we would become known as the gambling state, and all legislation would be discussed in terms of how the gambling interests feel about it.” Additionally, the state’s two highest law enforcement officials, Attorney General William Hyland and U.S. Attorney Jonathan Goldstein, spoke against the measure.
Jonathan Goldstein was a forceful spokesman for the opposition. Together with clergymen from the New Jersey Council of Churches, he spoke at hundreds of gatherings throughout the state. Goldstein barnstormed across the state with the local newspapers and radio stations spreading the word. Everywhere he went he warned that the only group that would benefit from the legalization of gambling was organized crime. “I am concerned that the very same interests which have allowed Atlantic City to deteriorate will be those who will be the sole beneficiaries of casino gambling.” Goldstein was one of the prosecutors of the Atlantic City Seven, and he had a keen grasp of the traditional partnership between local politicians and the racketeers. He played on the suspicions of the average voter that all gambling was controlled by the mob. To the average person, Goldstein’s comments had a ring of truth and with the exposure they received, it damaged the resort’s cause.
Aside from the crime issue, there was a second basis for opposition expressed by State Senator Anne Martindell. The resort didn’t deserve special treatment. According to Martindell, the State Constitution shouldn’t be amended to satisfy the needs of one city. Statewide referenda and the amendment of New Jersey’s most basic legal principles should be limited to issues of statewide concern. Martindell argued that if Atlantic City wanted to make a comeback, it should pull itself up by its bootstraps. Let it diversify its economy. Let it seek out light industry and commercial uses other than resort-oriented businesses. The resort wasn’t entitled to a quick fix. It should battle urban decay just as every aging city in the Northeast was battling to do. Speaking at a press conference on the Boardwalk several weeks prior to the referendum, Martindell stated, “I am concerned with the future of Atlantic City. I want the city redeveloped on a solid future, not the dangerous shifting sands of gambling. Plans, real plans, have to be made to attract a diversity of industry and investments in order to create new jobs to solve Atlantic City’s deep-rooted economic and social problems.”
To the resort’s leaders, Martindell’s comments read like something out of a fantasy. They understood their town’s singular purpose. If the resort didn’t have a gimmick to revive vacationers’ interest, all would be lost. Unfortunately, Martindell’s pitch appealed to voters throughout the state, especially those in New Jersey’s decaying urban areas. Many politicians from other cities could see no reason why Atlantic City should be the lone beneficiary of a Constitutional Amendment.
The opposition found the media sympathetic to their views and despite the lack of resources—the pro-gaming effort outspent them 20 to 1—Goldstein, Martindell, and others were able to spread their message without the need of financing. An example of the message sent to the voters by the New Jersey’s media is an editorial of the
Ignoring such vocal opposition, the supporters of gambling squandered the first six months of the campaign. Despite the tinsel and glitter, and the hype and hustle of Atlantic City’s past, it was still a laid-back town. Seventy years of corrupt one-party rule had produced a complacent mentality; whatever the problem, the Republican machine, in partnership with the racketeers and hotel owners, would solve it.
Grassroots-level social activism was nonexistent in Atlantic City. As far as resort voters were concerned, politics was the work of professionals like Kuehnle, Johnson, and Farley. With the disintegration of the Republican political ward system, there was nothing to hold things together. With no one to take charge, Atlantic City couldn’t find its way.
When things finally did get organized in mid-July, it was a feeble effort. A pollster hired by the campaign organization warned that the election would be close, but no one was listening. The initial fund-raising goal of $1 million was never reached; half that amount was spent. A first-rate public relations firm to sell the issue wasn’t retained and, more importantly, a statewide, county-by-county organization was never formed. Steve Perskie, Joe McGahn, and others criss-crossed the state debating Goldstein and the ministers, like a traveling vaudeville show, but there was no follow-up. The audiences who attended the debates received no mailings or phone calls from the supporters of gambling. No doors were knocked on and there was no coordinated effort to get out the vote. The pro-casino forces didn’t establish a single campaign headquarters outside of Atlantic County. Finally, the campaign had no soul, no theme, no rallying cry. There was nothing to grab the voters to make them vote YES.
The referendum failed miserably. It was defeated by a margin of more than 400,000 votes, carrying only two counties, Atlantic and Hudson. The question was crushed everyplace else. It was like a kick in the ass to a tired old whore who had lost her charm. A wave of despair washed over the city. For many area residents it was hard to imagine a future for their town.
There were brave statements of how the resort would have to move onto other ideas, but for many of Atlantic City’s residents, the defeat loomed as the final chapter of their town’s history. Those who could afford to relocate their businesses and homes out of the area were making plans to do just that. It seemed all was lost. In the weeks that followed, a bumper sticker summing up the town’s plight became popular. It read, “Last one off the island, turn out the lights.”
10
A Second Bite at the Apple
It began to rain as she was getting off the bus, and her umbrella was at home. The walk was only two blocks, but her hip slowed her down and by the time she reached city hall she was drenched. Lea Finkler was a transplant from New York City, but everyone knew her and respected her commitment to Atlantic City’s senior population. Hunched over by age yet slender, almost petite, she was a frail, bespectacled, shabbily dressed woman with an ashen complexion and short gray hair. Despite her appearance Lea’s eyes gave her away; she was no one to mess with.
Lea Finkler was a “gray panther” long before the term was coined or senior citizens organized into interest groups. Her contempt for politicians was notorious, and Atlantic City’s elected officials cringed at the thought of confronting her. She had come to the city commission meeting and, as usual, bullied her way onto the agenda demanding to be heard. She was there to complain about street crime. Two days earlier, one of her friends was beaten and robbed outside her apartment house at mid-afternoon by several teenage thugs. Lea was in a rage. “We’re prisoners. It’s been years since we’ve been able to walk the street or stroll the Boardwalk after dark. Now we can’t even leave our homes to buy bread and milk. What are you bums going to do about it?”
They heard her, but no one was listening. They were used to Lea and tuned her out the instant she opened her mouth. When she was finished one of the commissioners asked her to be patient and promised he’d speak with the police. He told her there were no easy answers but that the long-term solution was to rebuild the resort’s economy through casino gambling. A second referendum was being prepared, and after it passed, the streets would be safe for everyone. Rather than hurling insults, she was told to organize her friends to support gambling. Lea was unimpressed and left grumbling in disgust.
For those people serious about rebuilding Atlantic City, there never was a thought of abandoning the quest for casino gambling. While the first referendum was a debacle, it was a valuable learning experience for the pro-casino
