius began chumming around with the attorney and before long was both a personal aide and social pal.

“I just hung out with him,” Melius said. “We went to the movies. We went to the racetrack, to Roosevelt, to Nathan’s.”

By 1975, the two had become such fast friends that Hartman sold 300 Old Country Road to Melius for $250,000. Melius said he paid the entire sum two years later. Subsequently, Melius demolished the building and constructed a sleek three story professional office condominium complex, which he sold for a huge profit.

In 1979, law enforcement officials again took an interest in Melius. This time, investigators for the Manhattan D.A.’s office came upon his name while following checks written by loan shark Teddy Moss, operating from the garment district. One such check, for $25,000, had gone to Gary Melius

When the $25,000 check surfaced, investigators summoned Melius to their offices. “Once he saw that check he literally took off,” one investigator said. “He fled out the door.” Ten minutes later, Richard Hartman called the investigator to quiz him as to what he wanted with his friend. Melius, who does not recall the meeting in the D.A.’s office, but does remember a phone call, said he told the investigator that the money from Moss was a loan.

[related_posts post_id_1=”718606″ /]

The loan shark was a familiar figure: back in the ’60s, Moss had been a principal prosecution witness in the Crazy Joey Gallo trial. He’d worn a wire and gotten protection from the D.A. because Gallo wanted to kill him. But by this time, Moss’s days of cooperation with law enforcement officials seemed long over.

Prosecutors suspected Moss’s check to Melius was a means of laundering illicit profits. And though Moss pled guilty to criminal usury (charging 69 per cent interest) and paid a $45,000 fine in 1980, an investigator on the case feels it was not Moss’s idea: “Somebody told him, ‘You better plead or this thing is going blow up in people’s faces.'”

Soon after Phil Caruso’s election to the PBA presidency, the ubiquitous Melius entertained the policeman and his family on Hartman’s yacht Big Bart. (The name was Melius’s moniker for Hartman, drawn from a dirty joke about a pig.) “Richard bought the boat for entertaining, especially to take Phil out,” Melius recalled.

The PBA boss put Melius to work handling production of the union’s magazine, New York’s Finest. “That was Phil’s idea,” said Melius, who coordinated ad sales and got to keep some of the revenues. Prodigious spending on printing and advertising was a pre-Caruso PBA tradition; hiring publishing consultants with criminal records was something new. Though it is not clear whether Caruso knew of Melius’s history, one would assume he hadn’t checked. And Melius and the Carusos were decidedly friendly, even attending a Lincoln Center concert together.

“Phil was sickeningly obsequious with Gary,” said one associate. 

CRAPPING OUT

Most people who gamble don’t really want anyone to know what they are doing. Most of them will lie about what they had for breakfast. Compulsive gamblers who are down on their luck steal 90, 95 per cent of the time.
— Bill, Gamblers Anonymous

OUTSIDE OF WORK, Hartman had only one pleasure: dice. His father, the grocer and politico, had tripled as a bookie, so Richard’s obsession with gambling was not entirely surprising. Early in his career, according to acquaintances, Hartman had wagered heavily, then eased off. But in September 1980, only a few months after Phil Caruso won the PBA presidency, Hartman opened what appears to be his first line of credit in Atlantic City, at Caesars. Over the next several years, he opened credit lines at eight different casinos. 

Hartman was enthralled by the craps tables and would stay at them far too long. In one night in 1983 at Bally’s Park Place, for example, he lost $667,500. “It irritated the hell out of him that he couldn’t beat the system,” a former associate said. 

As a man who rarely bothered with a good night’s sleep, Hartman was a natural for the casino environment. He was also the ideal casino client. One night in Atlantic City, Hartman had $5000 on the table. He turned to a companion and asked him to roll the dice. “I kept rolling sevens and elevens, and the stack of chips kept getting bigger and bigger,” the companion recalled. When the winnings began to pile up, he suggested stopping, but Hartman urged him on. The next toss crapped out — one roll, $148,000. “Typical degenerate crapshooter,” a high ranking casino official recalled when asked about Hartman. 

As they commonly do, casinos tripped over themselves to offer the big time spender loads of perks, beginning with complimentary rooms, even ones he could pass on to friends. In the mid ’80s, when his former PBA cohort Charlie Peterson was being treated for cancer near Philadelphia, Hartman suggested to the ailing cop’s daughter, Patricia, that during her hospital visits she stay in one of his comps in Atlantic City, not far from Philly. Patricia, a Long Island Rail Road cop, seemingly unaware that the lawyer had betrayed her father in the 1980 PBA presidency campaign, started seeing Hartman in October 1986. He lavished her with expensive gifts. Within a month, she asked her husband, a New York City police officer with whom she had a rocky marriage, for a divorce. 

Hartman’s cash flow was like a torrent. It came in fast and went out faster. Like most obsessive gamblers, Hartman was always short of funds. 

Often, sidekick Gary Melius was with him in Atlantic City, but even when he wasn’t, Hartman might desperately summon him. An acquaintance remembered overhearing an imploring call: “Richie kept saying, ‘C’mon Gary, c’mon’ like, jokingly, but he was really begging for money.” 

A couple of hours after one such plea, Melius arrived in Atlantic City, having been flown down on a private plane from Nassau County’s Republic Airport. He came directly to Hartman’s casino penthouse carrying a bag crammed with cash. “He opened it up and emptied the money onto the bed,” recalled another person in the room. “Two hundred fifty grand. I had never seen that much fuckin’ money.” 

Melius, who confirmed the incident and the amount, said he got the money out of Hartman’s bank, Irving Trust, where he routinely cashed sizable checks, made out to “Cash,” from the attorney’s business account. (Hartman, always preferring cash, apparently did not maintain a personal bank account.) Melius also made deposits there, as much as $300,000 at a time. An Irving Trust vice president personally fussed over Hartman’s account. 

Much of Hartman’s gambling money was, of course, New York City tax revenue that had gone to the PBA and out to Hartman. His PBA retainer had grown to $1.2 million, but even that was not enough. Some funds apparently came from the aforementioned Teddy Moss, who Melius says he has known for many years. Besides his loan sharking enterprise, Moss is said to own pizza parlors, a Chinese restaurant, movie theaters, bowling alleys, and a First Avenue card shop. 

During Hartman’s casino meltdown, according to a former Hartman associate, a courier picked up sizable amounts of cash several times over a two month period, sometimes from Teddy Moss’s Chinese restaurant. Reached by phone recently, Moss volunteered that he had accompanied Hartman on several visits to Atlantic City, but denied ever loaning him money, beyond what he described as “car fare” for the millionaire lawyer to get back to New York.

[related_posts post_id_1=”722370″ /]

Hartman was close enough with Moss to have his driver pick up Moss’s daughters and take them to the airport for a trip to Europe and one to Israel. Even when the driver began working for Phil Caruso, if Melius or Hartman asked that the chauffeur handle airport runs for Moss, he would do so. Moss said he met Caruso on one or two occasions. 

Clearly, Hartman had lost control of himself. He even started lying to those who had previously accompanied him to Atlantic City, denying where he was headed. Instead of summoning his driver, he began taking private flights from Republic Airport. Eventually, morale in his Queens office deteriorated, along with its finances. One week in 1983, the paychecks actually bounced. 

Eventually, Hartman finances fell into such disarray that he ceded Melius almost total control over his monetary affairs. For a short period during the early ’80s, Melius controlled all of Hartman’s business bank accounts, personally handling the money himself. 

By early 1984, following a three-month craps binge, Hartman had defaulted on $700,000 in gambling debts. At Hartman’s prompting, Melius wrote a letter to casinos urging them to allow Hartman to settle. The attorney ended up paying just 42 cents on the dollar to Bally’s, the Golden Nugget, Caesars, the Sands, and Resorts International. 

Why was Melius doing Hartman’s deals? “Richard couldn’t negotiate his own deals,” Melius said, insisting Hartman’s publicly acclaimed bargaining prowess is much exaggerated. 

It was around this time, when Hartman’s gambling put him into a financial tailspin, that Frank “Kiki” Testa, a retired West Hempstead sanitation worker, began hanging out in Hartman’s office. Testa, the father-in-law of a Melius high school chum, was a man with a menacing aura. 

A staffer in Hartman’s office got the impression that Testa was there to keep watch over the operation. One former associate recalled seeing Testa in Atlantic City with Hartman on several occasions. Testa had confided to a handful of Hartman associates that he was a member of the Angelo Bruno organization in Philadelphia — a Philip Testa ran that family for several years — and that he had killed quite a few people. Melius, for his part, had told an associate that he himself was connected with the mob.

In an early Voice interview, Melius said his claims about being in the mob were inventions intended to impress people. In a subsequent conversation, he denied ever making the claim: “That is very inaccurate.” Such a boast would indeed seem particularly misplaced since he was hanging out at the office of a police union. He couldn’t provide a satisfactory explanation of why Testa would have been spending time with Hartman, though he did allow that Testa could have had mob ties: “I’d believe that he knew people.”

[related_posts post_id_1=”714267″ /]

While Testa was around, “Gary didn’t say so much as boo,” said a Hartman associate. “When Kiki came into the office people were very uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable.” One young Hartman assistant remembers Testa offering him a word of advice, drawled out with exquisite meaning: “You know, working with Richie, you’re in a verrrry sensitive position.” 

That was a lesson Melius himself soon learned. Hartman had come to believe that Melius, having access to Caruso, had become such a presence that he was a threat. Also, as Hartman’s gambling made him more dependent on Melius, the contractor appeared to lose respect for his onetime mentor. Hartman quietly began working to oust him, making sure that all the top PBA officers knew the full extent of Melius’s criminal record. The conspiracy did its work. By mid-1984, Melius had been eased out the door, never realizing that it was his growing clout in the office that had done him in. 

Yet even after Melius was pushed away from the PBA, Hartman had one more request. By 1985, the lawyer was so desperate for cash that he decided to ask former associates to rejoin his ranks in order to recapture clients that he had voluntarily relinquished years before. 

“He wanted me to talk to them, and I wouldn’t do it,” said Melius, explaining that he had tired of serving as Hartman’s point man on such assignments and that this refusal was the last  time he spoke to Hartman. 

In his interview with the Voice, Melius confirmed his crimes prior to his friendship with Hartman. But he argued that for quite a few years now he has been a decent family man, with a respectable reputation. In a November 23 letter to the Voice, Melius writes, “I have spent my adult life establishing myself as a business man whose word is his bond and a responsible member of the community.”

Indeed, Melius was featured on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous in 1986 as the owner of an estate in Cold Spring Hills, Long Island, a 120,000-square-foot palace, the second largest private residence in America. Formerly known as the Otto Kahn Castle (or Oheka), it had been built in 1917. Melius purchased it in 1984, fixed it up, and sold it in 1988 for $22 million to a Japanese businessman who insisted on a no-publicity clause. Today, Melius has sizable developments throughout Long Island. 

Of his earlier activities, including his association with Hartman and the PBA, the 49-year-old Melius has regrets: “I was trying to hang out with what I thought were the good guys — lawyers, law enforcement. I would have done better with the bad guys.” 

Without Melius, Hartman still managed to finance new excursions to Atlantic City, judging by a civil suit the state of New Jersey filed against Trump’s Castle for having allegedly violated state gaming laws in authorizing Hartman credit. On September 17, 18, and 19, 1987, Hartman cashed three separate checks at the casino, each for $500,000. Then, on September 22, he arrived at Trump’s Castle with a certified check for $817,000 later identified as the money from the New York City police officers’ housing escrow fund. He went on to lose much of this money shooting craps. From October 12 to October 14, 1987, also at Trump’s Castle, he would blow $475,000. A few days later, on October 17, the Castle raised the high roller’s nearly exhausted $500,000 credit line to $1 million, approved by Ivana Trump via a phone consultation. That day he lost another $541,000. This pattern was typical: he’d bet a couple million dollars, some of it his own money, some not. Apparently, he always knew there was more to be had. 

[related_posts post_id_1=”714924″ /]

Given Hartman’s gambling fever and the presence of Melius and Testa, perhaps mob connected figures could be forgiven for thinking they had a friend at the union. On two occasions, law enforcement officials listening to wiretaps heard the names of the PBA president and counsel being bandied about by organized crime figures. While listening to a September 3, 1985, phone conversation between Genovese soldier Federico “Fritzy” Giovanelli and Harry Dickran, a friend and associate, FBI agents and city detectives were startled to hear the PBA president referred to with great familiarity. (See Streetbeat, William Bastone, Voice, October 13, 1992.) 

Dickran told Giovanelli he was worried about having been followed and surveilled on Friday afternoons as he met with associates in a Long Island restaurant. According to the FBI audio tape, Giovanelli then asked, “What kind of car? Take the plate number.” Dickran responded with the number. “I’m gonna give it to the PBA to track it down. You know, I’ll get it from Phil, Phil Caruso. He’ll take care of that for me.” 

Caruso wasn’t unique in this respect. Starting around 1983, Hartman reportedly spent time at Roosevelt Raceway with Jerry Corallo, the son of mob heavy Antonio “Tony Ducks” Corallo (now in jail). A law enforcement bug, placed in a Jaguar, picked up a conversation between Tony Ducks, former boss of the Luchese family, and Sal Avellino, a Luchese soldier. The two were worried about being watched. 

Corallo: “I’m going to have Jerry check with that guy.” 

Avellino: “You mean Richie, Richie Hartman?”

Corallo: “Yeah. He hangs out with Jerry at Roosevelt racetrack.” 

According to Melius, the relationship didn’t end with the son. He claimed Hartman personally knew Tony Ducks and was in fact Tony Ducks’s attorney. 

That the PBA’s president and lawyer would be cited as helpful contacts by organized crime figures seems especially noteworthy in light of the access the PBA has always enjoyed at police headquarters. Corruption investigators confirm that any information from the police would be extremely useful for criminals, especially those involved in the numbers racket, an activity that the department closely monitors. Requests from PBA officials for sensitive NYPD files could be couched as PBA business. According to one former PBA official, “We could pull out any piece of paper in the police department and look at it.” 

[related_posts post_id_1=”716615″ /]

HARTMAN FALLS, HARTMAN RISES 

IN SPRING 1988, Phil Caruso and Richard Hartman were at the top of their professions. Caruso was king of the cops, and Hartman his legal magician, racing hither and yon, negotiating contracts, getting cops out of trouble. The previous year, Hartman himself had filled out a form declaring estimated annual earnings of $6 million; a highly placed prosecutorial source told the Voice that his actual income, including referrals, probably topped $10 million and may even have approached $20 million in some years. A large chunk of his money came from his PBA work and related referrals, and the rest primarily from other unions representing housing and corrections officers. 

Suddenly, though, the two men found themselves on the defensive. A Manhattan grand jury wanted to know why Hartman had withdrawn $817,000 in 1987 from a police officers’ real estate escrow account — which held for safekeeping the payments PBA members made in the process of buying a home — and cashed a check for that exact amount at Trump Castle in Atlantic City. 

Hartman explained, in testimony to insurance investigators two years later, that “to avoid the embarrassment with all the attorneys in the office, of taking funds out of the regular operating account and making it out to a casino, I would take it from the escrow account, which was in my sole province…”

Caruso, called to testify, backed his friend, insisting that Hartman’s unorthodox dipping was okay because the PBA owed him money anyway. Caruso even said he had authorized the “advance,” and other ranking trustees testifying before the grand jury said they, too, had known about and approved the invasion of the escrow account. 

Investigators told the Voice they were amazed that Caruso had authorized the withdrawal from the escrow account; it was even more startling that a number of ranking PBA officers would condone the removal. In any event, it was surprising that Caruso, who had turned the PBA into a virtual fiefdom and was privately referred to as the “dictator,” would feel the need to consult with his board members on the sensitive matter. 

Although District Attorney Robert Morgenthau’s office believed that the PBA charter did not permit Caruso’s authorization for Hartman’s withdrawals, Morgenthau felt he had no choice but to abandon the prosecution. “All funds removed from escrow accounts by Mr. Hartman were repaid before the investigation began,” Morgenthau announced, “and there is no evidence of any harm to any client. The investigation is now closed.” Instead, Morgenthau settled for the forfeiture of Hartman’s law license.

Hartman later told department of insurance examiners, “I resigned [my legal license] because after one year of investigation and making the newspapers I thought I embarrassed everybody enough…”

In deciding not to press for an indictment, Morgenthau was following New York State law pertaining to embezzlement, requiring the existence of a “victim” and either the intent not to repay the lifted funds or the inability to do so. Apparently, when the D.A.’s office launched its investigation, senior staffers had no idea how much money Hartman was earning. In fact, they were stunned to learn his income.

[related_posts post_id_1=”13270″ /]

Notwithstanding the D.A.’s rationale, some law enforcement figures found the whole affair curious. “What made it unusual was that Hartman was able to plea bargain before the grand jury could issue an indictment,” New Jersey deputy attorney general Kevin O’Toole told the Voice.

It didn’t hurt that Hartman’s negotiator was Michael Armstrong. After serving in the early ’70s as counsel to the Knapp Commission on police corruption, Armstrong had built a lucrative practice handling high profile white collar criminal defenses, like that of disgraced Queens borough president Donald Manes. Armstrong had also become a close personal friend and adviser to Hartman’s ally, Senator D’Amato, and would later serve as his counsel during Senate ethics investigations. 

Although the D.A. decided he couldn’t bring criminal charges against Hartman, Armstrong, who had worked under Morgenthau when Morgenthau ran the U.S. Attorney’s office, presumably couldn’t save Hartman’s law license. Under the lawyer’s code of professional ethics, dipping into escrow accounts is grounds for disbarment, even without an indictment. So by conceding the license without a fight, perhaps Armstrong (who wouldn’t comment on the case) was foreclosing the possibility that the D.A. would develop something more serious on his client. Information from sources close to the grand jury indicates that prosecutors were probing the broader nature of Hartman and Caruso’s relationship, including the possibility that Hartman had improperly channeled gifts to Caruso — such as the Jeep that undeniably ended up in the PBA president’s driveway, wrapped in a red bow. Prosecutors were also said to have quizzed witnesses on a variety of names associated with organized crime. 

One thing was certain: Hartman came out of the proceedings with his reputation sullied. But no sooner had Hartman’s resignation from the bar been announced than a PBA spokesman rushed to his defense, declaring: “Richie will always have a role with the New York City PBA.” 

In short order, the PBA awarded Hartman a labor consulting contract worth a staggering $2 million a year. As if that weren’t enough, three months later Hartman decided on an insurance career, selling the PBA supplemental term life policies and earning himself a fat $2.2 million commission. The extravagant brokerage deal would be virtually concealed from the public and PBA members until 1992, when an accountant working for Hartman sued him and the dispute opened previously hidden financial papers. 

In other words, Caruso had presented Hartman with a magnificent golden parachute. But where was the money going? It seemed a fair question, because shortly after winning his new contract, Hartman began to pass cash around as lavishly as ever. In a single day, for example, Hartman wrote out eight different checks to “Cash” for a total of $20,000.

[related_posts post_id_1=”418247″ /]

THE HARTMAN HAND OFF

BY FALL 1988, Richard Hartman had become a huge embarrassment to the PBA. To be sure, he had won concessions from Ed Koch’s city hall; he had helped Phil Caruso build one of the most powerful and intimidating organizations in the city; and he had made them all a great deal of money. But the public gambling, the bad debts, the indiscreet cash payments, and the open associations with the likes of Teddy Moss, Gary Melius, “Kiki” Testa, and Jerry Corallo was getting to be too much, even for Hartman’s friend Phil Caruso. 

But what exactly could Caruso do? What could any PBA official do? When Robert Morgenthau’s grand jury began to investigate Hartman’s looting of the police escrow account, the union president and his lieutenants had little choice but to back him. Whatever had really gone down around the missing $817,000, Caruso (testifying under immunity) and his officers trooped before the grand jurors and backed their wunderkind attorney. They knew what Hartman had done, they testified, and they had approved it. 

“There’s no question Phil told the trustees to say they had authorized it,” said an investigative source familiar with the grand jury. If they had, it would have been an extraordinary betrayal of their membership.

“At the point Hartman got fucked up on the gambling, do you think they could throw him to the wolves?” asked former police sergeant Robert Hughes, who headed the NYPD’s 1980 sick leave abuse prevention operation and therefore became a PBA nemesis. “Hartman knew everything,” Hughes told the Voice. “It was the same concept as J. Edgar Hoover: ‘I have so much on everybody, all you can do is pay me.’ ” 

When Caruso did just that, naming Hartman upon his resignation from the bar to the highly paid labor consultant position, the question became: What would happen to Hartman’s lucrative PBA legal business? The solution was simple: Caruso hired Hartman’s good friends at Lysaght, Lysaght & Kramer. In a remarkably smooth transfer, the small Lysaght firm moved into Hartman’s office on Horace Harding Expressway, in Queens (to which he had moved from Mineola years earlier). The name plates were changed, but Hartman’s staff of attorneys and secretaries remained virtually intact. Over time, the Lysaght firm’s payroll would include Hartman’s mother-in-law Mary Peterson, his sister Lynn, and his brother Elliott, who has done the firm’s bookkeeping. Phil Caruso’s daughter Lynda Caruso Nicolino is currently an attorney at the Lysaght firm. 

The firm had been founded by James I. Lysaght, who went on to become a village judge. When the firm took over the PBA account, it had two senior partners. One was former Nassau cop James J. Lysaght. The younger Lysaght had shared an apartment with Hartman and was widely considered the office’s public face. The other partner was Peter Kramer, whom most people regard as the firm’s workhorse. 

Hartman had been dealing with Lysaght, Lysaght & Kramer long before 1988. For years, he had been referring personal injury cases to the firm, in return for referral commissions. Many of the cases came via his work representing the PBA. These were among the referrals that the prosecutorial source included while estimating that Hartman’s annual income could have been as high as $20 million.

[related_posts post_id_1=”717345″ /]

A TALK IN THE PARK 

IN AUDITS OF the New York City housing police PBA, which was headed by Caruso buddy Jack Jordan, city officials discovered that Richard Hartman had received $60,000 in improper advance payments.  

In 1991, after 16 years in office, Jordan was decisively trounced by a reform slate. The new president, Timothy Nickels, accused Jordan of making another unauthorized payment, this one for $50,000 to Lysaght, Lysaght & Kramer, issued on Jordan’s last day in office. No paperwork could be found to explain the expense.

Upon taking over the housing PBA presidency, one of Nickels’s first actions was to drop Lysaght as the union’s law firm and fire Hartman as its bargaining adviser. The union has confirmed that its annual legal costs immediately dropped 50 percent. 

In rejecting Hartman, the housing police were the exception. While that union’s reformers were moving away from the Lysaght firm and Hartman, other police groups were cozying up. One example is the 1500 member New York City Sergeants Benevolent Association, the bargaining unit that recently pulled out of the Superior Officers Council, which represents ranks above patrolman. The SBA, which controlled most of the council’s money, is being wooed by Caruso and represented by Lysaght, Lysaght & Kramer. Over at the transit police union, for the first couple of years after the surrender of his law license, Hartman served as labor consultant. Lysaght provided, and still provides, legal services there. 

Indeed, Lysaght, Lysaght & Kramer is the dominant law firm in the world of police unions, a status it clearly owes to Hartman. “I believe they are out to monopolize all business from all unions in this city,” said a high ranking union official. 

During the past two years Hartman’s formal role with these organizations has been almost entirely ceded to Lysaght, yet the link has apparently not been broken. In March, the Voice observed Hartman leave his temporary home at the Gramercy Park Hotel and approach a car registered to James Lysaght. He asked its driver and sole occupant, “We’re going to the park?” They then drove to Stuyvesant Park, which was nearly empty on an extremely cold, damp day. There, the two pulled out a cellular phone and engaged in lengthy consultations. “How many files in the account? … How much volume are we talking about?” Hartman was overheard asking. 

Since his supposed retirement from working with the PBA and other unions, Hartman has developed a fondness for meetings in parks, even in the poorest weather. And on occasion, Hartman has been seen leaving his home and walking a number of blocks, then suddenly getting into a waiting car. In August he was observed climbing into a vehicle registered to Teamsters Local 237. Until recently, Local 237 was run by Hartman’s good friend Barry Feinstein, who was forced to resign in April when federal investigators found that he had misused more than $500,000 in union funds. Recently, Feinstein has been under investigation by the state for his own insurance brokering arrangement. 

If Hartman’s new career in labor consulting was designed to be profitable, selling insurance would be equally so. Affiliating with Met Life in 1989, Hartman became the PBA’s broker and agent for a new insurance plan to supplement coverage that members already had. Hartman, and later James Lysaght, were also instrumental in passing special legislation in Albany that made it easy for tens of thousands of PBA retirees to buy such extra insurance as well. By signing up once, members could have premiums automatically deducted from their pension checks. 

[related_posts post_id_1=”716582″ /]

Hartman handled his Met Life commissions in a curious way; he immediately wrote a series of small checks to “Cash.” Over the course of two days, upon receiving a check for $550,000 from Met Life, he wrote out three checks to “Cash” for $9500 and 16 more for $2500. This pattern of keeping transactions below $10,000 would be repeated when Hartman received checks from his Chicago commodities broker, Gerald Inc. On October 12, 1990, Gerald issued Hartman three checks, each for $9500. In the final week of that month, the firm issued four more checks, again for $9500 each. And two months later, one more for the same amount. 

The suspicion, which would be raised by Hartman’s own accountant in the course of a bitter, still pending civil suit (the accountant argued that Hartman did not repay him loans he had extended Hartman to cover his escrow pilferage), was that Hartman was trying to hide his income, and specifically to avoid the Bank Secrecy Act, which requires the reporting of all cash transactions of 6,000 or more. The law also bars the intent of getting around the limit by exactly such devices as Hartman seemed to employ. (By way of response, Hartman in his affidavit did not explain his writing checks to “Cash” that slip in just under the reporting limit, other than to say: “There is nothing illegal per se about making withdrawals in amounts under $10,000… I categorically deny ever having violated or intending to violate the said federal regulation.”) 

Hartman would stay with Met Life into 1991. Then the PBA’s insurance work was transferred to an insurance brokerage called Deblin Planners, which had gotten its license shortly before. The firm, interestingly, is a partnership between Deborah Martz Lysaght, wife of James Lysaght, and Linda Nunziato, wife of Peter Kramer. Met Life currently lists Deblin as the PBA’s broker. The Voice has obtained a copy of a $100,000 check that Linda Nunziato Kramer wrote to Hartman on March 12, 1991. In the check’s memo space is the word “Installment,” though it is not clear what the compensation was for. Around the same time, Nunziato’s partner Deborah Martz Lysaght also made a $50,000 payment to Hartman. 

Currently, according to Met Life, Deblin represents the New York City Sergeants Benevolent Association; the New York City Superior Officers Association; the New York City Transit PBA; the New York City Housing PBA; the Stamford, Connecticut, Police Association; and Barry Feinstein’s old union, Teamsters Local 237 — all former Hartman insurance clients. 

In 1992, the state department of insurance began its second of two examinations of Hartman’s fitness as a broker in light of his dicey financial background. The state took no action against Hartman. In the previous year Hartman’s labor consultancies had started expiring, including the $165,000-a-month agreement with Caruso’s PBA and a $12,500-a-month agreement with the New York Transit PBA. Now some of his insurance contracts were winding down. Several presidents of police unions, including Caruso, wrote letters to assure the state that Hartman’s commissions were deserved and, moreover, wholly unrelated to his former legal and labor relations work. A few noted that Hartman had even waived commissions so that the unions could offer rebates to their memberships. Assuming this was true, Hartman’s generosity began after he had pocketed millions of front loaded commissions that could also have gone toward substantially reducing PBA members’ premiums. 

Hartman’s apparent relinquishment of those accounts would conform to his pattern of establishing business relationships, then passing them on to friends and associates. While it’s unclear exactly what compensation, if any, Hartman continues to receive from the accounts he has handed off, the insurance business did enable him to get back to the craps table, despite a 1988 assurance from his lawyer to the D.A. that Hartman was seeking help for his gaming addiction. 

[related_posts post_id_1=”715930″ /]

In February of 1990 Hartman told a state examiner from the department of insurance that he had put his gambling problems behind him. He said he had been attending Gamblers Anonymous meetings two or three times a week for two years and had also sought psychiatric help. “I haven’t bought a lottery ticket since [the escrow account invasion] either.” 

Before the year was out, however, Hartman suffered a relapse. In the final weekend of 1990, according to a Philadelphia Inquirer article on casino profits, he arrived in Atlantic City with a cashier’s check for more than half a million dollars. That month, other financial papers of Hartman’s confirm, he received a $550,000 commission check from Met Life. Caesars and Harrah’s allowed Hartman to wager the proceeds, despite his outstanding $2 million debt to Trump Plaza and Trump Castle. (Merv Griffin’s Resorts Casino had already written off $500,000.) Shooting craps at Harrah’s over four days, Hartman won $600,000. 

Perhaps that marked a shift for the better in Hartman’s luck. If so, he needed it. By 1990, Harman was paying the IRS $105,000 a month to settle outstanding unpaid taxes; in October 1991, the payments dropped to $100,000 a month. Apparently he kept current on these payments, and even somehow managed to have more than a half a million dollars left over to risk in Atlantic City. 

As he has done in the past, much in the mold of the late Roy Cohn, Hartman continues to live on a cash basis despite his substantial income, with practically no credit trail or attachable assets. He and his wife, Patricia, have no personal checking or savings accounts, no credit cards, no vehicles, and no listed property ownership. Alimony checks from Patricia’s ex-husband are deposited by Hartman’s sister, mother-in-law, or by the Lysaght firm. Hartman’s mail goes to a house in Merrick, Long Island, inhabited by his sister Lynn and aforementioned brother-in-law, Bruce Alpert, a state supreme court judge. Reached at his office, Alpert said he could not confirm the arrangement because both the mail and family finances are handled exclusively by his wife. Despite a promise from Alpert to ask his wife to call the Voice, she did not. The Alperts’ home number is unlisted and the judge would not provide it. He did, however, confirm that for a time Lynn had a job at the Lysaght firm. “She was a paralegal, I guess you could call it.”

[related_posts post_id_1=”721103″ /]

 PRESIDENT FOR LIFE?

 Phil Caruso is more difficult to get to than the mayor or the president.
— Eric Adams, president of the black officers’ association, the Guardians

IF THE CARUSO REIGN has been longstanding and omnipotent, the police commissionership has been ephemeral and constricted. “The turnover in the police department administration is so rapid, that nobody knows the whole story,” former NYPD investigator Robert Hughes said. “And nobody wants to know. They are afraid of them.”

Even within the union, Caruso’s only rival was J. Patrick “Paddy” Burns, until recently the first vice president and a man known for his expensive tastes. For whatever reason, however, Burns didn’t challenge Caruso. Perhaps he merely lost his ambition. “Paddy Burns didn’t do any work while I was there,” Gary Melius said. “He played golf.” (Efforts to interview Burns were unsuccessful, though on one occasion he returned a call but left no number.) 

In 1991, when Burns was replaced as second in command by Caruso aide decamp Thomas Velotti, Burns was transferred to Albany as the PBA’s principal lobbyist. As lobbyist, he received $50,000 a year, which, combined with his patrolman’s salary, put his earnings at about $90,000 a year. 

For 1993, PBA filings list lawyer James Lysaght as the principal lobbyist. Burns, who has reached the mandatory retirement age of 62, nevertheless has a contract with the PBA through 1995 at $50,000 a year. “The PBA has enormous influence in Albany, particularly through its campaign contributions and through providing help in campaigns,” said New York City lobbyist John Bozella. “I’m not convinced they’re successful because they’re discussing issues on their merits with the rank and file members of the legislature.” In 1991 the PBA political action committee dispensed S140,000 in campaign contributions, largely to state legislators. 

Ironically, it is not legislators from the city itself who are the most responsive. “Those little legislators from outside the city are totally intimidated by them,” said one lobbyist, referring in particular to representatives of suburban communities in which so many New York City cops live. 

The favorable legislation just keeps on coming. In 1991, PBA allies in the legislature passed a law that allowed injured cops to sue the city as individuals. This gave them the opportunity to earn bigger settlements than what the city already provided. 

Last summer Albany nearly handed the PBA a weapon that would have dramatically strengthened Caruso’s hand, a bill with staggering consequences for the battle against police corruption. On July 7, the senate and assembly — the latter by a vote of 135-3 — passed the Confidential Communications bill. This ominous law, sponsored in the assembly by Harvey Weisenberg, a Democrat from Long Beach, Hartman’s home town, would have shielded conversations between police union officials and their members, even criminal admissions. In other words, a delegate couldn’t report, or be forced to disclose, a patrolman’s confession of taking a bribe, selling stolen drugs, or killing somebody. 

[related_posts post_id_1=”719763″ /]

The law would have made investigating the PBA impossible. “It was a pro-police corruption bill,” lobbyist John Bozella said. Alarmed by the implications, Governor Cuomo vetoed the bill when it reached his desk in August. Yet the audacity of the legislation is a PBA trademark, and if a PBA or D’Amato ally were sitting in the governor’s seat, it is likely that it would have been signed. 

Even without such a barrier, apparently no agency wants to probe the activities of the PBA. “Morgenthau went after them in 1988 and fell flat on his face because he let a deal be cut,” noted one knowledgeable observer, referring to the grand jury and Hartman giving up his law license. “He is politically afraid to try to go after them again.” Asked by the Voice to respond to this, Morgenthau said, “Nobody has come to our office and said that Hartman, Caruso, and the PBA warrant a deeper look.” 

Although the D.A. does prosecute individual officers, taking on police institutions presents special problems. For example, district attorneys cannot successfully try criminal cases without cooperation from the officers who made the arrest. So excessive zeal in rooting out police corruption can make life difficult for prosecutors.  

Sometimes only the press can ask the tough questions. Among the dailies, New York Newsday is easily the most aggressive in covering the union. Its reporters and columnists — Jimmy Breslin, Jim Dwyer, Leonard Levitt, and Kevin McCoy, to name a few — give Caruso fits, and he no longer grants the paper interviews. The PBA seemingly doesn’t appreciate the right of the press to ask questions, a lesson learned by Bruce Lambert, a New York Times reporter who looked under a few rocks when he was at Newsday. In the ’70s, Lambert wrote a series of articles critical of PBA negotiations. Governor Hugh Carey, outraged by the generous contract terms, called to compliment Lambert on the work. Later, the reporter would be told by the PBA’s private investigator, Walter Cox, that he’d probed Lambert’s personal life on behalf of the PBA. In particular, Hartman wanted to know if Lambert was gay (he isn’t) — information that could not have possibly served any legitimate purpose. 

In its investigation, the Voice has continually encountered PBA insiders and associates who express fear of reprisals. As one ex-PBA staffer put it, “Keep me out of it. I would like to live a little longer. I have a family.” Two people with intimate knowledge of the PBA said they would consider granting an interview, then had their telephone numbers changed and unlisted. Another PBA employee described the union’s environment this way: “It’s like the Mafia. Once you’re in, you’re never out.”

[related_posts post_id_1=”718103″ /]

“A cop knows from day one, you do what the union tells you,” said a former police officer. At monthly delegate meetings, a member or two occasionally got up to complain about Hartman or his staff. Sitting on the dais, Hartman would laugh, while other members shouted down the dissenter. Some delegates would try to make the maverick’s life miserable. As an investigator put it, “Members will always support someone with clout over someone trying to reform the system.” 

That clout allows the PBA to stymie corruption probes targeting its members. Leading this effort for a number of years was the PBA’s investigator, Walter Cox. A Nassau County Republican committeeman, Cox had retained Hartman to represent him in 1971 after he got drunk and robbed a Massapequa supermarket. In 1974, Cox was convicted of impersonating a federal officer. Hartman put Cox, who had no private investigator’s license, on his payroll and assigned him to look into cases in which PBA members were accused of wrongdoing. 

In 1984, Cox was arrested in Florida, where he had been tape-recorded in a Fort Lauderdale disco attempting to bribe a potential witness in a police corruption case. Shipped to New York to face charges, Cox had legal representation, courtesy of Hartman; nevertheless, he was convicted of bribery. But before going to jail he turned on his PBA bosses, giving a crucial deposition in another case, backing up former NYPD investigator Robert Hughes, who had been fired by the department under pressure from the PBA. As head of the NYPD’s sick-leave-abuse-prevention operation, Hughes discovered that 2 per cent of police officers were responsible for 51 per cent of the absences, and he saved the department $3.25 million. (One officer was running an insulation business while out with a proclaimed bad back.) In 1987, Hughes sued the PBA and its first vice-president, J. Patrick Burns, for harassment. Eventually, he was vindicated when a judge granted him two $400,000 court settlements, one from the PBA and one from Burns. (The PBA paid Burn’s share.) Cox testified that Burns instructed him to “get Bob Hughes.” But Cox was unwilling to elaborate further, and shortly thereafter suffered a heart attack in jail and died. 

The PBA’s blocking actions against corruption probes were more recently evident in the case of patrolman Michael Dowd, the leading villain in the Mollen Commission hearings. Dowd would not have been able to run his cocaine ring for years without an active PBA enforcing the code of silence. When Dowd got into trouble in 1992, according to New York Newsday, Jack Fitzgerald, the PBA delegate in the 94th Precinct in Greenpoint, called high department officials and got them to back off. Hardly a role model himself, Fitzgerald was known as “the mayor” for his ability to fix schedules and assignments for his buddies. One of Dowd’s partying pals, Fitzgerald ran a Monte Carlo club in the precinct’s basement kitchen, where cops bet and boozed. 

In recent years, the PBA has gone even further in undermining efforts to clean up the department. In one instance, according to a law enforcement source, it sent people over to a Marriott hotel, where they apparently compromised a joint Bronx D.A./NYPD sting set up to snare dirty cops. (The Bronx D.A. refused to comment.) 

Although Hartman himself has been tripped up by the IRS, PBA finances apparently escape scrutiny. The last city audit, by then comptroller Harrison Goldin, was in 1986. Comptroller Elizabeth Holtzman’s office recently completed field work on its only audit of a PBA account. The examination covers the 1991 tax return for the union’s health and welfare benefits fund for active members — just one of five benefits accounts the PBA maintains. Press secretary Maerwydd McFarland said the final report will likely be completed in January, when Alan Hevesi assumes the office. “There are no significant findings,” McFarland said. 

Two accountants, asked by the Voice to review a stack of federal 5500 forms (enumerating employee benefits and charitable trusts) and 990 tax forms going back to 1977, were shocked at how poorly they were prepared and how vague they were in their details. They noted many unusual characteristics. Particularly troubling was the sloppy preparation, which would be a certain invitation to an audit, a rigor federal tax authorities have seemingly spared the PBA. 

No one is better qualified to explain these apparent irregularities than Richard Hartman, and someday maybe he will. In January 1995, Hartman will be eligible to reclaim his law license. He could join the Lysaght firm and even become the PBA’s attorney again. 

Caruso’s term ends in three years, when he will be 62, the mandatory retirement age for a police officer. The PBA constitution and bylaws, substantially revised during Caruso’s tenure, leave open the possibility that he may stay in office as long as the membership continues to reelect him. 

The coming months could be decisive for the union. An announcement on a new police commissioner is expected any day. The Mollen Commission report is due within the month, and Governor Cuomo will have to decide whether to appoint an independent prosecutor to investigate police corruption. Like most other municipal bargaining units, the PBA has been operating for two years without a contract, and the new city administration will soon have to begin bargaining. More importantly, mayor elect Rudolph Giuliani will have to decide how to deal politically with the police union that was instrumental in getting him elected. ♦

Research assistance: Jeremy Bogaisky, Lea Carnevali, Malene Jensen, Kate King, Julie Lang, Carlo Martino, Jodi Melamed, Adam I. Rich, and Mark Stamey

[related_posts post_id_1=”713118″ /]

ADDRESS FOR SUCCESS

TODAY 300 Old Country Road is a sleek office condo complex, but it once was the address of a seedy two-story building owned by PBA attorney Richard Hart­man. In 1975, Hartman sold the run­down property to his crony Gary Melius.

Nonetheless, 300 Old Country Road continued to be a repository of opportun­ism. Hartman ran his law business upstairs. The downstairs was occupied by Davis Optical, a small firm that grew rapidly after getting the PBA contract to supply eyeglasses to police officers and their families. Squeezed into the tiny storefront next t0 Davis was a branch of the Money Store. Famous for its ads fea­turing retired Yankee great Phil Rizzuto, the business would come to be criticized for its extremely high-interest loans to the poor. The Money Store co-owner was Steven Gurian, also president of Long Island Development Corporation. At the time, Gurian was allegedly under investi­gation for mob connections.

Gurian prospered on deals backed by the Small Business Administration. It was Senator Alfonse D’Amato who had pushed vigorously to broaden the SBA program under which Gurian and his Long Island Development Corporation/ Money Store operated.

In addition to the construction, optics, and finance firms, 300 Old Country Road served as a hangout for a clique that included Philip Basile, a music pro­moter, club owner, and alleged front for mobster Paul Vario. The D’Amato brothers helped Basile obtain his nightclub permits; Armand P. D’Amato was Ba­sile’s lawyer. ln 1983, just hours before a jury would convict Basile of conspiracy to defraud (he gave renowned goodfella Henry Hill a no-show job after Hill got out of jail), Senator D’Amato would tes­tify that Basile was “an honest, truthful, hardworking man, a man of integrity.” To the amazement of the jury, he then kissed Basile on both cheeks.

1993 Village Voice article by Russ Baker about corruption in the NYPD's Patrolman's Benevolent Association

1993 Village Voice article by Russ Baker about corruption in the NYPD's Patrolman's Benevolent Association

1993 Village Voice article by Russ Baker about corruption in the NYPD's Patrolman's Benevolent Association

1993 Village Voice article by Russ Baker about corruption in the NYPD's Patrolman's Benevolent Association

1993 Village Voice article by Russ Baker about corruption in the NYPD's Patrolman's Benevolent Association

1993 Village Voice article by Russ Baker about corruption in the NYPD's Patrolman's Benevolent Association

1993 Village Voice article by Russ Baker about corruption in the NYPD's Patrolman's Benevolent Association

1993 Village Voice article by Russ Baker about corruption in the NYPD's Patrolman's Benevolent Association

1993 Village Voice article by Russ Baker about corruption in the NYPD's Patrolman's Benevolent Association

1993 Village Voice article by Russ Baker about corruption in the NYPD's Patrolman's Benevolent Association

1993 Village Voice article by Russ Baker about corruption in the NYPD's Patrolman's Benevolent Association

1993 Village Voice article by Russ Baker about corruption in the NYPD's Patrolman's Benevolent Association

1993 Village Voice article by Russ Baker about corruption in the NYPD's Patrolman's Benevolent Association