Ray
Hanania's
Award
Winning
Columns
Feb.
27,
1999
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"Forgive
but Never Forget"
A Former City Hall Reporter Remembers Jane Byrne's Turbulent
Administration, 20 Years Later
Part III of 3 Parts
By Ray Hanania
The End of Reform
Byrne and I never really had a problem until she and Daley had
a problem. At first, few in the media were interested in the
inside-baseball political stories of who was getting fired and
who wasn't, especially in the 11th Ward. Daley and Lipinski turned
to the local community reporter, their community reporter, me.
Longtime Daley precinct captains, who held hundreds of high paying jobs at City Hall, where being demoted or fired from their posts. Jobs were being slashed.
Careers were being destroyed. Everything the Daleys had done to everyone else in the city was finally coming home to roost, and the South Side Irish Mafia didn't like it one bit. The truth was, Byrne was telling the truth. Under Old Man Daley and Bilandic, Daley's patronage army had grown astronomically.
In that first summer in 1979, I convinced my editors to allow me to publish a Sunday column called "The Grapevine." It featured a gossip style format that appeared on the Op-Ed page. No one really thought about focusing exclusively on political gossip as news. Kup, at the Sun-Times, and Maggie Daly at the Tribune included some political items, but only very few. The Grapevine was all about political intrigue. It included all the little tidbits that initially were too small to turn into stories, or that could have been good front page stories if not for the fact that we were already churning out too many front page stories as it was from the City Hall beat. Most of us were turning in five stories a day.
Many of the little tidbits I received started to come by telephone from Daley and from his political outcasts. The man driving these items was a former Chicago cop and trickster for the Chicago Red Squad named Jeremiah Joyce who partnered with another Daley ally, Tim Degnan, in the Illinois Senate.
The "Vrdolyak, Burke Back in the Saddle" column was quickly picked up by Sun-Times political writer, Basil Talbot.
Several weeks later, Daley called to tell me that Byrne was planning to run Roman Pucinski against Morgan Finley for Clerk of the Circuit Court. It seemed plausible. During the campaign, Byrne shared the very same story with me alleging Bilandic forced Finley to renege on a promised job for McMullen handling media. Now, as mayor, she denied it.
After making some calls, I published the story in the Grapevine. It was only about six paragraphs. The rest of the column detailed how key Daley aides were being systematically dumped one at a time from key City Hall jobs and that Byrne had targeted the Southwest Side of the city, where Lipinski, Daley, Madigan and Sheahan's wards were located. The Southwest Side also happened to be my beat.
Byrne noticed the pattern of stories,
and dispatched two of her bodyguards to Ford City every Saturday
night to pick up copies of the Grapevine.
The Finley story angered Byrne, but it enraged McMullen who promptly
called me in the Press Room the next day screaming.
McMullen was raving. I could hardly make out all his words. Nobody would believe this. I waved to Golden who waved to Davis and each picked up an extension and listened as McMullen ranted and raved. He seemed angered that I would suggest that he needed his wife to fight his battles for him.
"If you print any more (expletive deleted) lies in your (expletive deleted) column," McMullen warned before hanging up, "I'm not only going to call your (expletive deleted) editor, but I am going to punch you in your (expletive deleted) nose."
At first, I didn't think of it as a story. For the other reporters, it was a hootenanny. "Fuck him," reporters in the press rooom would yell. "Go for it," Davis offered. "The despicable Whooo … rrreeee. Aaaargh! Aaaargh! Aaaargh!" Golden cackled.
I dutifully reported McMullen's quote word for word in my next column on Sept. 23. And on Monday morning, Byrne promptly called a press conference, denounced me by name and declared that she would "never ever" speak to me again. Suddenly everyone was reading the Grapevine.
WBBM TV's Walter Jacobson immediately jumped on the Jane Byrne "snit," because it was so out of her public character.
The Grapevine Picks Up Steam
After the Vrdolyak takeover, Byrne's impromptu press conference
seemed to be more infrequent. The frenzied pace of news seemed
to quiet down, at least for a while.
But the Byrne "snit" rejuvenated the media's interest and it made headlines around the country. WLUP radio immediately offered me a talk show, and WTTW's Week in Review host Joel Weisman invited me on his show. When he asked me to describe Byrne's new budget, I began, "Well, Joel, once again the city's taxpayers are going to get raped by Jane Byrne." Complaints from McMullen kept me from returning to the show until Harold Washington's election.
The Grapevine picked up steam as every alderman with an axe to grind, including several of her key allies, called with tidbits they hoped would move Byrne to change her mind.
When word surfaced that the White Sox might move out of town, and reporters asked her what she planned to do, she quickly snapped, "Why don't you have a telephone conference with Hanania and maybe he can buy the White Sox."
The reporters turned around and with scorn on their faces, bemoaned the fact that I had "ruined a good thing" by criticizing Byrne.
Suddenly, the Jane Byrne news machine was drying out, and she was calling a handful of reporters secretly and offering her exclusives in private.
Police had cleared the 5th Floor of reporters and issued a ban preventing us from standing by the elevators, sitting in her outer office or waiting for Byrne to come and go.
They wouldn't let Byrne stop to talk to us. And if I were nearby, her body guards would beg me to move away because it ruined Jane Byrne's day and made their lives miserable.
When I reported that Jane Byrne was planning to cut funding to s special school for invalid children in the 18th Ward, Byrne went berserk.
At a press conference, joined by Governor Jim Thompson, Congressman Dan Rostenkowski and other political bigwigs, Byrne announced she was re-appropriating billions of dollars in funding earmarked for the long proposed Crosstown Expressway to other city needs. It was a clear political shot at Daley and his Southwest Side rebels.
It was a big story for me, so I asked the mayor how she planned to explain that decision to Southwest Side voters who had supported her election only a year before. She replied curtly, "By giving them the truth. The truth. Do you know what that is?"
The reporters who encouraged the tension were now concerned it might cost them stories. A TV reporter nudged me from behind my second row seat and whispered that I should shut up because I might screw up this press conference. Crawford, Davis, and Cameron, who all sat in the front row, scowled. Byrne smiled.
As I walked out of the mayor's office into the hallway, a woman's scream pierced the hall outside. "Who told you I was going to cut that funding," Byrne yelled waving a copy of my most recent Sunday column. "Who told you that?"
Rostenkowski's jaw hit the floor, Thompson stood there scratching his head, and the rest of the congressional delegation pretended that a murder was not going to be committed.
"Come with me," she ordered. Her chief bodyguards, Mike Graney and Rory O'Connor, each grabbed me by the arms and nearly lifted me off the tiled floor. They pushed me into the elevator. I stood there, sandwiched between Graney and O'Connor, facing Byrne. Graney pulled the elevator's red "Stop" button, bringing it to an abrupt halt where Byrne proceeded to lecture me.
"Who said that?" She demanded.
"Well," I replied. It wasn't a secret. "Bob Kellam (the 18th Ward alderman) says you told him …"
Without letting me finish, she responded, "He didn't understand. I want you to take this all down." She proceeded to give me "her side" of the story. "I don't want that in the newspaper. I want it in your column. Let's see if you print it," she snapped.
I tried to protest that her aides refused to respond to any of my requests for comments from her, so I was forced to only publish what I could confirm.
Graney was a 19th Ward cop who worked as one of Bilandic's chief bodyguards until two days before he realized that Byrne was going to win. He quickly quit Bilandic's detail and ended up as Byrne's chief bodyguard the day after her February 27 primary victory. He laughed and then switched the elevator back on and pushed me out the elevator on the third floor.
The following year I found myself at odds with Byrne again, this time over Graney, who Byrne adored. The husky Chicago Cop had an uncanny resemblance to Byrne's late husband. A political trickster tipped me off that Byrne had given Graney a ChicagoFest concession contract and was operating Anna's Fried Dough at Navy Pier, the first booth after the entrance. I went there and said hello to Graney, who almost turned white.
Every time Byrne would go to the new ChicagoFest celebration, she would pause at Anna's Fried Dough, eat one of the large fried samplers, and call it the best tasting treat at the festival. Reporters had no choice but to record her comments there, giving Anna's Fried Dough a lot of publicity.
Cook County State's Attorney Bernard Carey launched a probe into the awarding of a contract. The probe was quickly cancelled when Daley won the office that November.
Although Byrne had once vowed to cancel the festival, in 1980, it was renamed "Mayor Byrne's ChicagoFest." But Daley didn't want to hurt Graney, who was Joyce's friend. And by then, I had started to realize what Lipinski would often lament: "The Daley's are great friends when they're out of power. But once in, you never see them."
The Era of the Grape
Early that year, when word got out that Daley was planning to
run for countywide office in the March Democratic primary, Byrne
was frantic to stop him. She suspected he was planning to challenge
Carey. And, she pushed Burke to run for State's Attorney, too.
The big question was whether that was in fact the post Daley
was going to announce for that November. Whoever announced first
might get a political edge in the public's mind, given the frantic
nature in which the Byrne-Daley feud was evolving.
Daley recognized that if he could announce before Burke, he would cast Burke as a Byrne puppet, a spoiler who reporters already knew was not enthusiastic about the job.
So Daley decided to exploit Byrne's belief
that everything I published in my column reflected Daley's true
strategy. Daley had Huels call me up and whisper, "Listen.
This is an exclusive for you. It's very important, but you can't
quote me. All right?"
"Sure. What is it?" I asked.
"Rich is running for Clerk of the Circuit Court. He can't win as State's Attorney but we can win as Circuit Clerk."
"Are you sure, Pat? That's unbelievable. All your people are saying it's State's Attorney. Lipinski. Sheahan."
Huels was insistent. "Listen. I'm telling you it's Circuit Court Clerk. Would I lie to you? This is just for you. No one else."
At a fundraiser that night at the Martinique, Daley put his arm around my shoulders and said, "You've got the scoop on the biggest story of the year."
I called Lipinski, Oberman and Sheahan and everyone I could think of, and they all said the word was out that Daley was thinking of running for Circuit Clerk. Daley then called and reassured me that was his goal, but he asked that he not be quoted.
Okay, I thought. Why would they lie to
me? I was boxed in. Days before his scheduled press conference
I bannered the story with this headline: "Daley to run for
Circuit Clerk." As it turned out, Huels had given the same
story to Talbot at the Sun-Times. He ran it too.
Burke was unsure and decided to hold off his announcement until
after Daley's, which is what Joyce and Daley had wanted all along.
Basil and I stood on the sidelines of Daley's announcement press conference. Spielman was nudging me and saying correctly, "They used you!"
I knew I was in trouble when Daley began his speech by saying, "Before I announce me intentions, I want to say that Ray Hanania is one of the most dedicated and professional reporters I know. He has reported the new accurately and fairly even as many others have not."
And then he announced for State's Attorney.
Despite that faux pas, the column remained hot property. The Southtown had me expand it, writing it twice each week. They even offered me more salary and researching resources.
Burke was the only politician who seemed to have some sense of sanity. He just shrugged everything off, looked past the facts at the people, and just tried to get along with everyone.
At a press conference days before the March primary, Byrne let lose with a volley of attacks not only against me, but against the Tribune's David Axelrod who was also picking up on the political stories of Byrne's vindictiveness.
Byrne attacked Axelrod and then looked at me and called me "Scum."
The Tribune editorial the next day began "Here We Go Again!"
Three of Byrne's aides tried to change things. There was Paul McGrath, a former reporter who helped Byrne and then served as chief of staff until he was replaced by Griffin while he was away at a government policy school. McGrath's girlfriend, Karen Connor, the director of Special Events. And, Frank Santoro, who was Byrne's Patronage Chief.
Their careers came to a crashing halt after they had called me and asked me to come to a meeting in Connor's office.
With my back to the door, I listened as Santoro, Connor and McGrath each asked me why I wasn't being fairer to Byrne.
I responded that I was interested in
reporting news and I didn't care whose political color it carried.
When Byrne was a candidate, she talked to me all the time. When
she became mayor, she forgot the "little people," I
said. I listened to people who talked to me.
They seemed shocked, although Connor and I had been good friends
for many months.
Santoro was the one who then proposed
feeding me exclusive stories about the "good things"
that Byrne was doing. I told them I would publish it. A headline
was a headline. I would still get react from everyone.
It just might have worked, except that Byrne was so paranoid
about who was leaking information for my column, that I know
she had my telephones tapped.
How else would you explain what happened next? The double doors to Connor's office flung open with a crash as they slammed against the walls. Byrne, flanked by Graney and O'Connor stepped into Connor's office wagging her finger.
"A secret little meeting. I wasn't invited. What's going on?"
McGrath immediately turned and pointed at me and started calling me names. Santoro and O'Connor tried to persuade Byrne that they were simply trying to get me to print "the other side."
Months later, all three were either gone or on their way out.
Conclusion
Byrne was a vindictive mayor. But so had been the rest. The difference
was that they veiled the punishment they meted out to disloyal
workers or political foes, while Byrne acknowledged her role,
raised her eyebrows and just smiled.
Critics charged we crossed every line with Byrne and that nothing was sacred. They asserted this double standard did not apply to Bilandic. The criticism is certainly true, to an extent. But that standard of reporting continued into the Washington administration, the Sawyer administration and even into the early days of the Daley administration, before media criticism was put down like an anti-Castro rebellion in Cuba.
There was one line we didn't cross with Byrne. Jane and Jay were like many married couples. They had some problems. They would whack at each other verbally and physically during all night booze binges that Byrne's bodyguards initially shared with disbelieving reporters.
Stories about how Byrne had her body guards toss McMullen into the mayor's limousine and drive him around until he sobered never made it into print. We snooped out tips from nurses, body guards and hospital orderlies who insisted Byrne had been in treating a bruised face injured by a flying ashtray. But we never published them.
One bodyguard told us that during his first week, he burst into the mayor's apartment after hearing screams coming from inside. Thinking someone had broken in and was murdering the city's First Family, he rushed in and saw McMullen pulling on a locked closet door knob, kicking the door with his feet and yelling. The person inside hiding was his wife, the mayor.
Eventually, Byrne's conflict with me quickly spread to include all the other reporters. She threatened to ban Bob Davis from the City Hall Press Room over a story that another reporter at his newspaper had written. With some 100 reporters standing around him lapping up his quotes, McMullen called him to ask if he was enjoying the limelight. The Davis ban story was published on the front pages of newspapers around the world.
Byrne's tendency was to always strike
back at what she perceived was a reporter's shortcoming.
When Byrne was being pummeled in the media for appointing two
white women and a political crony to the CHA board, she was unrepentant.
A panting Spielman, who was always the first to catch up to Byrne's
entourage, asked the mayor to respond to criticism of the appointments.
Byrne waited until the rest of the reporters had caught up and
Spielman repeated her question. The mayor replied, "I think
… I think … I think your bleach job is beautiful."
But was that any different from Bilandic, who, while trying to explain a change on the CTA board, turned to Spielman and said, "You know, Fran. It's like when you're baking a cake, you have to make sure you have the right ingredients."
When Byrne blamed me for the resignation of her press secretary, Mike Sneed, Byrne waved a blank piece of paper she alleged was my resume which she asserted I had given to her the week she had won the primary. While touring Navy Pier's Ethnic Folk Festival, Byrne met my mother who was wearing a Palestinian gown. Mom was excited and told Byrne, "I don't know why my son doesn't like you. I think you are fantastic."
Later, instead of responding to my query on a ChicagoFest related scandal, Byrne leaned across the microphone on said, "Why don't I tell the reporters about the hot tip your mother gave me about you?"
She was angry when I reported she had fired a woman she jealousy suspected was having an affair with Griffin. The affair didn't exist, but that didn't matter.
And when I discovered that Byrne had given her husband's former maid a job running a 5th floor copier, Byrne's aides threatened to have me removed from the press room.
Byrne didn't always single out reporters and soon found herself swimming in a sea of Daley loyalists all trying to undermine her programs.
Walking past an open air ante room located between the Press Room and the City Council chambers, Byrne overheard a City employee there remark about her recent facelift. "It doesn't look that great to me," the woman blurted out with laughter that caught Byrne's ear.
Byrne stopped, turned and looked directly at the women, then turned around and continued into the council chambers. As prayer was being offered, Byrne summoned City Clerk Walter Kozubowski to her side and ordered him to put the woman someplace where she wouldn't ever have to see Byrne's face again. The next day, we learned from her co-workers that she had been given a desk in City Hall's basement, a place we didn't even know existed. It was damp, dusty, and the air inside was stale. Many weeks later, the repentant woman was quietly returned to her desk after she personally apologized to the mayor.
The conflict with Byrne had created an atmosphere of "personal tension" between the mayor and the reporters and her critics.
Reporters had become news. At first, we all seemed to enjoy the sudden celebrity because it was new and it was news. It was the talk of the town. And, there was nothing we could do to prevent it from happening.
But eventually, it stopped becoming news. As is often the case in the news business and with beat reporting, the line between what was and wasn't news heightened dramatically. Run-of-the-mill vindictiveness just wasn't that newsworthy any more. It had to be extraordinary for it to become reportable.
Simply firing someone for being a Daley ally was nothing new and certainly not news, even though the firings destroyed many individual careers and lives.
Byrne lost her re-election bid to Harold Washington when Daley split the White vote in February, 1983. It was Daley's final act of vengeance against Byrne. But the tensions between the city's Mayor and the City Hall press continued, though the focus changed from personal politics to racial politics.
Vrdolyak quickly grabbed the reins of power and orchestrated a new rebellion founded on racial divisiveness. Mayor Washington attacked Vrdolyak and the "White dominated news media" that covered his administration. He argued the reporters lacked an understanding of the "hood." But we didn't cover the "hood." We covered City Hall. And ironically, City Hall was not a place the Black media covered at all.
During Bryne's tenure, the Chicago Defender
had a desk at City Hall but it remained vacant, not to be filled
full time until Washington was elected mayor.
By the time "little Richie" and his South Side Irish
strategists stumbled back into power in the wake of Washington's
death, City Hall reporting had returned to its near uneventful
former style.
The new Mayor Daley did everything that Jane Byrne had been criticized for by the media. He just took it back behind the old closed doors. But people were tired of the old days and the confrontations. They longed for a sense of calm. Daley eagerly tried to embrace calm, and the level of news excitement dropped dramatically.
The City Hall press had changed, too. Golden, the last vestige of the old Front Page era days of journalism, had died while Eugene Sawyer was mayor. Although the City Hall Press Room was named in his honor, it was a different place from when he had arrived some 20 years before.
The need for computers had become little more than a writer's convenience, rather than an appropriate vehicle to maintain gait with Jane Byrne's hectic, rapid fire pace.
Having been both a critic of and a target
of attacks by Byrne, Washington and even Daley, I can honestly
say Chicago reporters were the most unfair to Jane Byrne.
Ironically, there was a time during Daley's first few years when
we sat around bored, and reminisced longingly for the "good
old days." Not for the days under his father's administration,
but during that brief four years when at least one modern-day
Chicago Mayor knew how to make real news.
(Ray Hanania covered City Hall from 1977 until 1992 and is currently a political columnist with the Southwest News-herald Newspaper. The winner of three Society of Professional journalism Lisagor Awards, Hanania was named Best Ethnic American Columnist in America by the New America Media. freelance writer and Chicago author.)
Return to Part I
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