The report complained that the procedures used prevented an accurate accounting of the amount of cash flowing through the gambling operations. The Division noted that these practices had been criticized by Resorts’ own security agency, Intertel, as including procedures that create a “wide open area for theft” in the casino. The Division argued that by continuing these practices, after warnings from Intertel, Resorts’ management wasn’t fit to be licensed. Crosby and his attorneys responded to the Division’s charges by demanding an immediate hearing. They claimed there was nothing new in the report and it could all be explained. Commission Chairman Joseph Lordi set January 8, 1979, as the date on which hearings would begin. When the hearing began, Resorts was represented by Newark attorney Raymond Brown.
At the time, Ray Brown was New Jersey’s pre-eminent criminal trial attorney. A tall, thin, light-skinned black man in his mid-60s with a gray mustache, Brown was an unassuming figure. Usually attired in baggy suits and scuffed up shoes, his looks were deceiving. As an attorney he was a tiger and dominated every courtroom he entered. As a tactician, he was unsurpassed. Since the burden of proof lay with Brown’s client to show it was worthy of a license, Resorts had the chance to respond to the Division’s report prior to the state putting on its case. Rather than tackling the 17 exceptions head-on from the start, Ray Brown began his case by calling a list of witnesses whose testimony had nothing to do with the Division’s charges. Brown asked his witnesses questions about such things as banquet facilities, meeting rooms, parking spaces, and specifics on the hotel’s wiring, plumbing, ventilation, and numerous details on the renovation work at Resorts’ hotel.
Brown’s strategy was calculated to lull the Commission and bore the media away from the hearings. It worked. At one point, G. Michael Brown, the deputy attorney general handling the state’s case, offered to dispense with the witnesses and formally agree that the hotel met the Commission’s requirements, but Ray Brown refused and proceeded with his case as planned. As the hearing wore on, Ray Brown eventually produced Jim Crosby and the other key corporate officers. They explained away Resorts’ past associations by testifying that once a person’s unseemly background was brought to management’s attention, the relationship was severed. As for the dealings with the Bahamian government, and the payment of $250,000 to Stafford Sands, that was just the way things were done in the Bahamas.
Ray Brown’s presentation to the Commission consumed nearly six weeks. The Division’s case, presented by Michael Brown, was completed in three days. It was hardly what was expected from reading the Division’s report. Michael Brown called several staff investigators who recounted interviews with individuals who had given them damning information about Resorts. Their statements were a poor substitute for direct testimony from the informants themselves. The Division’s presentation to the Commission never measured up to the advance billing of the 17 exceptions reported by the media prior to the hearing. In the end, the Commission voted unanimously to reject the Division’s recommendation and granted Resorts International a permanent casino license.
CBS News editorialized on the Commission’s decision by giving a mock lecture to future casino applicants:You should know it’s okay to have employees who gained their experience in illegal gambling operations … to have kept employees on the payroll even after you had good reason to suspect they had connections with organized crime … to have given payments to officials of a foreign country where you had a casino, and to have improperly recorded these payments on your company’s books … the trick is to admit these things and say sure, you did them, but that you don’t do them anymore.
Regardless of what the media had to say about Resorts International’s corporate ethics, it was right at home in Atlantic City. Nucky Johnson and Jim Crosby would have gotten along just fine.
Jonathan Pitney
Jonathan Pitney was a country doctor who yearned to be more. He dreamt of fortune and fame through the development of a “beach village” for the wealthy. Photo taken 1840.
Samuel Richards
Samuel Richards was part of South Jersey’s aristocracy in the mid-19th century. He was a mogul in lumber, bog iron, and glass. Richards latched on to Pitney’s plans, and with his wealth and political influence, made the dream a reality, and then some. Photo taken 1884.
Atlantic City “Pre“-Railroad
This was the virgin landscape out of which Pitney and Richards carved their beach village. Photo taken 1850.
Camden-Atlantic Railroad
The first train station built in 1854.
The Petrel
One of the early trains crossing the bridge connecting Atlantic City with the mainland. Photo taken 1866.
United States Hotel
Built by the Camden-Atlantic Railroad in 1854. At the time of its construction, its 600+ rooms made it the largest hotel in the country.
Atlantic & Vermont Avenues
View of the early inlet area from atop the Atlantic City Lighthouse in 1866.
Atlantic & Vermont Avenues
The same view, 20 years later, illustrates the impact of Samuel Richards’ second narrow gauge railroad.
Tent City
The second railroad launched a period of growth that lasted nearly 50 years. Each spring of the late 19th century a “Tent City” arose some place in the town. These provided temporary housing for hundreds of craftsmen and laborers needed to build Atlantic City. Photo taken 1912.
The Boardwalk
The early years, circa 1875.
The Boardwalk
Construction of the first permanent structure with the walk raised above the beach, 1884.
The Boardwalk
Erection of the first steel-supported Boardwalk, 1896.
“Captain” John Young
John Young was Atlantic City’s answer to P.T. Barnum. He made a fortune off nickels and dimes and dazzled patrons with his “deep sea net haul.” Photo taken 1891.
Hauling the Net
John Young’s “creatures of the deep” left his customers gaping and gave them something to talk about back home. Photo circa 1910.
Young’s Million Dollar Pier
It was a gingerbread castle that offered everything from popcorn and tutti-frutti to dancing girls and sea monsters. Photo circa 1905.
No. 1 Atlantic Ocean
John Young’s home at the seaward end of the Million Dollar Pier. Young and his pal Thomas Edison spent many afternoons fishing out the window. Photo circa 1910.
John Young Entertaining President Taft
Young loved to entertain at No. 1 Atlantic Ocean. This dinner honored President Taft and members of his cabinet. Photo taken 1910.
Hotel Windsor
This was the site of the first walkout/protest by African-American workers. It failed miserably. Photo circa 1890.
Ready to Serve
This group photo is typical of Atlantic City’s hotel work force, which was comprised of more than 95 percent African-American workers. Photo by Fred Hess; donated by Robert Gross, circa 1920.
The Cakewalk
This was a contest for Black participants only. The best dancing couple received a cake. Photo circa 1910.
Colored Excursion Days
At the end of each summer, African-Americans from throughout the Northeast region frequented Atlantic City visiting relatives and friends working in the hotel industry. Photo taken 1886.
Castles by the Sea
The hotels along the Boardwalk were grand, but their rooms were rarely sold out, running a fairly high vacancy rate. Photo circa 1930.
Boardinghouses
Built side-by-side, beginning the first block inland from the Boardwalk, these cottages/guest houses/hotels, i.e., boardinghouses, were the backbone of the town. During the summer season there were few, if any, vacancies in the resort’s boardinghouses. Photo taken 1900.
Louis “the Commodore” Kuehnle
The first “Boss” of the Boardwalk. Despite his hunger for power and money, the Commodo
re had a vision for his town and led in the creation of the infrastructure needed to make the resort a modern city. Photo circa 1910.
Kuehnle’s Hotel
The Commodore’s hotel was the birthplace of the partnership between the local Republican party and Atlantic City racketeers. Photo circa 1910.
Kuehnle and Friends
The Commodore accompanied by Congressman John Gardner, County Clerk Louis Scott, and Sheriff Smith Johnson. Photo circa 1910.
Alfred M. Heston
Atlantic City’s No. 1 cheerleader. For more than 20 years he published annual handbooks describing a life of enchantment waiting for all who came to the resort. Photo circa 1900.
Enoch “Nucky” Johnson
The master at wearing two hats, Nucky was both the most powerful Republican in New Jersey who could influence the destinies of governors and senators, and a racketeer, respected and trusted by organized crime. Photo circa 1938.
Enoch L. Johnson Benevolent Society
With the help of his supporters, Nucky maintained an elaborate social service program, which provided a safety net for Atlantic City’s working poor. Photo taken 1935.
Birthday Boy
Nucky celebrating his birthday and having one of the many times of his life. Photo taken 1949.
Francis S. “Hap” Farley
Possibly the most powerful legislator in the history of New Jersey. Despite being deeply involved in the workings of a corrupt organization, Hap exercised restraint and is remembered as a master of the Trenton legislative process. Photo taken 1937.
Hap and the Governor
Hap’s agenda always came first. Seen here with Democrat Governor Richard Hughes. Farley had an excellent relationship with Hughes and every governor he worked with. He wielded more power than they did and they knew it. Photo taken 1966.
Greetings from Richard Nixon
Hap was a key supporter of Richard Nixon at the 1968 Convention. Here he proudly waives a telegram announcing Nixon’s commitment to appear at a fundraiser.
11
It’s a New Ballgame
Not even Don Rickles’s raunchiest jokes could get their attention. The dinner honoring casino executive Tony Torcasio had drawn more than 700 people, but hardly anyone was listening to the comedian’s monologue. Atlantic City’s Mayor Michael Matthews was the main topic of conversation at every table, and Rickles’ jokes were lost on the crowd.
During the cocktail hour, word spread that earlier in the evening several FBI agents appeared at city hall with a warrant demanding entry to search the mayor’s office. Long-time Matthews enemy Patrick McGahn repeated gleefully to everyone with whom he spoke, “The little jerk is finally going to get what he deserves.” The people on hand knew immediately this was more than gossip. Many guests left the dinner early to catch the local television coverage on the mayor’s problems. Matthews’ reputation being what it was, everyone assumed the worst and many couldn’t wait to hear the news reports.
Each table had at least one person with a Mike Matthews story—whether philandering with showgirls (Joey Heatherton was a favorite), the betrayal of a supporter, or his drunken foolishness—there were more than enough stories to fill the evening. The only people who didn’t chime in were heavy contributors to Matthews’ campaign. Those who remained sat silent, barely touching their food, numb at the thought that Mayor Mike wouldn’t be around to deliver on their investment. One mumbled softly, in disgust, “Oh shit, now I gotta do business with the nigger,” referring to Matthews’s likely successor, James Usry.
Mike Matthews was like two people, and you could never be sure which one you’d find. Of medium height and slight build, he was a stylish dresser who wore his 52 years well. His looks favored his Italian mother, and many women found him boyishly handsome, his graying hair enhancing his appearance. Matthews liked to party, and his mornings after could be rough. On his better days he could pass for a maitre d’ at a fancy restaurant or the manager of a hotel, but after a long night on the town, he often looked like someone you’d expect to find scrubbing cars at a car wash or frying cheese steaks over a grill in a hoagie shop. Matthews was educated as an accountant, and as an officeholder he used his accounting skills to root out waste in government. He had the potential to be a serious reformer and while serving in county government fought corruption and forced badly needed changes. But he could also be coarse and crude, engaging in a shoving and spitting contest in public with a political opponent. Afterward, he saw nothing wrong with his conduct and wasn’t the least bit embarrassed.
Matthews’s political climb had been quick. In 12 years he moved from city council in the neighboring town of Linwood, to the Atlantic County Board of Freeholders, to the New Jersey Assembly, and then Atlantic City Commissioner, holding both positions at once. His election to the city commission followed several bitter court battles concerning his residency. Although a native of the resort, Matthews had moved out with thousands of others when Atlantic City’s fortunes were on the decline. Following the legalization of gambling, he gained a renewed interest in his town. His political enemies fought his return, but Matthews emerged from the courts as an eligible candidate. Finally in June 1982 after the adoption of a new form of government, which was likewise contested in the courts, Mike Matthews was chosen mayor by less than 200 votes in a run-off election.
Within a short time after his election, Matthews’ political ego burst its seams. He behaved as if there were no limits to his power. Never known for being gracious, Matthews rejected an offer from his opponent, James Usry, to pledge his cooperation publicly by participating in the mayoral inaugural. Matthews refused to share the limelight. The result was another bitter legal contest charging election fraud. Matthews won again, but the lengthy trial divided the community further. It generated daily headlines, but the trial made it impossible for him to work with city council, a majority of whom were Black.
Matthews relished the headlines generated by political infighting and cultivated his image as the maverick—a self-styled champion of the underdog. But beneath this veneer was a person too immature to compromise and so paranoid he was incapable of making a lasting alliance. There was no “inner circle” or continuum of personalities whom he relied on from one campaign to another. He remained aloof from the people who supported him. By the time he was elected mayor, Matthews had used up and discarded several valuable advisors who could have kept him out of trouble. Once in office, he followed his instincts, which led to his ruin.
As a former ally observed, “Mike Matthews was a creep. His independence was really paranoia. He never trusted anyone in politics and nearly everyone who trusted him got screwed sooner or later.” A supporter of social programs for senior citizens, Matthews had charmed thousands of aging voters. They were the mainstay in one election after another, with many of them showing up to work at his campaign headquarters. While the senior citizens licked stamps and made phone calls, he might be found in a back room receiving oral sex from a political groupie young enough to be his daughter.
As mayor, Matthews featured himself as a type of social lion in casino land. He identified with the celebrities who appeared at the casinos and sought them out to pose with him for photos he displayed in his office, and when they were willing, which wasn’t often, for a dinner date or a golf outing. He wanted to be the person everyone invited to the party. Had he been honest and kept to the duties of his job, Matthews had the ability to be a capable mayor. Instead, the number one thing on his agenda was his yearning to become a celebrity. People who knew him think that’s half the reason he fought so hard to become mayor. “Michael loved the glitter of the casinos and once gambling was legalized, he wanted to be top dog in casino city. He was like the firefly who couldn’t resist the flame.”
The affair honoring Tony Torcasio was just the type of gathering Matthews was sure to attend. Seated at the head table with the likes of Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle, and Joe Theisman, throwing barbs back at Don Rickles, it was the sort of evening Matt
hews lived for. But the FBI disrupted the mayor’s plans that night. Before the Torcasio dinner was over, Mike Matthews was finished as a politician, having been written off by everyone in attendance. In the weeks that followed, the mayor gained notoriety on a scale to match his ego.
An FBI agent, who didn’t even look Italian, came to town posing as a Mafioso and wearing a wire. Within a few short weeks he worked his way into Matthews’ confidence and taped hours of incriminating testimony. The transcript reads like something out of a pulp fiction crime story. Never one for understatement, the mayor ran off at the mouth over dinner at a local Chinese restaurant, The Peking Duck, and gave the Feds all they needed. He buried himself when he accepted a $10,000 bribe in marked bills from the undercover agent. At the time of his indictment a full-length photo of the mayor with handcuffs and shackled ankles appeared in newspapers across the country. Mike Matthews had finally received the celebrity status he craved.
Boardwalk Empire: The Birth, High Times, and Corruption of Atlantic City Page 27