really a part of the senator’s staff.”
“I understood you were working for the committee.”
“
“And Jack Ruby?”
“Yes, him too.”
The mob all-stars (and in many cases, their lawyers) were kept in a little room fourteen foot square, blue with cigarette smoke, off a hallway that echoed with the chatter of typewriters and office machines, an unsettling symphony for the unlucky witnesses, who had been casually informed by a U.S. marshal that this was the IRS checking their tax records.
The straightback wooden chairs, primly lined along all four walls, were filled with some of the most celebrated criminal backsides not only in Chicago, but America. Be cause most were ex-cons, two chairs were left vacant between the parties, since associating with one another would be a parole violation. Short, square-shouldered Louie Campagna—a minor hoodlum from Capone/Nitti days who’d risen to some power—sat next to (that is, two empty seats away from) big, silver-haired, movie-star handsome Johnny Rosselli, the former’s baggy, slept-in-looking suit contrasting with the latter’s natty Hollywood threads.
Rosselli—and major L.A. mob boss Jack Dragna—were flown in from the coast, because of their connection to the race wire racket.
A small radio was playing the World Series—and the rapt attention of these sports fans was fixed upon the action of the Yankees clobbering the Phillies…almost as if money were riding on the outcome.
For the several days of the hearings, the room—littered with cigarette butts, candy wrappers and newspapers—was mostly filled with men, and famous ones at that: Paul “the Waiter” Ricca; Tony “Joe Batters” Accardo; Al Capone’s brother Ralph; Murray “the Hump” Humphries; Charlie “Cherry Nose” Gioe. The lone woman was Mrs. Charles Fischetti— Anne—a slender, pretty blonde flown up here from Miami; wearing widow’s weeds, she appeared with an attorney, and she rivaled Rocco in the number of times she said, “I refuse to answer that.”
Though these were closed sessions—excluding the public and press…no TV this round!—Kefauver himself would brief the press at the end of the day, giving them a thumbnail description of the testimony. An exception to this procedure, however, was part of the unusual courtesy paid to one witness, Captain Dan “Tubbo” Gilbert.
Under fire from Senator Lucas and other Democratic big-wigs, Kefauver agreed not to subpoena sheriff’s candidate Tubbo—merely extending an invitation to him to appear, on the eve of the election, to give him an opportunity to address the press feeding frenzy over Gilbert’s questionable finances and dubious police practices.
But Kefauver was not entirely caving in to political pressure, because he announced the invitation to the press, which put pressure on Tubbo to comply, though at first the esteemed chief investigator of the State’s Attorney’s office refused the invite.
Then, one afternoon, unannounced, wearing a three-piece tailored brown tweed suit, silk gold-and-yellow tie, and his ruby stickpin, the jovial Tubbo—without an attorney at his side!— just showed the hell up, and expressed a willingness to answer questions. The decks were cleared, and a seat at the witness table made available.
The hearing room was wide and narrow, the gallery consisting of a dozen seats on one side with an aisle and another dozen seats on the other—very few filled, just Peterson and a couple of his people, and Kurnitz and myself. A courtroom atmosphere prevailed: the witness table faced a long bench on a dais in a room made somber by the institutional green plaster walls with dark-oak wainscoting and gilt-framed prints of Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and FDR (other than Illinois’s own Honest Abe, no Republicans, of course—maybe next administration).
Behind the bench on the dais, framed by windows with their blinds drawn, Lincolnesque Kefauver was flanked by his youthful, moon-faced chief counsel, Rudolph Halley, and fiftyish, professorial George Robinson, their associate counsel. All three men wore dark suits and ties and glasses, quite a contrast to Tubbo’s jaunty, dapper attire. No microphones were necessary, and a court recorder sat off to one side, a businesslike young brunette with dark- rimmed glasses and flying fingers.
From private conversation with him, I knew the senator was embarrassed and, well, pissed-off that the other members of the Crime Committee—even Senator Charles Tobey, a Republican who relished castigating thugs for their immorality and misdeeds—had chosen not to come to Chicago and share the political risks.
“Let the record show,” Senator Kefauver said, “that Captain Gilbert was not subpoenaed to come before this committee. You came of your own free will and accord, is that correct?”
“Yes, and let me say at the outset,” Tubbo replied cheerfully, his chin held high (anyway, his first chin), “that I will cooperate one hundred percent. My reason for appearing is the fact that the press has been carrying some malicious stories about me…and, of course, as chief investigator of Cook County, I felt as though I would be doing my duty to come here.”
For several minutes, Kefauver posed background questions—about Tubbo’s age (sixty-one), his family (grandfather of four), his rise to power in law enforcement (swift), and the nature of Captain Gilbert’s job (buck- passing). Tubbo was relaxed and breezy in his responses. When Kefauver shifted gears, it wasn’t immediately apparent.
“The man you work for, State’s Attorney John S. Boyle, has described you as…” Kefauver adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose, as he read from a yellow pad. “…‘one of the hardest-working police officers I have ever known.’”
Tubbo shrugged, smiled contentedly. “That’s generous of him.”
Halley was already smirking, as he introduced the voluntary witness to his high-pitched, lispy, sarcastic vocal style: “Mr. Boyle also admits you have a reputation as a gambler, and of playing the stock market heavily.”
Another shrug. “Well, I guess you’d say I’m a gambler at heart.”
Robinson chimed sternly in: “And what do you think about a sheriff being a gambler, Mr. Gilbert?”
“I don’t feel it’s any violation of my oath of office—if a fellow wants to bet against me, I am willing to bet.”
“What sort of bet?”
