With Farley gone, Fox’s idea was able to surface. She and like-minded business people kept the hope alive. But bringing gambling to the resort was a major undertaking. The legalization of casino-style gambling could only come about by means of an amendment to the New Jersey Constitution, which required approval at a statewide referendum. And there could be no referendum without an act of the legislature and support from the governor’s office. That took serious clout, something Atlantic City was short on with Farley gone from the scene. To make matters worse, the governor’s chair was occupied by a priggish former Superior Court Judge who, as a criminal prosecutor, had established a reputation as a “Mr. Clean.” Brendan Byrne was hardly what Atlantic City needed in the way of a governor to help bring in legalized casino gambling.
Brendan Byrne’s first run for political office was his election to governor in 1973. Plucked from the Superior Court bench, he was the handpicked candidate of a group of wealthy North Jersey Irish Democrats, the same clique responsible for the election of two other governors. Byrne was the ideal candidate: trim, handsome, well-spoken, and well-connected; Princeton University undergraduate; and Harvard Law School. He was the antithesis of the Farley-style politician. Upon graduation from law school he served as a clerk to a Superior Court Judge. From there he became assistant prosecutor in the Essex County Prosecutor’s office and eventually prosecutor and judgeship. During his days as prosecutor, Byrne gained a reputation as a crime fighter and was referred to by the mob as someone who “couldn’t be bought.” He savored his reputation and effused self-righteousness.
With the traditional problem of corruption in New Jersey, Byrne would have been welcomed by either political party in much the same way Woodrow Wilson was 60 years earlier. The leading Democrats supported him and he won the primary easily. His campaign was short on substance and consisted essentially of a pledge to “restore integrity” to New Jersey government—a tall order for anyone. Byrne’s opponent was Congressman Charles Sandman of Cape May. Charlie Sandman was a perennial candidate and wannabe governor most of his career. In June 1973, he upset incumbent Governor William Cahill in a bitter primary dividing the Republican Party. Sandman would later be Richard Nixon’s most loyal supporter during the Watergate hearings, and his uncompromising conservative message had limited appeal. He was no match for Byrne and the election was a landslide. As Brendan Byrne began his first year in office, legalizing gambling wasn’t one of his priorities. It wasn’t even on his agenda.
But gambling was a priority for the resort’s legislative team. 1974 was the year Atlantic City was to begin its comeback. State Senator Joe McGahn took his cue from the local media as well as business and civic leaders. They had one item on their legislative agenda. This was the year casino gambling was to become a reality. For the first time in Atlantic County’s history, its legislative delegation was entirely Democratic and there was a Democrat in the governor’s chair. As the year began, hopes were high. The Atlantic City Press took the lead in expressing confidence: “Governor Brendan Byrne has said he is receptive to a referendum aimed at removing the present constitutional ban on gambling, and a newly elected legislature presumably is willing to vote it onto the ballot. Public approval is regarded as certain.” But Joe McGahn knew better.
Joe McGahn had spent most of his life watching his hometown crumble. Now as senator, he had a chance to reverse the downward spiral. While having none of Farley’s gifts as a horse-trader, he could think on his feet and had the personal maturity needed to stay focused on a single issue. McGahn’s partner, in truth the leader in pursuing a constitutional referendum, was Democratic Assemblyman Steven Perskie. On his first election to the assembly in 1971, at age 26, Perskie was the youngest state legislator ever elected from Atlantic County, having been swept into office on McGahn’s coattails in his win over Farley. Upon arriving in Trenton, the young assemblyman needed no one’s coattails and learned his way around quickly. Nephew of Farley nemesis Marvin Perskie, Steve Perskie was a third generation attorney from a family of respected lawyers, the son and grandson of judges. Of medium height and build with shaggy black hair and thick horn-rimmed glasses, he was the picture of intensity. Perskie exuded confidence—almost cocksure—and had an innate ability for the legislative process. Brilliant, fast-talking but articulate, and with an engaging personality, he was a tireless advocate of casino gaming and the resort’s best spokesperson for the cause. More importantly, Steve Perskie had ingratiated himself with Brendan Byrne. He was one of Byrne’s earliest supporters in the Democratic primary and raised the gambling issue with Byrne early on. After the election he visited the governor’s office frequently, building important ties with Byrne’s staff. Between McGahn and Perskie, the resort had as effective a legislative team as it could hope for.
As the city launched its drive for a constitutional referendum, the watchword was “don’t oversell our case.” The prevailing mentality produced a caution and restraint in presenting the case for gambling, which could come only from overconfidence. Atlantic City and its leaders felt all they had to do was keep a low profile and things would just fall into place as they planned.
At that time, New Jersey was struggling with statewide tax reform. A State Supreme Court decision on the funding of local public schools had made an income tax inevitable. Some proponents of gambling spread the word that legalizing gambling might eliminate the need for an income tax. To preclude such talk, the Atlantic City Press in almost lecturing tones told its readers, especially the politicians, “The state can expect to profit very little, if at all, directly, and gambling opponents and proponents alike know it … it should not even be mentioned in the same breath with an income tax. It must be sold on the very sound argument that it is a much needed stimulant for the capital investment that can bring Atlantic City back to its days of glory.”
Another pitfall was the specter of Atlantic City becoming a “Las Vegas of the East” with a casino on every corner and slot machines in supermarkets, drugstores, and gas stations. Somehow, Atlantic City was supposed to be better than Vegas. The reputation of mob influence and the garishness of Las Vegas were something to be avoided in a statewide campaign. With an almost fairy tale quality, Atlantic City’s leaders hoped to present a more dignified image. They talked of gambling in terms of class and elegance comparable to the low-key operations in the Bahamas and Monte Carlo. According to its supporters, Atlantic City was above doing business like Las Vegas. There would be no glitz or glitter or slot machine grind joints. Upon gambling being legalized, it would be quiet and sophisticated—civilized games of chance for gentlemen and ladies only.
A final concern for gambling proponents was the fear that were it limited to Atlantic City alone, other communities in the state might resent it and sabotage the referendum. The resort was prepared to share the opportunity with other communities in the hopes no one else would be interested. In an attempt to neutralize potential opposition, McGahn and Perskie proposed a referendum that would permit gambling casinos throughout the state. Upon approval of the initial constitutional amendment, gambling could be permitted in any community where the voters of both the municipality, and the county in which it was located, approved a second referendum. To prevent mob infiltration, casinos would be owned and operated by state government; no matter that no one in state government was experienced in operating a casino. They would simply adopt regulations and everything would go smoothly. As for new private construction, there wouldn’t be much. Casinos would be located in existing hotels or state-owned properties. Additionally, advertising would be prohibited and only properly attired patrons would be permitted to gamble. By creating such a frame in which to view their proposal, Atlantic City’s leaders hoped the opposition would have little basis for an attack.
In the report of a study released by the staff of the Senate Conference Committee in May 1974, the Byrne administration’s view of how casino gambling should work was outlined for the legislature. It was envisioned that the first casino would
be built on the Boardwalk at the state’s expense. Following the initial casino, two others would be located in space leased from existing hotels. The hours of operation would be from 8:00 P.M. to 4:00 A.M. The sale of alcoholic beverages would be prohibited as would credit for betting by casino patrons. Private investment of any kind would be prohibited. A rosy picture typical of government, it was assumed the casinos would be staffed and operated by state employees—just one more task for the bureaucracy. The potential of gambling everywhere didn’t have the initial support of Governor Byrne and as the constitutional amendment began making its way through the legislature, Byrne made his thoughts known. Prompted by his Attorney General William F. Hyland, Byrne questioned the language of the referendum.
The governor suggested that gambling should be limited to Atlantic City. He went so far as to threaten opposition to the referendum legislation if gambling was permitted anywhere other than Atlantic City. Some observers believe Byrne was looking for a face-saving way out and hoped that by limiting gambling to the resort, he would alienate other regions of the state, killing any chances of the referendum’s approval. The resort’s leaders were beside themselves, but Steve Perskie refused to quit. Relying upon his personal relationship with Brendan Byrne, Perskie launched a private campaign that resulted in the governor’s modifying his position. Byrne agreed to support the referendum as proposed, provided that for the first five years after its approval, casino gambling would be confined to Atlantic City alone. It was a major concession, which only Perskie could have obtained.
With Byrne’s support, McGahn and Perskie were successful in obtaining the legislature’s approval for a constitutional referendum. In all, it took less than five months to get the question put on the November ballot. While McGahn and Perskie made their moves in Trenton, the folks back home did nothing. When the year began, the pro-gaming forces knew they would have 10 months to organize their campaign for the November referendum. They also knew they could expect opposition.
The New York Times and Wall Street Journal, together with most of the local newspapers throughout New Jersey, as well as the New York and Philadelphia television networks, had editorialized against legalizing gambling. Senior U.S. Senator Clifford Case, State Senators Anne Martindell, Raymond Bateman, and John Fay, and Assemblymen James Hurley and Thomas Kean had all fought the question whenever it was discussed in the legislature. Kean, the Assembly Minority Leader, was a vocal opponent. “You are talking about changing the very character of New Jersey. Gambling would become our primary business, 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 Vineland Times Journal, which was reprinted in newspapers throughout the state:Once again the public is being conned, though this one must rank as one of the great con jobs of all time. What we’re being asked to believe is that by making it easier for farmers, wage earners, business owners, housewives, and retirees to lose their shirts at the crap table, the roulette wheels, the blackjack games, or slot machines (now, one must fly all the way to Nevada) this will be a stronger, healthier state, a better place in which to live.The big promotion of this colossal swindle comes from Atlantic City, whose politicians assert with a straight face that a century of racism, political and police corruption, exploitation of the poor, prostitution, and general sleaziness all will be reversed by the installation of gambling. Why, the finest folks in the country will all flock to Atlantic City, and Absecon Island will be restored to the ranks of the noble and the pure and well-fed.
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 rallyi
ng 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?”
Boardwalk Empire: The Birth, High Times, and Corruption of Atlantic City Page 24