Paranoia is the first thing a Chicago alderman puts on in the morning.
His wife’s cousin could be a rat. Aldermanic colleagues could be wired for sound. That new, eager friend passing out a truckload of free watermelons at the ward picnic could be a government mole. The van outside with darkened windows could hold FBI agents and their video equipment.
And their aldermanic heads could be measured for a grand jury spike sharpened by “the G,” political slang for the federal government, which has sent 18 aldermen to prison over the last 20 years.
Yet another from the ranks, retired Ald. Anthony Laurino (39th), has recently been indicted concerning a ghost-payrolling scam. A couple of years back, the late Ald. William Henry (24th) probably beat a prison stretch by succumbing to cancer before his trial.
So on Monday, aldermen felt slightly nauseous as the latest federal corruption investigation–this one called Operation Silver Shovel–brought fear and loathing back to City Hall.
The investigation includes at least eight current or former aldermen, plus mobsters, union officials, suburban political figures and others involved in the hauling of waste, the peddling of political influence and the sale of drugs.
And when it’s over, it will likely prove, as Operation Incubator and Operation Gambat proved before them, what Chicago has known for a century:
That cash dangled in front of politicians gets snapped up first by the hungriest and smallest, while the old bulls stand back and snicker about stupidity and incompetence among their less-talented colleagues.
Over the weekend, those who are targets of the investigation scrambled to find lawyers. The other aldermen burned up the telephone lines speculating on who had acted as a front for John Christopher, the waste hauler and former convict who worked undercover for four years as a government mole.
When the aldermen returned to work, men and women who’ve known each other for years became polite strangers. Those whose names have been mentioned as targets of the investigation were isolated with a smile and kept at a distance with a wave. They stood in the same room as the others, but they had begun the process of disappearing.
The forced laughter around them only reinforced the obvious–that their colleagues had diagnosed them as being infected with a dangerous and communicable disease.
Aldermen under federal pressure could be expected to try to cut some kind of deal to stay out of prison. And the other fish didn’t want to bite or give anyone–friend or not–an opportunity to put them on a government tape.
“It’s about self-preservation,” said Ald. Brian Doherty (41st), who said he never met Christopher and has not been questioned by the FBI. “Everybody would say the same thing. You don’t know who is wired. You don’t know how someone would want to compromise you to save their own skin. That’s the game today.”
Knowing who associated with Christopher was critical information for aldermen wanting to keep a distance between themselves and the federal grand jury. Those closest to Christopher, those who squired him around and introduced him to others, would naturally be the targets. And targets have been known to squeal and flip, sending others to prison.
The common phrase for such behavior is called “ratting out” one’s colleagues. But some veteran aldermen applied a new use Monday for an old verb: puking.
“Like puking their guts out, which is what they will do,” said a veteran alderman. “And that’s OK, as long as it doesn’t get on your own shoes. Guys get nervous, they start puking to the `G.’ That’s how it is, you know.”
Those who weren’t there generated the most interest at City Hall. They included Ald. Percy Giles, (37th), a Christopher confidant and a congressional candidate, who until Friday had the political support of Mayor Richard Daley, and Ald. Ambrosio Medrano (25th), another target of the investigation who sources say is negotiating a plea agreement.
Others anguished over reports that former Ald. Lawrence Bloom (5th), a noted reformer, is a target. “That I can’t believe,” said Ald. John Steele (6th). “I just won’t believe Larry did anything wrong.”
A precious few seemed unconcerned. “I’ve never heard the name John Christopher; I’ve never met him,” said Ald. Toni Preckwinkle (4th). “For me at least, it’s a great day. I can’t say the same for others.”
Aldermen who had contact with Christopher walked through the media gantlet and made their way through the City Council. It is the dark-paneled room behind the council chamber, decorated with paintings showing Chicago settlers either trading with or shooting the Indians. It is the place where deals and indictments are hatched.
Ald. Jesse Evans (21st) acknowledged that he is a target and that unsuccessful attempts had been made to corrupt him. He stood alone, a nervous smile working on his face. Ald. Allan Streeter (17th), who has been interviewed by the FBI and whose daughter Deborah died Saturday, showed up briefly in the morning then disappeared.
But Ald. Virgil Jones (15th) was full of bravado. He said the government investigation is designed to entrap minority aldermen.
He said Christopher came to him fronting for a minority contractor. But Jones said that after they met several times, he figured Christopher for an informant and broke off contact. Over the weekend, as the story emerged, a Jones aide reminded him that Christopher had showed up at a 15th Ward picnic on Garfield Boulevard and distributed free watermelons to happy ward residents.
“She said, `That’s the guy with the watermelons.’ He was pushing them off his truck, handing them out,” Jones said. “But I was on the other side of the park. If a man you barely know wants to hand out watermelons and you don’t know that he’s doing it, what kind of a crime is that? They’re just watermelons.”
State Sen. Rickey Hendon, who loves publicity even if it’s negative, rushed to City Hall to tell reporters that he, too, had been repeatedly propositioned by Christopher but that he withstood the temptation by believing that Christopher was a government mole.
Meanwhile, the veteran aldermen reminded younger colleagues that anything they say over the phone is likely to be taped and any new friends they make just might be government informants.
This advice was absorbed with fresh interest by freshman Ald. Walter Burnett (27th).
“They’ve been around a long time. Maybe that’s how they are still sticking around,” he said. “It’s good advice and I believe it.”
