“As I look at my friend Mr. Mack, and I hope I can also say my friend Conners, and consider what is coursing through their veins and minds, and their ardent expectations that there is to be a majority of Democrats in Congress next time, it appears that I shall have to use this pen, not to sign bills, but to explain the reasons why I do not.”
Great applause welled up from the members, except from Butler, who felt slighted at the extra attention being given his enemy Fingy Conners by the President.
“But I hope at least that I shall have the privilege of using it in signing those measures I have so much at heart now, and that I have been chided for coming to Buffalo on account of lest my presence in Washington be needed to secure the votes necessary to their passage. I only say that in order to have you understand how much I appreciate your invitation to come to Buffalo and how much I enjoy it, and therefore I have yielded to the temptation even against the call of duty. I thank you, my friends, sincerely for this favor and memento of my visit which I shall cherish and hope to use to some purpose.”
That evening the Chamber of Commerce Banquet was held at the convention hall. Twenty six massive banquet tables were arranged, each accommodating forty diners. Fingy Conners was seated at the Speakers table with Rep. Driscoll, Secretary Knox and other distinguished guests, even though Conners was not asked to make a speech. Despite the illustrious company flanking him, Fingy took umbrage that he was not seated at the President’s table, yet the Buffalo Times’ Norman E. Mack was.
After the banquet, Taft was driven to the depot where he boarded his train for Pittsburgh. That same day in that Pennsylvania city a man named Mike Shimko had been arrested for the murder of the Rev. Frank Skala. On his person were found written plans outlining in great detail a scheme for the assassination of President William Howard Taft the following day.
Less than five months later in Buffalo, on September 5th, an entirely different scene played out as President Taft’s train stopped at the New York Central depot for a half hour. The President was on his way to the Conservative Congress at St. Paul. Although the President’s visit was announced in all the newspapers, not one single dignitary, Republican or Democrat, bothered to get out of bed to greet Taft’s 7 o’clock arrival. They were, as the newspapers put it, “unable or unwilling to pay the simple homage of a greeting as the President passed through the city,”
The Buffalo Courier stated, “Superintendent of Police Regan had two or three officers at the station when the Presidential train came in, but they were not needed, as the big shed was more deserted than usual.”
No reaction of this rebuff was reported from the President, but it could only be ascertained that the complete absence of anyone other than a handful of everyday citizens to greet him must have weighed heavily upon Howard Taft. Taft must also have noted that only two weeks previous, and at an hour even earlier in the morning, Buffalo’s Republican bosses, big and little, practically fell all over themselves rushing to the depot at 6 o’clock to pay court and fawn at the feet of the former President, the mighty Teddy Roosevelt, as he passed though on a westward mission. They excitedly accompanied Teddy to a meticulously planned breakfast in his honor at the Ellicott Club.
A New One On Conners
(1909, From Harper’s Weekly)
◆◆◆
Fingy Conners is an irrepressible soul. Tact and he have nothing in common. A few evenings ago he met Charles Bissell in a crowded hotel and pounced upon him with reckless joviality.
“Hello-o-o, Charley!” he cried. “How the deuce are yous, eh? How’s Herb? How’s…”
Mr. Bissell was worried. He pined for decorum. At his side was Justice Brewer of the United States Supreme Court at Washington, reserved, silent, dignified. Mr. Bissell was inspired to use his majestic personality as a quench of Fingy’s exuberance.
“Mr. Conners,” he said, “let me introduce you to Supreme Court Justice Brewer.”
“How’s the health?” asked Fingy, giving the hand of the judge a perfunctory shake. Then, stepping back so as to afford more range to his glance of disapproval, he looked at Mr. Justice Brewer very coldly, and turning to Mr. Bissell said:
“Say, Charley. I thought I was onto all the people you put on the bench, but I guess I’m wrong somewhere. What court did yous make him judge of?”
The Charlatan
◆◆◆
Fingy held a meeting with his Courier editors. Being an election year, Conners had turned up the heat on Alderman Sullivan progressively to the point where the Alderman was the subject of great rancor in the Courier’s pages. Fingy was newly determined to get rid of him, despite his abject failure to do so during the preceding twenty years. His Courier newspaper was backing Sullivan’s challenger for the Democratic Caucus.
“Yes,” answered Editor Johnson to his boss, “but this McMahon fellow is simply going no place, sir. The truth is that no Democratic opponent of any merit in the past twenty years has presented himself as a viable candidate against Sullivan.”
“Then we create the candidate, Johnson.” Fingy countered. “We build up this McMahon fella and tear down Sullivan. This is the year we gotta get that limpin’ little bastard out o’ the city hall once ’n’ fer all. Whaddya got?”
Johnson flipped the pages in his notes. He had personally attended the First Ward Democratic Club meeting the previous night where a continuous downpour had been blamed for keeping attendance light. He had to walk a fine line between being candid and provoking anger. He offered his conclusion that the primaries were in truth less interesting a prospect for First Ward voters than watching water come to a boil. “McMahon might as well be invisible, sir. Few voters know who he is, and neither do they care,” he said.
Johnson flipped some pages and perused a bit. He then read quotes of the meeting’s speakers from his notes:
“ Here’s one. ’John P. Sullivan will get such a fall on September 19 that the tower on the city hall will shake. The first ward has here an organized and determined opposition to Sullivan, and he is going to be defeated. When the primaries close two weeks from now John P. Sullivan will be the most badly defeated alderman in the city of Buffalo.’
“Sir, Sullivan supposedly approached a member of McMahon’s family and suggested they ‘get Bill to quit.’ There was lots of puffing and boasting about how they’re going to route Sullivan, throw him out, the usual malarkey, but they don’t have much. It was more a half-hearted attempt at bolstering their own miserable mood than anything of substance. Here’s a quote from McMahon, and I’m afraid to report that this was just about the most exciting thing anyone had to say all evening: ‘Our candidates will work for the common good. Sullivan will promise all sorts of things, but it’s well known that he never makes good. He’s a shifter. Friends of mine have come to me and said that we are making a mistake, that we couldn’t beat Sullivan. We can and we will throw him out for the good of the First Ward. Alderman Sullivan has made many promises during the long time he has been an alderman but he never gave a laborer a job unless he could count on ten votes for it. When he couldn’t get the votes honestly he got them dishonestly. I was district committeeman for two years and on the elections board for seven years, so I know what I am talking about.’”
“Well that don’t sound very promisin’ now does it?” said Fingy. “Nobody’s willin’ to talk against that little hop-along. Callin’ Sullivan a ‘shifter’ cuts no figure if they ain’t got no proofs. Why bother runnin’ against a man unless yer gonna go fer the jugular? ‘He’s a shifter’? My-oh-my, that’s some strong accusation, that! It’s a fuckin’ milquetoast, that’s what it is. And as far as McMahon havin’ somethin’ on Sullivan from his days on the elections board, uh, we better have a little talk with that McMahon character before he spills somethin’ he’ll—or we’ll—regret. Let’s hope the Republican runnin’ against Sullivan in the election has a stronger spine than that McMahon fella. Contact the Republicans and feel around to see if we can do somethin’ fer him t’ help him out.”<
br />
“Yes Boss. I’ll get right on it.”
As they spoke, just a few blocks away at the city hall Alderman Sullivan had taken control of the floor in the Council Chambers and vociferously castigated Fingy Conners for owing the city a large sum for some three years at that point.
Sullivan offered a resolution asking the corporation counsel to report to the board the progress in a lawsuit in which the city sought to hold Mr. Conners for $2,000 for the unfulfilled grading of a land parcel sold to the city some years earlier intended for School No. 29. Conners had been successful in delaying the lawsuit trial, and continued to use his friends and influence to prolong its obstruction. Conners’ friends in the Common Council defended him, claiming Alderman Sullivan was out of line. Sullivan noted for the record that Conners continued to attack him in his newspapers on this and other contentious matters.
“I can defend myself and will do so regardless of Mr. Conners,” said Sullivan. “I know him perhaps as well as anyone here and can say more about him than he can say about me in his newspapers. The time may come when I will speak about some of these things.
Few people had the guts to “speak about some of these things,” in regards to Conners’ brash ventures and past indiscretions, but in Sullivan’s case, he himself being no angel, his reticence was more than anything else about not stirring the hornets’ nest lest his own nest be stirred.
However, on this day the jolly showman of the city hall, with attendant news reporters in the gallery on the verge of falling asleep, aware of how dry a tale the stalled lawsuit arguments would read in the following day’s papers, decided to spice things up a bit by speaking about one of these “things.”
He resurrected the illuminating story of the grieving and destitute widow and children of fireman Stephen Meegan. He told how back in the summer of ’08, a full year and a half after the fireman had died a hero in the Seneca fire, Fingy Conners was as yet sitting on the entire amount of money the generous public had contributed for the Meegan family’s welfare as all the while the widow and children yet struggled to survive.
Mrs. Meegan was completely without resources and had been borrowing money at high interest rates against the amount contained in the fund that Conners boasted of in his Courier newspaper. Over $2500 had been collected for the Meegans. Yet the family was in a terrible quagmire with interest on borrowed funds eating away at the principal of the collected funds ostensibly awaiting them somewhere in limbo.
Much had been ballyhooed in the Courier’s pages about the Conners Fund and the grandiose generosity of Mr. Conners and the formalities of appointing three prominent and respected citizens to oversee its implementation. The committee was comprised of Fire Chief Bernard O’Connell, Mr. Hobart Weed, and Mr. E. H. Hutchison. For what actual purpose these three men existed in their formal designation as overseers is anyone’s guess. Fingy collected the contributions directly from the public, Fingy held possession of the funds, and a full year and six months after the campaign was begun, not a single cent had yet been turned over to the desperate family by Fingy. And no one except the long-suffering Mrs. Meegan was asking any questions.
The three dignitaries were merely a smoke screen. What they got out of their appointment was a wave of favorable publicity and prestige as do-gooders while effectively obscuring—and possibly being set up to take the fall—for what Fingy Conners was actually up to behind the scenes.
Sullivan’s goal in resurrecting this tawdry affair in the city hall’s chambers was to illustrate the ongoing chicanery of Fingy Conners. The story hit a nerve with the newspapermen who were present. Overnight the tale received wild public attention. It had never yet been revealed in the press that Mrs. Meegan had been denied her money for well over a year and a half, money that Buffalo’s sympathetic citizens, some of whom could themselves ill afford to contribute, had pledged for her family’s very survival.
Fingy’s local competition—the Star, Times, Express, Commercial, Freie Presse, and News, upon hearing Sullivan’s shocking revelations before the Council, sent enthusiastic reporters out to interview any and all involved.
Fire Chief Bernard McConnell’s quotes were especially pathetic.
“I remember,” said Chief McConnell, in an attempt to distance himself while trying not to inflame Fingy Conners, “there was some speculation among the members of the committee as to whether it would be advisable to give Mrs. Meegan the entire sum, which was quite large, at one time, as there was a little doubt felt as to her judgment in the matter of money. We didn’t want her to squander it all at once.”
The reporter responded, “Then why wasn’t such an arrangement made, Chief? Why then, after more than one year following her husband’s death had she and her babies received nothing whatsoever, all the while you knowing this was the case. As head of the committee why didn’t you step to the fore and do something?”
McConnell was starting to sweat.
“Well...uh...Mr. Conners had free rein to do as he thought best in the matter, and as Mrs. Meegan never complained to me personally that she was not getting the benefit of the money which she knew had been raised for her, I presumed there was nothing to complain about. I believe that it was suggested that it might be wiser to hold the money in trust for Mrs. Meegan and her children, paying it to her in installments, or paying her the interest, which would be quite large, owing to the size of the sum. We felt she would reap more benefit out of the money if it were handled that way. When the money was left in charge of Mr. Conners by the other members of the committee, E. H. Hutchinson, Mr. Weed and myself, it was at a meeting in The Courier office. The Courier had been most instrumental in getting the subscriptions. As far as I can see there is no room for any charges against the integrity of Mr. Conners.”
The reporter countered, “So when the clock was ticking and no such arrangements had been put in place, either to invest the Meegan family’s money and pay her the interest, or pay her in installments, what did you do to remedy that, seeing as you were the dead fireman’s supervisor?”
“As I stated, it was Mr. Conners who was in charge.”
“Did you encourage Mr. Conners then to go ahead and pay her in installments or to invest the money so she could at least have the interest?”
“I don’t recall precisely what was agreed upon, but we all encouraged this at one of the meetings.”
“So when your tenure as head of this committee ended six months later, you were under the assumption that by that time all the moneys had all been paid out?”
“I was not aware, no. And since Mrs. Meegan never came to me I assumed she had no complaint.”
When told of Sullivan’s charge that Conners was holding the money until the widow would agree to buy a house from him with it, the fire chief smiled and said, “Pshaw! That’s all talk. Just political talk.”
Another committeeman, E. H. Hutchinson, when asked by reporters of Sullivan’s incendiary charge that Mr. Conners had long withheld the Meegan family’s money, replied:
“I have only a hazy recollection that it was brought to the attention of the committee that it would be well not to turn over to Mrs. Meegan in a lump sum all at once the $2,500 allotted to her. Chief McConnell would remember about that better than I do, but it was reasonable to suppose that we took into consideration how the money might be best invested to her advantage. Our duties as a committee, however, ended with the appointment.”
The reporter looked skeptical.
“Beg your pardon Mr. Hutchison, but why would the Chief remember that better than you yourself? Aren’t you in essence stating here that you have no recollection of any plan to keep the money out of Mrs. Meegan’s hands because she was deemed irresponsible?
“No, you misunderstood. Our duties ended when our appointment ended.
“And when was that, sir?”
“If I recall correctly it was in late July of that year.”
“Didn’t it strike you as inarguable, sir, that six months after the death of her husband,
a poor widow with three children under the age of six to feed and clothe, without any resources or income whatsoever, would certainly need to receive at least some of her money immediately? Why wasn’t she provided with money as it was received—in the very first week? The first day? She and her children could have starved to death long before the time of your appointment was finished.”
“I presume the money was paid as we directed. I have no reason to suppose that it wasn’t. At the time of the raising of the funds I, in common with many others, regarded it as a praiseworthy act on Mr. Conners’ part and I am greatly surprised that at this late day charges of this nature should have been preferred.”
The reporter turned the screws.
“As a member of the committee to oversee this fund, it seems clear, if you can now make the claim that you assume the money had been paid, that you did not oversee much of anything at all. Wasn’t it your job, sir, by the very definition of your appointment as an ‘overseer,’ that you inquire about the state of affairs in this matter on a regular basis during your tenure, rather than just assume the Meegan family was receiving their money, well before the end of July? Perhaps even in the first week in February?”
Hutchison was completely flustered and was ready to run.
“I have known Mr. Conners for many years and this is the first time I have ever heard him accused of dishonesty!” he scoffed indignantly, and then he quickly departed. The reporter had to bite his lip hard to avoid breaking out in laughter, considering the fact that Fingy Conners was accused of dishonesty on an almost daily basis.
Mrs. Meegan, the widow of Stephen J. Meegan, was visited that same night by a Courier reporter at No. 94 Tennessee street where she rented rooms on the second floor. When the reporter called at the house Mrs. Meegan was out, but a little boy fetched her from her sister’s house a few doors away. Her supposed statements were reported in Fingy’s Courier newspaper the following day. As if to paint Mrs. Meegan as someone now well-to-do, they took great pains to describe her costume:
Murderers, Scoundrels and Ragamuffins Page 52